Monday, January 18, 2021

Book Review: "This America" by Jill Lepore

This America: The Case for the Nation (2019)
Jill Lepore (1966)
150 pages

In her essay This America: The Case for the Nation, historian and author Jill Lepore proposes rehabilitating the term nationalism from the extremely negative connotations it has come to have. Allowing the current pejorative image of nationalism to dominate has had the consequence, she argues, of sullying by association the concept of the nation, and so undermining the critical role of the nation-state in defending common, civic values.

Historians have been culpable in enabling this situation, according to Lepore. In the mid-1900’s, having witnessed a long series of destructive civil wars and international conflicts enflamed by national pride and prejudice gone mad, scholars hoped to help this dominant, destructive form of nationalism disappear by ignoring it. In its stead, they turned their attention to studying and writing about globalization and the growing interconnectedness of the world, as well as groups and identities within or across national boundaries. But, Lepore notes: “Nations, to make sense of themselves, need some kind of agreed-upon past. They can get it from scholars or they can get it from demagogues, but get it they will.” (19-20) And so, as scholars left the writing of the stories of nations to those who invent and promulgate historical narratives tailored to their goals, the void was filled with narratives built around destructive images of nativist purity and hatred of others, and calls for violent action to defend a mythical heritage.

Having established her concern about the current nature of nationalism and its impact on our social and political situation, Lepore looks back, to the origins of nations. She notes that, originally, nations formed around people who shared a common descent and lived in a fairly contained region. Gradually, however, nations came to be defined more in a geographic sense, often encompassing people of varied, at best loosely related, backgrounds. To govern these nations of peoples, political communities then arose, leading to the idea of the nation-state.

Turning her focus on the United States in particular, Lepore points out that the US turned this typical origin story of the nation-state on its head: the government (the state) came first, with a national government established to rule the original, fairly independent, thirteen colonies, and the concept of a nation having to be developed in the wake of the creation of the state. Thus, she writes, the US originated, in a sense, as a state-nation.

As a consequence, in the early 1800’s, the original “nationalists” in the US were those who sought to develop and enhance federal power over state’s rights. By creating a story of the nation as centered around the founding of American democracy, they aimed to generate a feeling among the distinct populations of the states of belonging to a single, common polity. With the growing political and social conflict over slavery and finally the Civil War, however, this concept of nationalism split into two opposing strands: “liberal or civic nationalism, an attachment to a set of civic ideals, [and] illiberal or ethnic nationalism, nativism, racism, and recourse to aggression.” (58)

Lepore argues that both strands have remained present over the past century and a half. Describing their evolution, she notes that, on the one hand, a “race-based nationalism … endures, a scourge to the country and the world” (59), leading to the justification of violence and terror toward anyone not considered part of the “true” America, as the country has witnessed coming to a head again now, in early 2021.

On the other hand, a liberal nationalism, as embodied by, for example, Abraham Lincoln, has also remained present. It has defended civil rights, and supported an on-going expansion of these rights to a broader set of groups within the country. Admittedly, she notes, these advances have come in fits and starts, with whole segments of American society – Native Americans, women, blacks – having to agitate and fight to have their past honestly told as a part of the story of the nation, as well as to be acknowledged as active participants in forming its future.

In This American, Lepore argues that it is high time for scholars to re-engage in the defense and support of liberal nationalism, to write the true history of the American nation, telling a comprehensive story of the good and the bad that has occurred in American history. In so doing, historians can make the case for the importance of the nation to engage as a defender of the values of civic liberalism for its citizens, as opposed to continuing down the destructive path of illiberal nationalism.

For while it may be, she notes, that at some point in the future nations no longer exist – that civilization arranges around some other structure – for the moment and the foreseeable future nations are here to stay. And so the nation, and the political states that govern them, remain the best hope for realizing and protecting the civic goals of “equality, citizenship and equal rights” (137) for a nation’s people.


Other notes and information:


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Sunday, January 10, 2021

Book Review: "This Brilliant Darkness" by Jeff Sharlet

This Brilliant Darkness: A Book of Strangers (2020)
Jeff Sharlet (1972)
320 pages

In her solo work and as part of the group Dead Can Dance, the wonderful musician Lisa Gerrard’s bewitching and incantatory voice animates her many amazing songs. Among them, her performance of the melancholy piece Sanvean: I Am Your Shadow has always created in me one of two wildly disparate moods: I experience it either as an exaltation of the first dawn of the first human on Earth (for whatever reason visualized as the closing scene of George Lucas’ film THX-1138), or as a requiem to the world, performed as the first explosions of a global, thermonuclear holocaust mushroom into the sky. Somehow Gerrard’s powerful voice and the rich melody manage to engender, in one song, a profound sense of either hope or devastation.

In reading author and journalist Jeff Sharlet’s This Brilliant Darkness: A Book of Strangers, consisting of a set of intensely personal portraits of people he has met in his recent travels, I’ve discovered this same quality to evoke powerful and quite opposite feelings.

Sharlet opens by explaining that the book grew out of accidental meetings with random people as he drove regularly through the night between his hometown and that of his ill father, worked late at night public places, or traveled on organized reporting trips. He used the camera on his phone to take pictures of strangers he met, to which he then added accounts of his discussions with them. Thus, he writes, out of

two years of reporting, … this is a book of other people’s lives, lives that became, for a moment – the duration of a snapshot – my life, too.” (5)

In some cases, his accounts constitute extended captions to the accompanying picture, a couple-few paragraphs; in a few others, however, he provides a deeper, more extensive narrative.

In these encounters, he asks those he meets about their lives in a clear-eyed and direct manner, but, critically, without any hint of condescension or rejection. For all the natural and inquisitive questions Sharlet asks, he has the compassion and awareness to not ask that last question, the one that shifts from engaging fairly with someone, to humiliating them – transforming them from a human being into an oddity in a zoo.

The result is a series of portraits of people who live at or, more often, beyond the margins of society: people working the night shift, hiding from ‘normal’ society or wandering the alleys, visible but somehow at the same time easily overlooked and ignored. Instead of passing on by, however, eyes averted or giving a perfunctory nod, Sharlet has stopped to not only acknowledge but engage these strangers.

And here, then, the challenge of this book, the disparate emotions experienced while reading it. For, on the one hand, these portraits too often reveal the seemingly boundless depth of our society’s inhumanity: our willingness to allow entire segments of the population to be left behind, whether as homeless or scraping by at a low paying job to stay just ahead of the threat of homelessness – or worse to violently suppress them as a dangerous other. On the other hand, we witness the intense humanity of these lives, the hopes and desires Sharlet discovers even in people with lives filled with struggle and heartache. As I read Sharlet’s descriptions of the people he met, my feelings oscillated between these poles of despairing the inhumanity of their situations and celebrating their powerful humanity.

Granted, Sharlet’s vignettes about these strangers provide readers a certain distance. We are spared those potential aspects of such encounters that might trigger the typical response of turning away – the smell of a life on the streets, the slightly unsteady or even frenzied look in an eye; through Sharlet, we are able to look closer, to follow along as he engages with people, without the threat of directly facing that reality. But, not having these strangers in front of us, in person, we do miss out on the opportunity for the more fundamental connection that engaging someone in person allows; we must rely on Sharlet’s ability to build that connection for us, through his prose – which he does brilliantly, even if it can’t completely make up for not being there. Perhaps, though, it’s the best possible compromise for all those readers unlikely, for whatever reason, to actually go out and meet such strangers, as Sharlet has.

Sharlet hints at this connection he is providing readers in an epigraph to the book that comments on the quality of pictures a phone camera can take (versus a professional one). Reading that note again after completing the book, it captures well the nature of his role in writing the vignettes of the people he has met.

The phone camera comes close enough for the viewer to guess [at what I saw that made me snap the picture], and in between that guess and the light-as-it-was stands me. The mediation. Perfect camera tech creates the illusion of unmediated vision. That amazing picture that looks like it’s real? That’s a deception. This – sort of what it looked like, something like what I saw, something like what I felt – is the truth.

This mediation is what readers get, not only in the photos Sharlet includes of the people he encounters, but more importantly in the accompanying prose of his discussions with them, the discoveries that ensue. “The deception,” in this case, would be the “perfect” newspaper or magazine article that describes the challenges of working the night shift, or living on skid row, or being caught up in social support services: readers learn some facts, but can miss the humanity. Instead, Sharlet’s narrative presents us individuals, distinct people, with particular histories; yes, with challenges, but also hopes and, more critically, the drive to live on one more day, and then one more.

There is no denying, however, the powerful effect on readers of Sharlet’s narrative, particularly of his encounters with the people struggling most to carry on. And, toward the end of the book, he acknowledges how what he has seen, heard and experienced has irrevocably impacted him: the growing recognition of the fragility of our lives, and that the world, our civilization, “is like an ocean and our seemingly stable lives are little boats we mistake for land.” (288)

Beyond the individual impact he felt, came the implications of the reality he discovered for his role as a parent. Considering what he has seen of the precarious nature of so many lives, he acknowledges the fear he is left with, one that must needs lurk in any parent’s heart:

I don’t have the words: The fear that comes with the love that as soon as you have a child you can lose the child, that you can do all the right things and still it won’t matter.” (288) 

These words may seem obvious read here, in isolation, but read them late in Sharlet’s book and they become much more freighted with a profound melancholy.

This fear that Sharlet describes for his children’s future recalls an exchange in Miranda July’s novel The First Bad Man. The protagonist, after her friend’s challenging pregnancy and then delivery, meets with the attending physician; she wants to understand the potential impact on the baby of what has happened during the pregnancy, but the physician gives little solace:

“… as with any child, you won’t know if he can run until he runs.”
“Okay, I see. And besides running? Should we keep an eye out for anything in the future?”
“Oh, the future, I see.” A shadow fell over the doctor’s face. “You’re wondering if your son will get cancer? Or be hit by a car? Or be bipolar? Or have autism? Or drug problems? I don’t know, I’m not a psychic. Welcome to parenthood.” He swiveled and walked away.

Perhaps not the best bed-side manner, but the hard reality, nonetheless.

And the author Jennifer Senior also brilliantly captured this fear for our children’s future, during an interview on Fresh Air (4 February 2014) for her book on parenthood All Joy and No Fun:

I think Christopher Hitchens described having kids as 'your heart running around in somebody else's body,' and that feeling is so powerful it's almost scary, because there's almost like an implied sense of loss about it, it's like you love somebody so much that you are almost automatically afraid of losing them, that this connection is so deep that you can't think of that connection without thinking of that connection being broken.

For some in Sharlet’s book that “loss” is the death of their beloved child; for others, however, it is the similar, terrible fate of losing a child who has slid irrecoverably beyond the margins of society. (Complete quote here.)

In This Brilliant Darkness, Sharlet invites us to consider such fears squarely, by meeting people who those with “stable lives” too often push out of consciousness – and asks that we look them squarely in the eye. In writing filled with deep compassion but without a sugar-coating of the reality, he reveals the hard edges of the society we’ve created, and the humanity of the people who struggle to survive out along, and beyond, its edges.


Other notes and information:


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Friday, January 1, 2021

Book Review: "Berlin" by Jason Lutes

Berlin (2018)
Jason Lutes (1967)
577 pages

Germany’s Weimar Republic teetered on the brink of collapse as the 1920’s came to a close. Successive administrations proved incapable of righting a decade long decline in the economic situation, and equally powerless to tamp down increasingly violent skirmishes on the streets between partisans of the National Socialist and Communist parties. Actively attempting to undermine the existing government, the leaders of these organizations fomented conflict, rallying their members toward ever more polarized positions and training them for combat. Stuck in the middle of this power-play: a besieged population left to fend for itself.

These conditions were particularly manifested in the capital city of Berlin. A large and growing metropolis in the heart of the continent, Berlin attracted all manner of immigrants from throughout Germany and across Europe as those desperate for work, grasping for power or simply escaping their past poured into the city in search of a new beginning. And, while some arrived with extreme political ideologies, others contributed to radically new and disruptive social, cultural and artistic mores and practices that for many, particularly in the middle class, seemed a piece with the deterioration of order on the streets.

This chaotic mixture of uncertainty and change has been captured brilliantly by Jason Lutes in his graphic novel Berlin, which is set in the period from late 1928 up through the installation of Adolf Hitler as chancellor in early 1933. Lutes’ gorgeously drawn scenes evoke both the grandeur and the grit of Berlin during the final, dramatic years of the Weimar Republic. Whether presenting streetscapes in which political violence disrupts people going about their daily business, or interior settings that reflect the variety of conditions under which people lived in the city, Lutes’ richly rendered drawings pull readers into this turbulent moment in Berlin’s history.

And he complements his artwork with an engaging story that explores the confusion, anger, and hysteria of the time through an extensive cast of characters representing the messy diversity that constituted Weimar Berlin. Beyond hardcore partisans of the National Socialist and Communist parties, Lutes builds his narrative around characters from groups caught up in a situation beyond their control: middle and upper classes looking to protect their position amid growing violence and a dysfunctional government – averse to the Nazi’s brutish populism, but receptive to their promises of a return to order; a working class barely scraping by and feeling abandoned by the ruling Social Democrats – perhaps disgusted by the violent methods of the communist party, but finding nowhere else to turn for support; and an educated elite of journalists, artists and others, eager to separate from the old ways, and yet disturbed by the growing political breakdown.

Lutes artfully weaves together these many lives around the central character of Marthe Müller, an “art student and daughter of a middle-class family from Köln (Cologne)” (as described in a helpful Character list at the back of the book). Marthe arrives in Berlin in September 1928 to attend art school, but more generally looking to escape the limitations she perceives within the middle-class life of her parents, and so to start her life anew in the big city.

On the train to Berlin, she meets Kurt Severing, “a writer for Die Weltbühne (The World Stage), a weekly magazine of politics and art,” who is returning home from an assignment. The two become friends and then lovers, and – the ingenue artist and the grizzled, world-weary journalist – our guides through a Berlin in which, as Kurt describes to Marthe on the train ride in, “many factions … clash in the streets with increasing frequency. Communists, socialists, nationalists, democrats, republicans, criminals, beggars, thieves and everything in between. All mixed up together.” (10)

An early scene of such a “clash in the streets” captures perfectly the character of the violence, as well as the confusion of a populace resigned to its presence in their lives. It opens with a young Jewish boy selling copies of a Communist newspaper on the street; when three neighborhood boys whose sympathies lie with the National Socialists first verbally and then physically assault him, he must run for his life. In the next frames, a friend of Marthe’s, looking down from an apartment window, describes to her the confrontation occurring below. When Marthe asks, “Why do you think they were chasing him?”, the woman waves her hand, saying, “Maybe they’re Sozi’s and he’s a little Nationalist.” She’s gotten the motivations exactly backwards, but then, for those in the center, the reasons for such skirmishes could seem opaque and the details unimportant, their personal political outlook often guiding what little explanation they could be bothered to discern.

Avoiding overly simplistic generalizations, however, Lutes brings to the depictions of his characters the complexity of real human lives. In the pages shown at right, for example, a woman is being interviewed in the summer of 1929 by Severing, who asks her why she had participated in the Communist party’s recent May Day march; she concludes her reply by saying that she attended not out of any desire for violence, but “to demonstrate my objection to the way things are going.” (247) After the interview, the woman returns home to her husband and their evidently comfortable, middle-class existence. Later, in a scene from the following summer, the husband has just witnessed yet another confrontation between the Nazi’s and the Communists on the street below their apartment, and declares, over his wife’s unease and objections, that the two of them will vote for the Nazi’s in upcoming elections, because “they’re the ones keepin’ order.”

This complexity of the last years of the Weimar Republic in Germany, and particularly Berlin, has provided a rich palette of source material for many writers. For example, the chaos and conflicts the Severing reports on and describes to Marthe have formed the background of a series of noir novels by Volker Kutscher centered on the fictional detective Gereon Rath, among them The Fatherland Files (Die Akte Vaterland). 

The pre-war noir novels of Philip Kerr series featuring detective Bernie Gunther have also had Weimar Berlin as their setting, including the stories in Berlin Noir. (My reviews of these stories linked to at right.) Lutes, however, with his richly drawn graphic novel, brings a powerful evocation of the physical reality of the moment that even the best descriptions in such novel leaves to readers to summon.

Beyond noir, an engaging and disturbingly realistic account of the human cost of the period can be found in journalist and author Ernst Haffner’s novel Blood Brothers (Blutbrüder). Haffner describes the lives of a lost generation of German youth in the wake of the destruction of families and livelihoods in World War I. Homeless and fighting for survival on the streets of 1920’s Berlin, his characters encapsulate the abandonment of a generation who would come to fuel disorder, as well as a desire for security – for those with nothing, a life free from the rough streets, while for those in the middle class, protection from a pack they consider beggars and thieves. (My review of Haffner’s book at right.) 

While in Haffner’s story the political dynamics remain in the background, in Berlin, Lutes focuses directly on the trumped-up excuses for violence that come to destroy the Weimar Republic. Late in the story, Lutes has one of the real, historical figures he includes, the poet Joachim Ringelnatz, wandering the streets of Berlin pensively. Observing the escalating violence and reflecting on the Nazi’s significant gains in recent parliamentary elections, Ringelnatz recalls a poem by William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming, that includes the lines 

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
More anarchy is loosed upon the world.

The best lack all connection, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. (504) 

This vision – that “anarchy is loosed upon the world” – permeates Lutes’ graphic novel, both visually and through its narrative.

Lutes produced and published the stories collected into Berlin over the past couple of decades, so beginning before the most recent political events in the United States; but his completed novel seems nonetheless a cautionary tale for our times. Although we have yet to witness anything like the levels of violence and disruption that afflicted the Weimar Republic, Lutes’ story makes evident the parallels some find between that period and our present worsening social and political environment of seemingly unresolvable partisanship and polarization.

Certainly that is the case in the United States for the growing unrest over our current economic situation and direction. From economist Thomas Piketty’s analysis in Capital in the Twenty-First Century becomes clear, for example, the dramatic swings in wealth concentration over the past century. The extreme concentrations of wealth capitalism generated in the late 1800’s dramatically declined in the wake of the destruction of World War I and the progressive policies implemented after the Great Depression, but this proved a temporary reprieve from the logical extremes of unfettered capitalism, as Piketty also notes that over the past several decades wealth concentration has again steadily risen, returning to levels last seen a century ago.

This growing inequality has helped fuel populist uprisings over the past decade. And, though the wealthy elite have thus far managed to redirect that anger at other targets – racial divisions, immigrants, urban liberals – the anger is real, and may, as witnessed in the Weimar Republic and its aftermath, be difficult for any group to control over the longer run. Though the details may be different, the words of a worker being interviewed in Lutes’ story ring familiar in our current moment: “The November revolution [in Germany, 1918-19] started something that must be finished. The old nobility, the Kaiser and his barons, have just been replaced by the middle class, the landlords, the bosses.

Things are better than before, but the doors is closin’. We need t’drive a wedge in there an’ keep it open.” (231) 

As workers and the middle class today watch the doors of economic opportunity that had opened, at least for some, in the middle of the 20th century close again – parents see their children ending up worse off than they were – is it not surprising that some eventually decide it is time “t’drive a wedge” into the system, and to fight for a better future?



Other notes and information: 

Lutes lists an extensive “References & Inspirations” at the end of the novel, including fiction and nonfiction books, as well as “visual references” and films. Among this latter set of titles is director Wim Wender’s remarkable movie Wings of Desire (Die Himmel über Berlin), which presents the story of angels moving among the inhabitants of Berlin, with one in particular longing to become human and experience life directly. The angles can listen in on the random thoughts of people as they go about their quotidian lives, and Lutes nods to the movie at various points by giving readers a look into the thoughts of passersby going about their daily shopping and business in his story. 


In her 17 January 2021 editorial in The New York Times (The Inevitable), journalist Michelle Goldberg highlights the modern American version of the tension illustrated in Lutes' story between the Nazi's role in creating violent disorder and their promises to reestablish order:
An animating irony of Trumpism – one common among authoritarians – is that it revels in lawlessness while glorifying law and order.  "This is the central contradiction-slash-truth of authoritarian regimes," said Ruth Ben-Ghiat, and N.Y.U. historian and the author of "Strongmen: Mussolini to the Present."  She cited Mussolini's definition of fascism as a "revolution of reaction."  Fascism had a radical impulse to overturn the existing order, "to liberate extremism, lawlessness, but it also claims to be a reaction to bring order to society."


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf