“Have we forgotten how beautiful it is to be on fire for justice?”
No matter the country, our foreign policy seems to make the same mistake over and over. What’s behind this pattern?
“Novelists write the secret histories of nations.” I am not sure who made this bull’s eye remark. But I cite it even without attribution because it has been much on my mind of late. For one thing, so much of the history we now make is buried that unearthing it becomes the project, and for this we need writers other than the usual opinion-page hacks. They, indeed, are typically among those doing the burying.
For another, there is the related problem of monotony, and this I will explain.
After a time, any foreign affairs columnist is bound to find a certain nonsensical consistency in the work. Every question taken up—China, Syria, Ukraine, Latin America, name it—is altogether different and altogether the same. One watches American policy people make identical mistakes in every case. Make that “tragic mistakes,” for the innately destructive character of American foreign policy is, post-September 11, far beyond denial now—the unclothed emperor our tethered media insist on honoring.
If consistency is the mark of dull minds, we are forced to conclude that those populating our foreign policy cliques are in the last row of class. “The significant problems we face cannot be solved at the same level of thinking we were at when we created them,” Einstein famously observed. It is a pithy point, and it has been the problem since Teddy Roosevelt invented reasons to attack the Spanish in Cuba and the Philippines in 1898, so launching us into the pockmarked “American century.”
Why is this? We cannot assume stupidity—that would lead in the very most misleading direction. “The same level of thinking” is what we have to consider as 2014, an unusually messy year, draws gradually to its close.
So it is not a question of mere policy, in my view. And policy is not the true topic of these columns. The subject taken up in this space is closer to “ourselves among others,” a deeper and larger question. As a correspondent in Asia years ago, I sometimes wrote of “Japaneseness” or “Chineseness.” O.K., if we want to argue for a more constructive foreign policy, one that does humanity some good for a change, we have to think about the “Americanness” of our consciousness—what cast of mind causes us to conduct ourselves abroad as we do. Policy is nothing more than a reflection of this consciousness.
This is not to be got at in any kind of “news analysis.” Almost all pieces in this mode offer the glancing dressed up as the penetrating. As a correspondent and now a columnist, I have often found it useful to travel to other realms—to the space of novelists, for instance. And there is one writing now who gets at the consciousness leading us from disaster to disaster better than any pen-for-hire pundit.
In fairness, Peter Dimock is trained as an historian and is keenly current in the scholarship. But at bottom he is an artist of the kind who changes minds and lives. (In transparency, I knew Dimock professionally and personally, connections long lost and not germane here.)
Critics of policy, no matter how immediately they address their subject, can learn from writers such as this. In a single sentence, Dimock gives us the tools we need to do the necessary unearthing.
His output is slim, two brief novels so far, and difficult as one adjusts to being in the presence of an original mind. “A Short Rhetoric for Leaving the Family” came out in 1998; “George Anderson: Notes for a Love Song in Imperial Time” was out last year. Consider Dimock’s birth, in 1950: This is a man nearly drowned, like so many others of us, in Cold War consciousness. These books, fair to say, are rich records of his struggle to find breathable air.
Briefly, then:
“A Short Rhetoric” is written as a letter from one Jarlath Lanham to his nephew and another younger man who could be his son, although this is not clear. Lanham is your classic New England WASP, the well-born offspring of a man who served as a national security adviser during the Vietnam War and was the author of memoranda that were key justifications of the escalation of American aggression in Indochina.
Right away, the question is our imperial legacy. Lanham’s letter accompanies a bequest of $1million and explains that he hopes his two charges will use it to escape their families—implicitly their inheritance, the legacy. In Lanham’s analysis, this requires two things, and these, indeed, are what we need, now, to answer this legacy as we have it and build something beyond it.
One is language, clear words—the rhetoric of the title. Lanham goes into numerous of rhetoric’s formal devices—apostrophe, repetition, brevity, and so on—and makes generous reference to Catullus in the Latin writer’s phase of questioning Caesar from exile: “Was it for this that you went to open up the western lands? Was it for this that you disturbed the world and created ruin?” Lanham’s intent, he explains, is “to make it possible for all three of us to hold events in memory so that we are able to speak directly concerning ourselves and others in the perfected pleasure of the burning air.”
That last passage is a taste of how Dimock puts literate writing in the service of our public life and shared politics. One of his virtues as a novelist is that he is never out of touch with either.
Unsullied language, immune from all intimidation, must be learned, dredged from the polluted swamp of orthodox discourse, Lanham tells his young relatives—and Dimock tells us. This is essential to escape generations of willful obscuring, to address honestly what we Americans have done in “our” century, and this language will be spoken into the air set afire by all our incendiary calamities.
Maybe the second part of Dimock’s theme is evident by now. This is the notion of history as essential equipment for anyone intent on countering the prevailing culture. It would be hard to overstate this case. Without a command of the history that is unsayable, let’s call it, one can summon little strength; endurance is unlikely.