On the Pleasures of Hating, American Style

“The white streak in our own fortunes is brightened (or just rendered visible) by making all around it as dark as possible; so the rainbow paints its form upon the cloud.”

—On the Pleasure of Hating, William Hazlitt

The leaders of nations are again whipping up hatred and though one may stoutly observe this circumstance is customary I don’t think the American variant of it is time worn. Donald Trump represents a national vanity, the disdain that comes at the ends of empires. The white streak in America’s fortunes is soiled and Trump’s boys fear they’re losing control of the census. Trump’s aspersions are steeped in rhetorics of scarcity and the terror of dark hordes. This is not to say that prior empires have been without their particular gloating rancor but Trump’s possessed by a vision of absolute scarcity built on a racialist proposition of thievery. He believes the colored peoples of the earth are stealing from America’s hard working white people. Victorian bigotry was built in large part around the idea that foreigners were sinister carriers of disease or represented chaos that must be contained—Dracula is a novel about the British fear of the east more than anything else. Trump’s Dracula is a hydra of ethnicities and yes, women and cripples and queers who seek to steal America’s vitality. In this way his hatred and its expression are vampiric. It is altogether fair to wonder if “The Donald” has ever donated blood.

Now another word for this kind of hatred is despair. After the murder MacBeth says: “For, from this instant,/ There’s nothing serious in mortality:/ All is but toys — renown and grace is dead.”
It’s the age for cowards. The hating coward feels no guilty remorse. it’s enough to have power. If this power is based on despair and has no nobility that is the way of it. Another way of saying there’s nothing serious in mortality is not to say life is cheap but that it has no grand purpose beyond the acquisition of personal power. It’s the rage of humiliation. In her unjustly overlooked book “Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals” Iris Murdoch wrote: “the condition (for instance as humiliation) may, almost automatically, be ‘alleviated’ by hatred, vindictive fantasies, plans of revenge, reprisal, a new use of energy. There is, which can be no less agonising, a guiltless remorse when some innocent action has produced an unforeseeable catastrophe. A common cause of void is bereavement, which may be accompanied by guilt feelings, or may be productive of a ‘clean’ pain. In such cases there is a sense of emptiness, a loss of personality, a loss of energy and motivation, a sense of being stripped, the world is utterly charmless and without attraction.” There can be no better description of Donald Trump and his gestalt than this.

The fish in the sea is not thirsty and Trump doesn’t know how stripped he is. He strips others—in every way. This is why his political imagination is joyless. He hates and his “base” as it’s called on television is thrilled. This is what Simone Weil called “malheur” a type of affliction. Hillary Clinton was wrong when she called Trump’s most enthusiastic supporters “a basket of deplorables” because most of them feel neglected, powerless, betrayed by the powerful, and so want little more than vengeance. All is but toys—Trump gives them the nursery of rage and it makes them real. One thinks of the commercial where an elderly woman has fallen and can’t get up. The poet Paul Valery: “the desire for vengeance is the desire for balance.”

Vengeance and balance, vindictive fantasies, cowardice, a loss of energy and motivation are the essential ingredients of the Trump pleasure principle. You might say these are primordial factors in the rise of Fascism but in America it is more accurate to call it a fetishized pissing contest.

Stephen Kuusisto and HarleyABOUT: Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the memoirs Have Dog, Will Travel; Planet of the Blind (a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”); and Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening and of the poetry collections Only Bread, Only Light and Letters to Borges. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and a Fulbright Scholar, he has taught at the University of Iowa, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, and Ohio State University. He currently teaches at Syracuse University where he holds a University Professorship in Disability Studies. He is a frequent speaker in the US and abroad. His website is StephenKuusisto.com.

Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet’s Journey is now available for pre-order:
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Have Dog, Will Travel by Stephen Kuusisto

(Photo picturing the cover of Stephen Kuusisto’s new memoir “Have Dog, Will Travel” along with his former guide dogs Nira (top) and Corky, bottom.) Bottom photo by Marion Ettlinger 

Teaching in the Age of Trump

When I was very small I didn’t know that I’d meet people who wouldn’t like me until one day, climbing stairs with my father, my hand in his, we met an elderly Swedish woman who lived just below us and who said, “Tsk, Tsk” because I was blind. I was only four and it was winter in Helsinki, Finland. This was a foundational moment for me as such moments are for all sentient beings, its the very second we sense we’re not who we’ve met in the mirror, or having no mirror, we’re not exactly who our parents say we are. Cruelty is one way we arrive. It comes without warning like branches tapping a window. “She’s a fool,” my father said as if that solved the riddle of human embarrassment.

If you teach at the post-secondary level and care about soul (not all teaching concerns itself overtly with soulful things, nor should this be the case per se) you’re likely a stair climbing contrarian, the kind of professor who knows the Swedish dowagers both of history and the ones living next door. Knowing we’re incontestably faced with deviant personalities, people who, according to private or political history, have been rendered un-civic-minded is central to narrative literature and when properly encountered this can strengthen the ironies of  compassion. I swear, as a boy I felt sorry for my grey Swedish matron. She’s still (for me) the image of absolute loneliness. The reach of dramatic irony is broad in poetry and fiction and while it’s not my intention to sound new age-y the human soul needs all the nutrients it can get. Who hurt the old Swedish woman who lived downstairs? Was it her White Russian husband who beat her and her children and then died in middle age having drunk away her dowry?

No one should have the power to steal our compassion. Books alone won’t prevent the theft but they’re the perfect anodyne for thin skinned covetousness and envy, the two conditions most prevalent in hyper-consumerist, post-industrial economies. No one’s reading John Bunyan these days but he’s worth quoting: “You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.” Compassion is a muscle. It’s flexible when used. Employing it we enter wider circles.

In the Age of Trump we’ll need help with compassionate climbing. I do not single out students any more than faculty or administrators—all people of conscience are rightly confused by the wide and unrelenting brutishness we’re now seeing.

Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries, as the Dalai Lama has often said. Our survival both as individuals and communities will now depend on understanding this. Again, echoing the Dalai Lama, compassion is the radicalism of our time. It’s a radicalism that can be practiced daily. It’s also the hardest thing to put into action. “You must not hate those who do wrong or harmful things; but with compassion, you must do what you can to stop them — for they are harming themselves, as well as those who suffer from their actions.” (Dalai Lama)

Over the past few days I’ve been putting together a literary reading list for our present moment. I’ve been culling books that highlight the radicalism of what, for lack of a better term I’m calling compassionate irony. These poets, non-fictionists and fiction writers are assembled here in no discernible order—their work has come to me as I’ve walked in the public square. The public square is a steeper place now. I believe the following books are now necessities:

Viet Thanh Nguyen: The Sympathizer

James Lecesne:  Absolute Brightness

Toni Morrison:  Sula

Anne Finger:  Elegy for a Disease

Gail Godwin:  Father Melancholy’s Daughter

Colson Whitehead:  The Underground Railroad

Adrienne Rich:  An Atlas for the Difficult World

Jacqueline Woodson:  Another Brooklyn

Kurt Vonnegut Jr:  Slaughterhouse Five or The Children’s Crusade

Kwame Alexander:   The Crossover

James Baldwin:   Giovanni’s Room

Dorothy Allison:   One or Two Things I Know for Sure

Ralph Ellison:  Invisible Man

Saul Bellow:   The Adventures of Augie March

Azar Nafisi:    Reading Lolita in Tehran

Naguib Mahfouz:  The Cairo Trilogy

Sam Hamill: Habitations

Walt Whitman:  Leaves of Grass

Pema Chodron:  The Places That Scare You

Kenneth Rexroth:  Collected Poems

Deborah Tall:  A Family of Strangers

Kwame Dawes:  Duppy Conqueror: New and Selected Poems

Mark Doty:  Fire to Fire

Wang Ping:  The Last Communist Virgin

Robert Bly:  My Sentence Was a Thousand Years of Joy

Pablo Neruda:  Selected Poems

Bernard Malamud:  The Stories of Bernard Malamud

Anita Desai:  Clear Light of Day

John Banville:  The Sea

Thomas Hardy:  The Mayor of Casterbridge

John Irving:  The Cider House Rules

Richard Yates: A Good School

Carl Jung: Memories, Dreams, Reflections

Paule Marshall:  The Fisher King

W. H. Auden:  Collected Poems

Evelyn Waugh:  Brideshead Revisited

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie:  Americanah

Salman Rushdie:  Midnight’s Children

Naoki Higashida:  The Reason I Jump

W. B. Yeats:  Collected Poems

Per Petterson:  Out Stealing Horses

Magda Szabo:   The Door

Tove Jansson:  The Summer Book

Majgull Axelsson:  April Witch

Jean-Dominique Bauby:  The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Bruno Schulz:  Sanitarium Under the Sign of the Hourglass

Jerzy Ficowski:  Waiting for the Dog to Sleep

Gyula Krudy:  Sunflower

Chris Abani:  The Secret History of Las Vegas

Binyavanga Wainaina:  How to Write About Africa

Joan Didion:  The Year of Magical Thinking

Carlos Fuentes:  The Death of Artemio Cruz

Mo Yan:  Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

The list above is my start—a syllabus of the compassionate climb. You’ll notice I’ve left Kafka off but include Bruno Schultz. Left off Camus but included Carl Jung. One prefers the early Rushdie and Thomas Hardy before he elevated his wife to sainthood. Compassion resists Aristotelian templates—it doesn’t like being talked about. Like a milk snake it shines in its own way. Compassion is more than fellow feeling or empathy—it is mercy. All the books listed here are merciful. Please, start your own lists. Share them. The literatures of compassion are necessarily shared in a university without walls.

 

 

 

 

Tabloid Politics

Today on NBC’s “Meet the Press” Tom Brokaw observed that we may be in a new political era in the U.S.— an age that might be characterized as representing “the end of dogma” as we have known it.

I liked Mr. Brokaw’s optimism since his remark was contextualized within the broader assertion that voters in both the GOP and the Democratic party may be less inclined to vote for a candidate merely because they embrace the traditional polarizing political rhetoric of the past thirty years.

As “The Buffalo Springfield” once sang: "Something’s happening here…”

Meanwhile it’s clear given the percentages for each candidate in recent primaries that no one has the affection of the majority in either party.

In turn we have a great opportunity to debate ideas.

And this is where my optimism breaks down. The political coverage in this country is so poor and the lurid ambulance chasing of the press is so rampant that the substantive differences between the candidates on everything from how to fix social security to what we ought to do to repair our international diplomatic and economic status remains woefully under reported.

And so we have moved away from dogma into something like disaffected chatter. Here’s what the various TV political talk shows have focused on over the past week:

Bill Clinton got red in the face while scolding a reporter in Las Vegas. He looked really angry and kind of old. Old Bill was looking uncool. That Clinton was talking about the failure of the press to report on the dirty tricks of local labor unions was of no consequence. Why should it matter that union members who wanted to vote for Hillary were being threatened by union bosses? That’s no story! Look how red Bill has gotten! And he’s shaking his finger! Remember the last time old Bill shook his finger? Isn’t it time for Bill to disappear? Who cares what he’s saying? Aren’t we tired of him? Yeah. That’s right. He was the most effective bi-partisan president in recent history but who cares? Look! He’s red as a lobster!

Barack Obama said something that’s historically accurate about Ronald Reagan, namely that he represented a period of genuine change in the country. Yes! That’s right! Barack Obama said something factual about President Reagan. But you’d think what he really said was: “Ronald Reagan came down to earth from outer space and I’m one of his pod people!” The scouring that poor Obama has taken for saying something absolutely benign is astonishing. And that’s the problem of course. Barack Obama is one of the most reasonable people to run for the presidency since Abe Lincoln. This requires the tabloid press to stretch the senator’s features out of shape. Lost in all this is the fact that Obama was talking about the fact that this election may be a different political moment for our nation and that a smart candidate should recognize that. God almighty! You’d never know what the poor man was saying. Newsroom! Newsroom! Hold the presses! Obama said “Reagan” out loud in front of a camera and he didn’t demonize him. Yep! That’s right! What a scandal! Let’s show the film clip over and over as if it’s the Zapruder film.

Notice any substance here? I didn’t think so.

Mitt Romney got angry at a reporter who confronted him about his assertion that he had no political lobbyists in his campaign. When the reporter said this wasn’t true, that one of Romney’s top advisors is a noted Washington lobbyist, Romney argued that his campaign manager isn’t a lobbyist “so there” Nah Nah Nah! Then the reporter was confronted by Romney’s chief campaign strategist who dressed him down for confronting “the candidate” and Lo and Behold! The coverage on MSNBC was about whether or not that reporter was actually wrong to have asked the question. I swear on my Little Orphan Annie decoder ring that this is true! And the talking heads argued back and forth about whether a reporter should ask a tough question like that and lost in all of this nonsensical palaver was the fact that Mitt Romney has a genuine aura of unreliability when it comes to certain facts. If the current reporting trends continue Romney doesn’t have much to worry about. I think he can count on the press to fixate on the dropped scraps of butcher’s paper. In short, you can say what you want nowadays so long as you look good doing it.

Obviously these are just a few recent examples of what I like to think of as the post-dogma tabloid trivialization of our political reporting.

Perhaps the most egregious thing I heard today on “Meet the Press” came from Peggy Noonan (who else?) who in a neat bit of sophistry argued that the sight of Bill Clinton fighting on the front lines for his wife’s candidacy is essentially an “anti-feminist”position. Apparently Ms. Noonan has forgotten all those solo campaign stops hosted by Nancy Reagan who did her level best to get angry for her Ronny whenever she could.

Is it possible that we’re in the post-dogma era but there’s no one left in the fourth estate to report on it?
S.K.

Longshot Takes Presidential Campaign to New Hampshire

You’ve probably never heard of him, but this man’s views on issues that concern us all are worth listening to. 

Catch up to him in New Hampshire – New Hampshire, Ohio that is – and listen to his latest "stump" speech.  It’s very brief but there is little doubt you’ll appreciate his fresh perspective.

(If nothing else, you’ll probably chuckle.  That could be a good thing! )

~ Connie