The Gruber revelations


The digital ink was scarcely dry on my last post when a controversy erupted to illustrate its main point.  I wrote that a growing distance between rulers and ruled lay at the heart of the crisis of liberal democracy.  Moments later, in a series of web videos, Jonathan Gruber delivered a virtuoso performance in the pathology of political distance.

Gruber is an economist at MIT beclouded with honors and titles:  a sort of pan-dimensional, hyper-intelligent being whose Big Thought was intellectual authorship of portions of President Obama’s 2010 health care law.  To anyone willing to listen, Professor Gruber ever since has insisted that passage of the law was possible only by means of the noble lie.

“The bill was written in a tortured way to make sure CBO did not score the mandate as taxes.  If CBO scored the mandate as taxes, the bill dies. . .  In terms of risk rated subsidies, if you had a bill which said that healthy people are going to pay in – you made explicit, healthy people pay in and sick people get money, it would not have passed.”

The professor went on:

“Lack of transparency is a huge political advantage.  And basically, call it the stupidity of the American voter or whatever, but basically that was really critical to getting the thing to pass.  Look, I wish…that we could make it all transparent, but I’d rather have this law than not.”

This wasn’t said in a shuttered smoke-filled room, to a cabal of shadowy political manipulators.  Nor was it a verbal outburst fueled by emotion or inebriation:  a “gaffe.”   Here and elsewhere, Gruber offered his considered reflections at open academic conferences, where they were received as such, without fuss.

The tenor and substance of Gruber’s argument is always the same.  Democracy, he regrets, isn’t up to the job.  The gap between the brilliant shepherds who rule the nation and the simple-minded sheep they must lead to pasture can be bridged only with reassuring lies.  To enact a necessary law, the public had to be deceived.

His audiences responded to such utterances in the same manner, too:  with nods of understanding and the occasional chuckle of mild amusement.  In an age of infinite offense-taking, it seems nobody felt offended by the trashing of American democracy.

That changed when videos of his talks went viral.  In the great angry noise that ensued, however, I have yet to hear anyone ask the most pertinent question:  how is this possible?  Jonathan Gruber isn’t a revolutionary or a neo-Nazi.  He’s a mainstream academic who means well for his country.  His audiences probably share the same description.  How can it be that they assume, collectively, without debate, the stupidity of the public, the failure of the democratic process, and the need for those in power to rule by trickery?

Conservatives like Charles Krauthammer find the explanation in “the arrogance of an academic liberalism that rules in the name of a citizenry it mocks, disdains and deliberately, contemptuously deceives.”  The charge has some merit.  Those who aspire to the title should ask how an attitude of scorn for public opinion and representative democracy and honest dealing can be construed as “progressive.”

Barack Obama’s blithe dismissal of the legitimacy of the midterm elections fits snuggly into this pattern of illiberal liberalism.

But it was President Bush, compassionate conservative, who erected a police apparatus that treats ordinary Americans like enemies of the state in the public places of their own land.  There can hardly be greater disdain than that.

For Bush, it was security, for Obama, welfare:  the practical effect, surely intended, was a desperate clinging by both to the protective distance between power and the public.

Distance explains Professor Gruber and his untoward proclamations.  Gruber resides at the top of the pyramid of the expert class, where policy wonks schmooze with political players.  The worldview from the heights is more 1930s than new millennium.  The illusion of invisibility from the public persists:  distance makes blind.  The professor thought he was speaking strictly entre nous, among members of his club.

But why did he dwell on the stupidity of the public?  Well, the public doesn’t have all of his diplomas.  It doesn’t speak to presidents.  It doesn’t participate in legislation.  The public lacks the tribal tokens and credentials that buttress Gruber’s identity as an expert, and make him feel interesting and important.  That one could be smart and lack those never enters his mind for an instant.

Gruber – like Obama and Bush, and all government elites – peers at the public from the wrong end of a telescope, until it resembles a tiny but multitudinous insect, a swarm of fire ants on the move, driven by primitive urges, but deprived of reasoning capacity.  The public is where terrorists and white supremacists and obesity come from. The job of government is to tame this beast.  The awkwardness of the democratic process, from the elites’ perspective, is that it demands that noble lie.

The tragedy of democracy, from a historical perspective, is that the public is a very different creature than the elites imagine.  The public is far from blind:  it body-scans the elites right back on digital, searchable formats.  With a click of my laptop, for example, I can see Jonathan Gruber boast about lying to the voters, again and again.  He is deluded in his invisibility but exposed in his fraud.

The trouble with the noble lie is that it’s tough to make a case for nobility once the lie has been found out.

Trust between rulers and ruled functions much like Humpty Dumpty:  it can’t be put together again.  That is where we are today.  The lies are all found out.  The public mistrusts every word and act that comes from government – and the hyper-intelligent Professor Gruber’s revelations confirm that it has good reason to do so.

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Distance and the sickness of democracy

obama limo

Let’s peer through the fog of events at the place where we now find ourselves.

Americans are unhappy with their politics, unhappy with their politicians, distrustful of their government to an almost pathological extent.  To people of the left, our system of government is a puppet show performed for the enrichment of Big Business oligarchs.  To people of the right, it is an instrument of tyranny wielded by Big Government elites.  The impact of the public’s distrust is such that these venerable categories, left and right, explode into bits.

What does a Tea Party activist have in common with Mitt Romney?  What ideals or habits of life does a “social justice warrior” share with Hillary Clinton?  Romney and Clinton ride the top of the pyramid:  Walter Lippmann, that sincere elitist, would call them “insiders.”  The others are on the outside, looking in.  Their wish to obliterate the hierarchy trumps their considerable differences in ideology.

Political unhappiness isn’t a uniquely American condition.  It’s universal among the old democracies.  The president of France, François Hollande, elected just a year and a half ago, has broken records in unpopularity.  The government of David Cameron barely avoided presiding over the dissolution of the United Kingdom.  Italy has been incapable of holding meaningful elections:  the current prime minister, Matteo Renzi, though popular for the moment, is essentially unelected.

Government as such is in crisis.  Democracy has lost the authorizing magic of legitimacy.  So:  those of us, here in the US or anywhere on planet Earth, who find far more good than evil in the democratic system of government, must account for its present sickness and specify the path back to good health.

Forget the Usual Suspects

The crisis of government isn’t about economic mismanagement.  Such mismanagement has been habitual and appalling:   no sane observer will dispute that.  Government blessed the drunken-sailor bets placed on “subprime” securities before 2008.  Government then enacted a trillion-dollar stimulus in 2009 that, by its own measures, achieved nothing.  This is an old story.

Franklin Roosevelt assumed the presidency under much grimmer economic conditions than we now experience, and ten years later, on the eve of World War II, little had improved under his management.  But the public kept faith.  The many new institutions FDR erected were mostly stage business:  but they possessed legitimacy.  Given trust and legitimacy, democratic government will survive mismanagement.

Nor is the crisis about our geopolitical difficulties in a world that “is exploding all over.”  John Kennedy was humiliated face to face by Nikita Khrushchev and more indirectly defeated at the Bay of Pigs, yet he kept his standing with the public.  Americans rallied to a president facing trouble in the world, and JFK could tap into this reservoir of trust and good will.

Certainly, the crisis of government isn’t about conspiracies spun by evil geniuses who manage to be invisible and irresistible all at once.  Self-interested conspiracies have always circled political power:  but consider the empirical claims being made.  Barack Obama isn’t George III.  The accusation is laughable at very many levels.  The Koch brothers haven’t purchased any portion of the US government.  Their total worth couldn’t buy one day of Medicare disbursements.

It is a judgment on the intellectual capacity of our age of distrust that a weak, floundering president and a pair of rich political dilettantes can be portrayed as American tyrants.

These conditions – a bad economy, a disordered world, the paranoid style – infect our democracy only because our democracy was already sickened, already stripped of immunity to the predictable troubles of political life.  The supposedly life-and-death issues that divide the electorate are in truth surface symptoms of an underlying malady.

Worry About Relations Between Rulers and Ruled

The supreme question that history has placed before us concerns a fundamental choice in politics:  the distance between rulers and ruled.

Great democratic institutions – presidents, parliaments, executive agencies and regulatory bodies – have come to perch atop structures that magnify immensely their remoteness from ordinary people.  Distance is manifested literally, physically.  President Obama moves about by helicopter and motorcade, protected by hundreds of armed Praetorians.  When he attends a baseball stadium, fans are told to show up hours early, so they can be duly frisked before the game.

These procedures are a symbol of the profoundly undemocratic spirit of our democratic institutions.

Rulers and elites hide behind massive bureaucracies ringed by nervous security.  Nobody knows what they think, or why they think it.  On occasion, they allow themselves to be questioned by fellow elites from the media.  The questions are insider questions.  The answers are insider answers.  The public’s concerns, being a mystery to questioners and answerers alike, are never broached.

Congress enacts bills that are hundreds of pages long and written in incomprehensible language.  Bureaucrats interpret, and though obscure and unelected, become true legislators.  Regulators, also often unelected and unaccountable, add another degree of separation.  The Federal government plays favorites among the thicket of laws, which to implement and which to waiver.

Elected officials of all stripes and denominations form a party of sorts:  the party of distance.  Government is lost in the Olympian heights, and the public encounters the democratic system at the level of the metal detection machine and the TSA body scan.

In the digital age, this will not stand.

Move Politics to the Deep End of the Pool

It will not stand because the public, too, forms a party of sorts:  the party of rejection.  The weakness of Hollande in France, Cameron in Britain, and Barack Obama in the US can be reckoned in direct proportion to the force of this rejection.

Once a polite audience, the public has leaped onto the stage of history and wishes to play the hero.  Its loud, persistent voice can be heard on digital platforms everywhere and at all times, reflexively cynical, offering the most sinister interpretations of government failure: attacking, condemning, rejecting.  Traditional issues of political life, like unemployment, like war and peace, have become proxies to the relentless struggle of the public against the established order.

Distance induces blindness in rulers, blind distrust in the ruled.  That is the crisis of government and the sickness of democracy, in brief.

This is not the place to describe the cure in detail.  The general approach, however, shouldn’t be much of a mystery.

Obviously, the steep Federal hierarchies will have to be flattened, to bring them into greater sympathy with our networked age.  Obviously, aristocratic perks and protections, the motorcades and the bodyguards, will have to be reduced to a minimum or eliminated entirely.  Obviously, laws will have to be of a length that can be encompassed by an ordinary intelligent person, and written in American English.

But such ideas amount to navel-gazing of the most useless kind, unless American politicians dare to move out from the shallow end of the pool.  They will have no reason to do so until the public forces them.

Ideology is no barrier to action.  Those who believe in political power as a force for good need a trusted and legitimate government for their instrument.  Those who believe political power must be limited and bound to the people will find in the reduction of distance a congenial project.

Only trolls and nihilists will object to turning away from a self-destructive path:  but let’s remember that it is precisely the troll and the nihilist, the party of suicide, who often set the tone for American politics today.

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Revolt of the public – Midterm elections report


The thesis of my new book can be gleaned from its title:  The Revolt of the Public and the Crisis of Authority in the New Millennium.  A hyperactive public, I maintain, has emerged from the dormant masses of the industrial era.  Gathered in networked communities, riding on digital platforms, this public has taken command of the information sphere and battered established institutions everywhere.

The consequences are all around us.  Proud political structures have been humiliated and stripped of legitimacy.  The pillars of an established order that has endured a century and a half visibly totter, and sometimes fall.

Despite all the evidence, I confess that when the book came out I felt a bit like someone afflicted with Tourette’s syndrome:  I was shouting incomprehensible profanities in a room full of people talking about something else.  The big conversation followed traditional topics.  Experts droned on about liberals and conservatives, Democrats and Republicans – about the president, the government, the cozy world of power wielders.  Nobody mentioned the public or its relentless assault on the institutions.  Few remarked on the crisis of legitimacy, or noticed the faint odor of political decay.

This has changed with startling rapidity.  The news media has discovered the chasm of distrust between ordinary Americans and their government.  Commentators have assumed an almost mandatory tone of despair about our present moment:  an era, they moan, of “great disruption” and “disgust.”  Even the New York Times has gotten into the doomsday business.

In bits and pieces, the revolt of the public is going mainstream – and now, perversely, I worry about what this portends for the health of liberal democracy.

“How Did We Lose Our Democracy?”

The ruling institutions are always being surprised.  From the bureaucratic heights, the public appears very far away, and trouble will be detected in advance only when internal alarms ring.  Under authoritarian regimes, this means mostly never.  Hosni Mubarak was ushered to prison in a state of utter befuddlement.  Videos of Muammar Qaddafi show him being led to his death in the same condition.  Neither had a clue about what had happened to them.

In representative democracies, however, certain elections attract the nervous attention of the elites.

The unruly temper of the public, expressed at the voting booth, has meant a wild gyration of parties and ideologies in power.  Whoever is in, the public wants out.  Since 2010, Britain, Spain, and France have each reversed the previous electoral mandate.  In the US, the last three national elections have alternated contradictory directions.

Now midterm elections are at hand, and conventional wisdom is taking for granted another mood swing, this time in favor of the Republicans.  Big media players like the NYT – surprised, as always, to find events rather than elites in the saddle – have gone out among the populace, searching for explanations.  What they have learned will sound familiar to my readers:  the present crisis of political authority, we are told, is the natural outcome of government failure.

Here is Peter Baker, in what was billed as “news analysis” for the gray old Times:

With every passing week or month it seems some agency or another has had a misstep or has been caught up in scandals that have deeply eroded public confidence.  The Internal Revenue Service targets political groups, the Border Patrol is overwhelmed by children illegally crossing the Rio Grande, the Department of Veterans Affairs covers up poor service, and the Secret Service fails to guard the president and his White House.

Now public esteem for the long-respected Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has plummeted with the arrival of Ebola on American shores…

[…] Polling by Gallup shows that since June 2009, in the heyday of the new Obama presidency, public confidence in virtually every major institution of American life has fallen, including organized religion, the military, the Supreme Court, public schools, newspapers, Congress, television news, the police, the presidency, the medical system, the criminal justice system and small business.

President Obama’s collapsing political fortunes are touched on, as well as Congress’s abysmal standing in public opinion.  Baker notes, correctly, that “the broader trend precedes Mr. Obama and extends beyond politics” – yet he offers no reason for this remarkable trajectory of institutional failure, beyond an obligatory mention of the “toxic environment” in Washington.  But the poison in Washington must have a source.  Polarization is an effect:  elites fighting ever more furiously over less and less.  The cause is uncertain, and the public is beyond caring.  American politics today resemble an exceptionally rancorous, penalty-riddled NFL game, played in an empty stadium.

For all its mock horror of partisanship, the news media is a ruthless participant in the game.  “What’s not to hate?  Start with the politicians on the ballot:  a surfeit of dim-bulb partisans pledged to further gridlock,” writes Timothy Egan in the NYT’s “Opinion Pages.”  Egan doesn’t hate all politicians equally.  He favors the president and the Democrats, and he maintains that only a conspiracy by moneyed interests can bring about the results predicted for the midterms:  “Oligarchs hiding behind front groups – Citizens for Fluffy Pillows – are pulling the levers of the 2014 campaign, and overwhelmingly aiding Republicans.”

If Egan’s conspiratorial cesspool faithfully represents the world, then American democracy, as currently practiced, is an illegitimate form of government.

How did we lose our democracy?  Slowly at first, then all at once.  This fall, voters are more disgusted, more bored and more cynical about the midterm elections than at any time in at least two decades.

So what is the alternative?  Egan doesn’t say.  He strikes out blindly, without much thought to the consequences.  That is typical of our moment.  He hates a possible electoral outcome, so he rejects the system that might bring it about.  That also is typical, and frequently met with.  Egan’s rant rests on an idea that has taken hold among the articulate elites.  Since the public is truly that sheep-like and easy to manipulate, the democratic process, under any circumstances, poses a fatal threat to good government.

Distrust of elections is by no means restricted to liberals or Democrats.  It burns just as brightly on the other side of the partisan divide.  Glenn Reynolds, libertarian and Obama-basher, constantly reminds readers of his blog that victory by Republicans must exceed the “margin of fraud” – perpetrated in this case by Democrats rather than oligarchs.

“Change Is Coming. Big Change”

The Revolt of the Public tells the story of an age that seems stuck in its own ending.  The public craves an escape from the status quo, but won’t spell out a new direction.  The institutions have been blinded and crippled by the speed of life in the 21st century.  Rulers, politicians, and bureaucrats can hear the crowds roaring outside the palace windows, but all they can do is repeat the same old formulas in the hope that things turn out better next time.  Change, radical change, seems inescapable, but isn’t:  instead a sort of zombie democracy, a political body without a soul, staggers from failure to failure.

Ron Fournier of National Journal agrees with digital politics guru Joe Trippi, whom he quotes as saying, “Look beneath the surface, and you’ll see this is more of an anti-incumbent, anti-establishment year than people realize.”  Concludes Trippi:  “Change is coming.  Big change.”  Not today or tomorrow, Fournier acknowledges, but maybe “a presidential cycle or two away.”

Like all who contemplate our peculiar moment, Fournier is struck by the power of technology to alter the social and commercial landscape – and he imagines, as many have, that politics must be next.

I ask you, how long before Americans recognized they’re no less equipped to disrupt politics and government?  How long before we stop settling for an inferior product in Washington and at statehouses?  When do we demand more and better from the Democratic and Republican parties – or create new political organizations to usurp the old?

[…] Huge majorities of Americans say the country is on the wrong track.  They see a grim future for themselves, their children, and their country.  They believe political leaders are selfish, greedy, and short-sighted – unable and/or unwilling to shield most people from wrenching economic and social change.

The heart of the matter, Fournier understands, is alienation, not polarization.  American voters are defecting from the mainstream parties.  The public is leaping out of the past into the dark, into nowhere and nothing:  that is my interpretation.  Fournier is a bit more sanguine.  Disruption of the system is “a matter of when, not if,” he proclaims with apparent cheerfulness.  The “Old Guard” he dismisses as “a ship of fools, living on borrowed time.”  That’s probably true.  But there’s an assumption, never stated, that the public is headed to a positive somewhere, that disruption isn’t just another word for nihilism:  and of that, I’m not so sure.

Fournier commits the cardinal sin of the middle-aged:  he drops the burden of his hopes on the shoulders of the unsuspecting young.  Specifically, he links political change to the millennial generation, which he imagines to be “relatively civic-minded, pragmatic, tolerant, diverse, and less interested in ideology than results.”  I have no idea whether anything intelligible can be said about a generation:  but these are empty virtues.  We learn exactly nothing from them about what millennials would seek to accomplish if, against all odds, they were allowed to influence national politics before the last Baby Boomer gets lowered into his grave.

To Fournier, change has become a good in itself.  No doubt he associates it with progress – but that is a terrible failure of the political imagination.  Change can take an infinite number of forms, many of them destructive of liberal democracy, tolerance, diversity, and all those millennial values he admires.  After all, the Weimar Republic changed.  German opinion determined that Weimar had failed beyond repair, and that anything other was an improvement.  That brought on Hitler.  Barbarians typically enter the city through open gates, left unguarded by citizens who despise their own institutions and are unable to imagine worse.  The Dark Ages were the most radical kind of change.

Change must be specified.  Democracy should be defended.  The impulse to nihilism we must combat in ourselves and confront in others, as a mark of decadence.  Candidates for the midterm elections, so far as I can tell, haven’t broached any of these large subjects.  Egan calls it the “disgust election.”  He’s projecting, and he’s almost certainly wrong.  The midterms of 2014, like its immediate precursors, will be a small election, fought with little feeling over small things – another lurch of the zombie, this time, if the prophets are to be believed, to the right.

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Unbundling the nation-state

Chirico Painting

The most potent organizational form known to history, the nation-state, is fraying at the edges:  unbundling.  The recent “No” vote against independence in Scotland, analyzed correctly, showed every symptom of this unraveling.

Britain’s ruling elites panicked, and tried to bribe the Scots with offers of increased self-rule.  They betrayed a complete lack of confidence in their own legitimacy.  The Scottish public, consumed with grievance, seduced by negation, felt free to batter a political order that was defended by nobody.  The United Kingdom was preserved for now, but as a vexing question mark, a source of dissatisfaction and uncertainty, rather than as a settled political arrangement.  Separatists in Catalonia wishing to break away from Spain were encouraged, not disheartened, by the episode.

The Geopolitics of Dis-integration

The curious notion that all the land in the world, and every human being treading on it, must be assigned to some responsible national government, probably goes back to the Peace of Westphalia in 1648.  But the modern nation-state is an artifact of the industrial age:  it grinds on like an enormous factory floor, top-down, centralizing, standardizing, bureaucratic in form yet utopian in ambition.  Leviathan – government as horror movie monster – was born of structural and geopolitical pressures.  Administered by progressive elites, the monster became the nation.

The tide of history now runs in the opposite direction.

Geopolitical imperatives turned at the end of the Cold War.  West Germany absorbed the German Democratic Republic in 1990.  The following year, polarities reversed.  The Soviet Union fragmented into 15 separate “states,” most of them dysfunctional from the start.  Yugoslavia began a violent disintegration into a patchwork of statelets.  In 1993, Czechoslovakia split into its component parts.  Scotland and Catalonia, Flanders and Northern Italy, have since seen the rise of powerful political parties that clamor for secession from the center.  Belgium, a fictional country, could at any moment follow the Czechoslovak example.

The leap of faith that was the “Arab spring” shattered Syria, Iraq, Libya, and Yemen along ethnic or sectarian lines.  Jordan and Bahrain teeter on the edge.  In Lebanon – like Belgium, a country of convenience – every valley flies its own flag.  Sub-Saharan “failed states” have been carved up among rival warlords and ethnic groups.  Even China, the very model of a nation-state growing in power, appears more concerned with questions of legitimacy and internal cohesion than with throwing its weight around in the world.  The current trouble in Honk Kong is small potatoes to China’s rulers:  the specter that haunts them is dismemberment, the memory of the “warring states.”

For at least a generation, geopolitical stresses have been pulling nations apart.  The reasons are obscure.  I would guess that, from above, imperial concepts like “Europe” and “the caliphate” bled the nation-state of legitimacy without acquiring any political punch of their own.  From below, regions like Scotland undermined the ideal of the nation without providing an alternative:  the universal demand seems to be “we want out.”  Other geopolitical factors, I don’t doubt, are also in play.

The Structural Destiny of Unbundling

The historian understands that every era is bounded by certain structural limitations.  Leonardo designed flying machines but could never be an aviator, any more than Picasso could paint the Sistine ceiling or Genghis Khan could conquer America.  It is in this historical sense that one can speak of structure as destiny.

Industrial organization shaped the structural destiny of the last century.  Institutions became steeply hierarchical.  Elites strove to control the masses in the hope of leading them to some promised land.  Nation-states either organized on a near-military basis or were bullied by those who had done so.  Strong central governments thus seemed like a patriotic necessity.  The top-down model, so successful for industry, mesmerized politicians and bureaucrats.  It was believed to be guided by data and “science.”

If Bismarck was the godfather of the modern nation-state, its patron saint might have been Frederick Winslow Taylor, author of The Principles of Scientific Management.  Taylor advised managers to choreograph every movement of each factory worker.  Henry Ford was an admirer.  So was Lenin.

That historical moment ended with the new millennium.  The development of digital platforms made possible a new mode of organization:  the network.  It was immediately embraced by the public.  While the elites remained ensconced in bureaucratic institutions, a networked public tramped into these precincts of authority and felt free to muddy the carpets, break the crockery, mock mistakes of fact, rant at failures of policy, and condemn the entire institutional framework as a conspiracy of the few against the many.  The structural destiny of the digital age – bottom-up, egalitarian, anarchistic – resembled a bipolar leap away from the past.

From the commanding heights of the information sphere, the public can perceive the repeated failure of national governments, as well as the confusion and panic of the elites.  The effect has been revolutionary.  In Cairo and Madrid and Caracas and Kiev, the public has threatened or toppled the institutions of the old regime.

This global uprising of the networked public – analyzed, I’m obliged to note, in my new book – has begun to carve up the limbs and sinews of the modern nation-state.  The forces at play are structural, world-historical, and scarcely touched by patriotic or ideological concerns.  In a very real sense, Europe’s regional independence movements stand in the same relation to their central governments as did the indignados of Spain or the Tea Party in the US.  They detest and distrust national elites and ruling institutions, more than they fear the nation-state as such, or love their native soil.  Their energies are mobilized against the political status quo:  they want out.  But that is true of the larger public in their countries.

Labels of long pedigree have lost meaning here.  Two of the secessionist parties (in Scotland and Catalonia) are center-left, as we used to measure such things, while the other two (in Flanders and Northern Italy) are center-right.  All have in common a politics of pure negation.

An Arab public on the move has repeatedly collided with brittle top-down regimes, bringing about what one writer called “the chaos of an entire civilization that has broken down.”  In Syria and Libya and Iraq, where predatory governments had swallowed the nation-state whole, the mortal weakening of the one has induced the collapse of the other.  Governments in the region lack legitimacy, or even a notion of what legitimacy means.  A frustrated public can erupt in protest at any moment, mobilized by hostility toward the structures of power.

The unraveling of the Arab nation-state, I want to suggest, has only just begun.

Yet the pattern is global.  Everywhere, the bloated modern state has ingested national sovereignty.  The world of 2014 consists of a mosaic – not of nations, in truth, but of governments that claim to embody nations.  When a government fails and unravels, and is seen to fail and unravel, on center stage, by a public in command of the information sphere, old assumptions about nationhood are placed in doubt.  If government unbundles, how can the nation stay whole?  The fate of Syria and Libya and Iraq argues that it can’t.

That government is unbundling should be beyond dispute:  even our trillion-dollar Federal government has been compelled to play in this disappearing act.  Parcel post service has unbundled to Fed-Ex, for example.  Security for State and Defense Departments has unbundled to private contractors like Blackwater.  Other examples probably fall under the rubric of “civilizational chaos.”  National borders keep nobody out or in.  Between legal immigrants and illegal trespassers, distinctions are problematic.  Citizenship itself, the badge of belonging, is now a commodity negotiated with a brain-dead bureaucracy rather than a semi-religious commitment.

A fourth of all Americans, and a third of the millennial generation, support the proposition that their state should secede from the US.  This speaks less to nostalgia for the Old Confederacy than to a new contempt for the failures of national government.

The Dialectics of Chaos

Marxist tradition maintained that, in the bourgeois era, “all that is solid melts into air,” including eventually the nation-state.  The phrase “withering away of the state” was Engel’s.  The concept received Lenin’s attention in The State and Revolution, but always hovered on the margins of Marxist political theory:  revolution came first, dictatorship second, while utopia was maybe for the great-grandchildren.  Still, the fact remains that somewhere within this ideological Pandora’s box – an industrial-era vision if ever there was one – we come across a prediction of the nation’s demise.

History, according to Marx, rode on the class struggle, and the great engine of the class struggle was contradiction or dialectics.  New forms of production engendered new social groups that collided with, and in time displaced, the old forms and their keepers.  The process was binary.  One class rose against another until, at the end of history, after revolution and dictatorship, only a single universal class remained.  Then utopia would arrive.  Absent the class struggle, human relations would be free of contradiction.  Without contradiction, there would be no need for the repressive machinery of the state:  like a dead tree, the nation-state would topple and disintegrate of its own accord.

As an intellectual exercise, it is possible to squeeze the political landscape of 2014 into this scheme.  Two groups, arrayed in radically different forms of organization, today collide everywhere:  the networked public and elites in top-down institutions.  They are inescapably hostile to each other.  The perturbing agent has been a change in technology and in control over information and communication, if not of the means of production.   If the triumph of new forms has been dialectically predetermined, then the public owns the future.  Hierarchical government must evolve into networked government – and networked government could unbundle itself out of existence.

Reality, however, has a way of breaking out of the creaky prison of Marxist teleology, and that is plainly the case here.  The public may be in revolt, but it isn’t a class.  It has no consciousness, no ideology, “no intention of governing” and “no capacity for exercising power.”  The public, in Walter Lippmann’s words, “is not a fixed body of individuals” but “merely those persons who are interested in an affair” to the extent of engaging in political action.  They can spring from the left or from the right.  They can be Occupiers or Tea Partiers.  Their abiding principle is a ferocious egalitarianism, and their driving impulse is a repugnance to the established order so profound that it borders on nihilism.

The elites running the old institutions are also not a class in the Marxian sense – and they aren’t much of a ruling class in any sense.  They feel legitimacy and authority bleeding out of a thousand failures, and they are rightly afraid.  Like the public, the elites lack a defining ideology or character.  They can be constitutionalists or despots, technocrats or murderous thugs.  All share a touching faith in miracles worked by top-down applications of political power, and a desperate hope that the world’s information, now spiraling out of control, will slow down enough to allow the lumbering hierarchies to catch up.

The struggle between the public and the elites isn’t binary but complex.  Hierarchy was never about the means of production:  it’s in our DNA.  Network can be fast and furious in orchestrating protests, but it can dissipate in an instant.  The public can overthrow, but never rule.  The institutions continue visibly to fail, but seem unable to change.  The structural destiny of our age is anti-authority, but that might be reversed in the next turn of the historical screw.  Nothing is certain or fated.

So the state isn’t predestined to wither away.  It may not even unbundle in the manner I have described.  If a deeper predictive principle can be extracted from the muddle of events, it is this:  so long as our moment lasts, the modern state, gluttonous Leviathan, will either disgorge ever more bits of the nation, or continue to sicken and fail.  It may be forced to do both.  Chaos could trump power:  it’s happened before.  We who inhabit quiet lands already can hear, not too far from home, the crack and rumble of that storm in which civilizations are broken.

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A social media beheading

foley beheading

Sometime last week, James Foley, an American free-lance journalist, was beheaded by a masked individual who claimed to belong to the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL).  This was a moral and political atrocity, requiring frank talk about the appropriate response.  But it was also an attempt at visual persuasion:  ISIL communicated the killing in a carefully produced YouTube video that condemned President Obama’s decision to bomb their advancing forces.  The group had a message.  Foley was murdered to ensure that it was heard.

I watched the video on my iPhone – which is to say, I saw little and heard nothing at all.  (I pieced together my description from a transcript as much as from what I saw.)  President Obama was shown saying that US power would be used to contain ISIL in Iraq.  Video followed of a smart bomb blowing up what was presumably an ISIL vehicle.  Foley, in a prison-orange gown, on his knees, was then forced to make an anti-US statement.  “I guess all in all I wish I wasn’t American,” he concluded, tragically, yet from what I could see without much emotion.  His killer stood behind him, dressed in black and waving a knife.  “Any attempt by you, Obama, to deny Muslims their right of living in safety under the Islamic caliphate will result in the bloodshed of your people,” he blustered in a British accent.  Then he put his knife to Foley’s throat.

Beheading videos are a grisly tradition among insurgents in that part of the world.  Al Qaeda in Iraq, a precursor organization to ISIL, delighted in such productions under Abu Musa al Zarqawi.  Because of my work, I viewed some of them at the time.  I wanted to make sense of the message:  what possible political advantage could AQI expect from their displays of savagery?  They instilled fear, certainly.  It gave the group a terrifying, gangster-like reputation.  Mostly, however, the videos seemed to reflect nothing more substantial or strategic than Zarqawi’s bloodlust.  I was not alone in this assessment:  Ayman al Zawahiri, then Al Qaeda’s second in command, admonished Zarqawi in a captured letter that “scenes of slaughtering the hostages” would never be “palatable” to Muslims.

The last AQI video I could stomach showed a massacre of Nepalese workers, men totally innocent of the conflict in Iraq.  One by one, they were in a very literal sense slaughtered by Zarqawi using a small knife.  I was told by a Muslim colleague that this resembled the ritual sacrifice of animals during holy days.  Not only had the Nepalese workers been terrorized and killed, in the process they were denied their humanity.

James Foley died in the same manner.  In this case, the motive for murder was transparent.  The killers, who wished to be considered “an Islamic army, and a state” rather than a gang of violent men, sought to frighten the US public and warn off further US military attacks by snuffing out an American life.  In the dark mind of the ISIL zealot – personified by the ninja-clad, British-sounding assassin – the killing was tit for tat.

Predictably, the video of Foley’s beheading went viral on the information sphere.  Just as predictably, a strong backlash resulted against showing such a repulsive act.  By the time I got to my laptop, YouTube had taken down the video.  The company had every right to do so.  Foley’s family then requested that the public not watch, share, or use any images produced by ISIL.  That was understandable.   With regard to the beheading video, and excluding the usual mindless trolls, the public largely obliged.

But soon a digital frenzy ensued against showing any images of the video, anywhere.  A campaign to “blackout” ISIL media by Twitter user “Hend” garnered immediate support.  Feeling the pressure, Twitter agreed to cancel the accounts of users who posted images from the beheading video.  A great deal of online rage was aimed at those, like the New York Post, that displayed Foley in his last minutes of life.  With typical herd instinct, most of the news media engaged in self-censorship on the matter.

The reasons given were not devoid of merit, but sounded strangely out of tune with our informational reality.  The beheading video was said to be propaganda for a murderous group – true enough, but it was unclear how looking away in horror would defeat or out-persuade the murderers.  The images were out there, in any case.  ISIL supporters were said to revel in them.  The information sphere is irrevocable.

Respect for the feelings of family members was also offered as a reason for blocking images of Foley’s death.  Twitter generalized this into a new policy regarding the removal of images of “deceased individuals” at the request of family members.  It was a kindly meant but somewhat misguided gesture.  The pain of loss, after all, is not in images but in the flesh and the heart.  Death is the ultimate irrevocable.  Murder, I should think, trumps insensitivity.  Reality must be confronted and grappled with.  It would have been a bizarre response to 9/11, if we had decided to ban the images of that horrible day.

In fact, a strange moral and political myopia afflicted the digital chatter about the murder of James Foley.  A violent, disgusting act had been perpetrated, but most of the anger was directed at those who shared images of it.  It was as if social media users cared only about social media – or worse:  as if by blocking out pictures of the crime, we could somehow avoid dealing with a world that contained dangerous criminals.

For the record, I incline to the second explanation.  The reflex to blot out shocking information, particularly of the visual kind, has been a well-documented trait of the elites.

At the time of Egypt’s bloody street revolt, state-owned TV ran footage of happy consumers in shopping malls.  During violent police repression of anti-Erdogan protests in Turkey, CNN – owned by Erdogan allies – showed a documentary about penguins.  A government report on the 2011 London riots concluded that the “single most important reason” for the disorders was “the perception, relayed by television as well as social media,” that police had lost control of the streets.  In every case, the idea was that if the mediated images of unpleasant events were blocked, the reality of the latter would be nullified.  This is not magical thinking, merely a throwback to an era when hierarchical institutions controlled the flow of information.

That era is long gone.  I find myself perplexed to observe so many participants in social media – the unruly public, gifted amateurs who have broken the information monopoly of the institutions – grasping for the illusion of control.

We can’t give James Foley his life back, or wish ISIL out of existence, by closing our eyes to the moral horror of their collision.  Instead, we should ponder the relationship between our current response and the next video:  the next horror.  We should gaze into the heart of darkness of that knife-wielding killer and his kind.  They seem to think Americans can be stampeded by fear.  To the extent that we treat images of their crimes as a reality too unbearably painful for us to behold or discuss or accept – to that extent exactly, I suspect, they will feed us more.

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What Guy Fawkes’ mask can teach us about the turmoil of 2011

v for vendetta blowup[The following is a selection from my new book, The Revolt of the Public and the Crisis of Authority in the New Millennium, Amazon link below.]

The 2011 protesters connected with political violence only in a Hollywood version, through their fantasy lives.  At virtually every protest described in this book, you found people wearing the Guy Fawkes mask popularized by the 2006 movie, V for Vendetta.  This was unique for would-be revolutionaries.  I can’t imagine Lenin or Mao or Castro allowing their comrades to impersonate a fictional character.

Fascination with a revenge melodrama offered a hint about how the young transgressors of 2011 viewed themselves – and what they imagined they were doing.

Guy Fawkes was executed in 1606 for his part in the Gunpowder Plot to blow up Parliament.  The mask was traditionally worn in “Guy Fawkes Night,” which celebrated with bonfires the discovery of the plot.  Hollywood turned this story on its head.  The film depicted a future Britain ruled by a fanatically religious authoritarian government, whose persecutions sounded like a catalogue of victims from Occupy Wall Street:  “Immigrants, Muslims, homosexuals, terrorists, disease-ridden degenerates…”  “V,” a mysterious figure in a Fawkes mask, perpetrates an orgy of violence to bring down the government.  The movie ends with an immense crowd in V masks overwhelming the security forces, while Parliament building and Big Ben explode musically in the background.

In his disgust with his place and time, V sometimes sounded like an indignado.  “The truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country,” he brooded.  But mostly he was an action hero who, in the 132 minutes of the film, personally slaughtered a significant portion of the ruling class.  The lust for righteous mayhem, in good movie fashion, was untroubled by doubt.

V at Occupy Wall Street

V at Occupy Wall Street

While this was hardly the political model in 2011, there can be no denying the influence of V for Vendetta on the participants.  Wael Ghonim turned to the Guy Fawkes mask to underline his anonymity as administrator of the “We Are All Khaled Said” Facebook page:

In 2006 I had seen the movie V for Vendetta and fallen in love with the idea of the mysterious warrior fighting against evil.  I was still influenced by this idea when I created the Facebook page:  the notion of an anonymous sentinel who tries to wake up the people around him and spur them to revolt against the government’s injustice.  For my article “Who Are You, Mr. Admin?” I used the distinctive mask worn by the movie’s protagonist as the main image.

“I identified with V’s desire for change,” explained the mild-mannered Ghonim, “although in no way did I approve of his violent means.”  To anyone who has watched the film, this was an extraordinary statement.

The mask was originally introduced to protest politics by the hacker group “Anonymous,” which claimed for itself prodigious powers not unlike those of the protagonist in V for Vendetta.  Anonymous can only be described as a mutant offspring of the Fifth Wave, spawned from the most nihilistic elements of the web, and it has played an uncertain part in the struggle between the public and authority.  Its members sometimes talked like revolutionaries but often behaved like the London rioters, stealing data and vandalizing sites just because they could.  None of them, when finally identified, turned out to be engaged in radical politics of any kind.  They had meant it when they boasted, “We do it for the lulz.”

Anonymous’ endorsement of the Occupy Wall Street movement generated a great deal of buzz.  In a series of bombastic YouTube videos featuring the mask, the hackers made many threats – for example, to “flood into lower Manhattan” with their supporters, declare “war on the NYPD,” and “erase” the New York Stock Exchange using their hacking prowess.  This proved to be more drama than reality.  One video disseminated the name and personal data of the cop who had pepper-sprayed protesters.  Denial of service attacks slowed down the NYSE, and pushed it offline for a few minutes.  Other than that, the one lasting contribution of the hacker community to the turmoil of 2011 was to re-connect it with the V mask.

Self-dramatizing with Anonymous

Self-dramatizing with Anonymous

I don’t want to make too much of this.  Like dueling naming conventions, the infatuation with V for Vendetta was a symptom, not a cause, of the larger conflict.  It revealed an emotional orientation among the protesters:   they were self-dramatizers to an extreme degree.  The disconnection between their words and their actions, between their understanding of effects and their indifference to causes, can be explained by this trait.

As with V, their self-dramatizing was manifested in gestures of negation – of repudiation, accusation, destruction, erasing history and leaving the future blank.  The movie ended with the demolition of the old regime.  The rest would take care of itself.  “With enough people, blowing up a building can change the world,” V had proclaimed.  But that was true only in fiction.

Wael Ghonim got the chance to play the role of V almost to perfection.  As an anonymous political force, he tormented the Mubarak regime, assembled its opponents, and helped engineer its overthrow.  At the moment of victory, however, more than negation was needed.  The movie had ended, but the drama in Egypt moved on.  Ghonim, the real-life V, lacked a script to follow once the oppositional gesture lost its potency.

Because political conditions were much less dangerous in democratic countries, self-dramatization there seemed proportionately more extravagant.

Political rebels in Europe, Israel, and the US felt betrayed by the failure of the structures of authority, particularly the government and the economic elites.  The feeling wasn’t entirely unreasonable.  The masters and regulators of finance had placed large foolish bets, but when the bottom fell out in 2008 it was the public, not them, who paid the losses.  There was ample room for criticism, even for cynicism.

In the end, however, a term like “failure” can only be applied relative to some expectation – and we have seen that the rebels’ expectations of modern government were at once fantastical in their scope and vaporous in definition.  They ascribed magical or, I venture to say, divine qualities to cumbersome, all-too-human bureaucracies.   They believed government could work miracles:  it could give meaning to their personal lives.  This faith was most evident in Israel, a country that quickly overcame the effects of the crisis.  Protesters there were affluent and employed, but expected the government to deliver personal fulfillment within a context of social justice.  What that meant was never explained.  Most of the American Occupiers also held down jobs.  Conversely, those nearest to poverty never participated in any of the 2011 street revolts.

Even in the rhetoric of the protests, the connection to the economic crisis was, at best, indirect.  Manuel Castells had it right when he wrote that “the movement” was about “everything and nothing at the same time.”  2011 never fixated on 2008:  the impulse was to abolish history entirely, and open up a future purified of cause and effect.

In their eagerness to play a part in some world-historical drama, the rebels often gave the impression that they were searching for causes.  They disdained specifics – ideology, policy – but excelled at lengthy menus of accusations.  Stephane Hessel, French prophet of outrage, understood this process of self-aggravation.

It is true, the reasons to get angry may seem less clear today, and the world may seem more complex.  Who is in charge; who are the decision makers?  It’s not always easy to discern.  We’re not dealing with a small elite anymore, whose actions we can clearly identify.  We are dealing with a vast, interdependent world that is interconnected in unprecedented ways.  But there are unbearable things all around us.  You have to look for them; search carefully.

A life spent in search of unbearable things will be necessarily destructive of the legitimacy of most standing institutions and social arrangements, including those which created and sustained the destroyers.

Unlike the fictional character V, the actual protesters of 2011 were unable to wipe clean the slate of power and society.  Mubarak fell, the Spanish socialists were voted to near extinction, Netanyahu compromised, Obama borrowed the slogans of OWS – but the consequences, three years down the road, nowhere have matched the glittering expectations of participants.  The old systems still stand.  The hierarchies of the industrial age, with their top-down myopia, stumble on.  The behavior of these structures obeys an inner logic:  despite Itzhik Shmuli’s utopian proclamation, government never became a servant to the forces of revolt.

But the hypothesis I presented in this chapter was not that the public in 2011 had the interest or the capacity to replace current institutions of authority.  It had neither.  Sectarian to the core, the public would have felt corrupted by the thought of assuming the functions of the Center.  The phase change concerned, at the most obvious level, a new capacity to mobilize large numbers of the public and so to command the attention of all political players, from government leaders to the media to ordinary voters.  This was a new thing under the sun, and it became possible only in the altered landscape of the Fifth Wave.  Digital platforms allowed even rioters who wished to loot London stores to organize and act more intelligently, for their purposes, than the authorities.

The consequence wasn’t revolution but the threat of perpetual turbulence.  The authorities felt, and still feel, their incapacity keenly.  Governments are aware that the public could swarm into the political arena at any moment, organizing at the speed of light, hurling anathemas of repudiation.  Political elites in democratic countries have become thoroughly demoralized.  Whether this was deserved or not is a separate question, to be examined in the next two chapters.  But the crisis of confidence among established politicians has precluded the possibility of bold action, of democratic reform.

The phase change began in 2011, but the end is not in sight.  In the Italian general elections of February 2013, a new party, the “Five Star” movement, won 25 percent of the vote for the lower house of parliament and became the second-largest entity there.  The party was the creation of a comedian-blogger who called himself Beppe Grillo, after the Jiminy Cricket character in Pinocchio.  In every feature other than its willingness to stand for elections, Five Star reproduced perfectly the confused ideals and negations of the 2011 protests.  Despite receiving more than eight million votes, it lacked a coherent program.  The single unifying principle was a deep loathing of the Italian political establishment.  The rise of Beppe Grillo had nothing to do with reform or radical change, but meant the humiliation and demoralization of the established order.

That was the most profound consequence of 2011:  sowing the seeds of distrust in the democratic process.  You can condemn politicians only for so long before you must reject the legitimacy of the system that produced them.  The protests of 2011 openly took that step, and a considerable segment of the electorate applauded.  Like money and marriage, legitimacy exists objectively because vast numbers of the public agree, subjectively, that it does exist.  If enough people change their minds, the authorizing magic is lost.  The process is slow and invisible to analysts, but, as I have noted, the tipping point comes suddenly – a matter of weeks for the Ben Ali and Mubarak regimes.  How far down this road existing liberal democracies have proceeded is a matter of guesswork.  We still have time to discover that the street revolts of 2011, in V’s words, did “change the world,” and not in a good way.

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Portrait of the nihilist as the sum of our negations

Olso bombing: July 2011

Olso bombing: July 2011

[The following is a selection from my new book, The Revolt of the Public and the Crisis of Authority in the New Millennium, Amazon link below.]

What is this uncanny beast, born of the Fifth Wave and now stalking into the uncertain future?  After all the talk of public and authority, of network and hierarchy, where – you ask – does he fit in?

Above all, he is seized and animated by a very particular feeling.  I will characterize this feeling more explicitly later:  here, let me begin by saying that it partakes of alienation.  The world of the nihilist does not belong to the nihilist.  It belongs to the forces of selfishness and to repulsive people.

He considers his elected government to be a thing apart, and beneath contempt.  That is the view from below.  George W. Bush told him that the invasion of Iraq was about weapons of mass destruction, but none were found there.  Barack Obama explained to him that the stimulus would cap unemployment, but millions more lost their jobs.  Jose Luis Zapatero refused even to mention the word “crisis” to him, while economic disaster ravaged Spain.  I called these episodes failures of government, but that is not how the nihilist sees them.  He thinks his rulers are liars and cheats, and he fills the web with angry rants on the subject.

He can do that because he’s extremely well connected, in the current sense of that word.  He’s Homo informaticus run amok.  At the high end of his communications skills, he might be a hacker in Anonymous, vandalizing Sony’s corporate database.  At the low end, he could be a young rioter coordinating a looting expedition on his messaging service.  The nihilist comes to life through his digital devices.  Without them he would sink to a condition identical to nothingness:  he would be silent.  Instead, he is fantastically well informed about those few odd topics that obsess him, and he produces a torrent of hard-core negations posted about the world around him.

Being connected, the nihilist is networked.  He can link to others just as destructive as him, and bring them together in a flash of real-time mayhem.  And there are always others:  the nihilist isn’t one but many.  He belongs with the public when he’s interested in an affair, as sometimes he is, but his predilections are sectarian to an absolute extreme.  He is morbidly, monstrously, against.  He imagines he would be happy, if the society in which he lives were wiped out tomorrow.

In politics, this impulse pushes him way beyond rejection or revolt.  The nihilist is a political black hole, allowing no light or mass to escape his violent embrace.  Yet he’s not a professional agitator, as he surely would have been in the last century.  He’s a private person, an amateur in politics moving among other amateurs.  Nihilism, in him, isn’t a full-time job – it’s a latent condition.  It erupts on a case by case basis.  The fuse might be lit by some news on his Twitter stream about the war in Afghanistan or the flood of immigrants into his country.  Or he might just reach a tipping point in that all-consuming feeling that partakes so much of alienation.  Then he becomes what he is:  an agent of annihilation.

In the assembly of protesters, his is the loud, irreconcilable voice.  In the peaceful demonstration, his is the hand heaving a Molotov cocktail through the shop window.  In confrontation with police, he is eager to shed blood.  In online forums, he is fertile with ideas to hack, expose, paralyze the institutions that run the world.  He is the bomber, the random shooter:  a terrorist without a cause.

I could go on.  He is possessed by a fuzzy but apocalyptic sense of doom, for example.  The world, he holds, is going to wreck and ruin.  To push it along is the best thing.  The government could fix everything and solve our problems if it tried – for all his alienation, the nihilist is convinced of that, and the most persuasive evidence he has of government corruption is that life keeps getting worse.

But enough:  I want to get to the heart of the matter.  I am arguing here that the nihilist haunts democratic politics like a specter portending disaster, but I don’t believe the most significant factor pertains to what he is, or what he thinks, or even what he has done.  The disquieting truth about his emergence is where he comes from.  The threat to the future, if there is such, originates in his past.

The nihilist benefits prodigiously from the system he would like to smash.  He’s not marginalized – not a street person, not a forsaken soul, not a persecuted minority.  He stands in a very different relation to the established order than did, say, an industrial worker in Victorian England or a Catholic in Communist Poland.  He’s not a sufferer in any sense, whether relative to historical standards or to the world today.  On meeting him, you would not recognize him as someone alien to you.  Talking to him, I would not necessarily think that he’s a different type of person from me.  In the way such things get reckoned today – statistically, in the gross – he is you and me.

The mortal riddle posed by the nihilist is that he’s a child of privilege.  He’s healthy, fit, long-lived, university-educated, articulate, fashionably attired, widely traveled, well-informed.  He lives in his own place or at worst in his parents’ home, never in a cave.  He probably has a good job and he certainly has money in his pocket.  In sum, he’s the pampered poster boy of a system that labors desperately to make him happy, yet his feelings about his life, his country, democracy – the system – seethe with a virulent unhappiness.

Feelings of this sort compelled Daphni Leef to pitch her tent on Rothschild Boulevard to demand the destruction of “swinish capitalism.”  She came from an affluent family.  She was a film school graduate and held a job as a video editor.  Compared to most people anywhere or anytime, hers was a privileged life.  Yet she seethed with a sense of injustice because he couldn’t afford her old apartment.  She felt the system was fundamentally rapacious, and she would bring it down to shorten her commute.  “We all deserve more,” was her one commandment.  In the clouded mind of the nihilist, that “more” stretched infinitely toward utopia.

Similar feelings drove the “neither-nor” indignados to turn their backs on representative democracy.  Historically, Spain had recently emerged from poverty and military dictatorship, and the current generation, even after the crash of 2008, was the wealthiest, best educated, and socially and politically freest the country had known.  Yet those who raised the banner of “neither-nor” seethed with an irreconcilable feeling of grievance:  like Leef, they felt they deserved infinitely more, and were willing to tear down a system that had failed to give it to them.

“Our parents are grateful because they’re voting,” said Marta Solanas, 27, referring to older Spaniards’ decades spent under the Franco dictatorship.  “We’re the first generation to say that voting is worthless.”

So here we have a privileged class in revolt against itself.  Here we have the beneficiaries of democracy loathing democracy and clamoring for its demise, even without an alternative in sight.  Like the character in the cartoon, the nihilist hates the knotty branch on which he sits, and conceives the idea that it should be sawed off.  Does he know he will plunge to earth and break his neck?  Maybe he does know:  nihilism is a suicide pact.  Or, possibly, does he think he will levitate on the air, defying the laws of gravity?  Maybe he does think this way:  nihilism is a call for the obliteration of history, and, at its most obdurate, a declaration of war on cause and effect.

I ask you to ponder the words of the young indignada I just cited.  She said her parents were grateful for electoral democracy.  Her generation was the first to make a virtue of ingratitude.  José Ortega y Gasset, a fellow Spaniard, once discerned a “radical ingratitude” in the type of modern person he called “mass man” and portrayed as the spoiled child of history.  Mass man is heir to a long and brilliant past.  The good things in life in the world he was born into – security, freedom, wealth, vacations to warm places – are in fact the outcome of a specific historical process, but mass man doesn’t see it that way.  Newly risen to education and prosperity, he imagines himself liberated from the past, and has grown hostile to it as to any limiting factor.  The good things in life have always been there.  They seem detached from human effort, including his own, so he takes them as given, part of the natural order, like the air he breathes.  Gratitude would be nonsensical.  Mass man accepts the gifts of the system as his due, but will tear up that system root and branch, present and past, if the least of his desires is left unfulfilled.

The nihilist is by no means identical to Ortega’s mass man, but both share certain family traits.  More accurately than alienation, a radical ingratitude describes the feeling that makes the nihilist tick.  His political and economic expectations are commensurate with his personal fantasies and desires, and the latter are boundless.  He expects perfection.  He insists on utopia.  He has, in Ortega’s words, “no experience of his own limits,” at least not as something he should accept in good grace.  Every encounter with the human condition, every social imperfection and government failure, triggers the urge to demolish.  Fortified by the conviction that he deserves more, he feels unconquerably righteous in his ingratitude – a feeling sometimes validated by late modernist governments bent on the promotion of universal happiness.

All this matters only diagnostically:  as a symptom of a sickness of the system.  The way I have characterized him, the nihilist looks to be a blurry figure, a part-timer lacking a program or an organization.  He might be networked but he is also nameless.  The riddle he poses is whether, in any sense, under any combination of events, he could gain enough momentum to damage or wreck the democratic process.

The answer shouldn’t be difficult to arrive at.  Follow the thread of this book to one possible conclusion, and you will be there.

The nihilist, it seems to me, isn’t necessarily an alienated individual, a clever “V” figure behind a Guy Fawkes mask, bent on blowing up the status quo.  A lone-wolf attacker like Anders Breivik, who killed 77 random persons in Norway because he hated immigrants, is only a glimpse, a warning, of more horrific possibilities.  From the evidence of the preceding chapters, it should be clear that the bundle of destructive impulses I have called the nihilist represents a latent tendency in the public in revolt.  Potentially, he is a multitude.  Under certain conditions, he could be you.

Every public in the story I have told mobilized from a privileged position.  That was true materially, politically, morally.  None were paupers.  None were pariahs.  The public was constituted in this condition:  it did nothing to achieve it other than appear on the scene.  The protesters in Tahrir Square were the sons and daughters of the well-off Egyptian middle class.  They were born to privilege.  The indignados, offspring of the first generation in Spain to rise out poverty and tyranny, cherished the ambitious expectations of a privileged class.  Tea Partiers, Occupiers, protesters in Turkey, Iran, Venezuela, Ukraine – all wielded negation as a birthright.  Command of the information sphere, distinguishing feature of our moment, was bestowed on the public by companies like Google, Facebook, and Twitter.

Born to privilege, the public must maintain some relationship to the institutions and individuals that raised it out of necessity and bondage.  If the past is acknowledged, that relationship must be one of indebtedness.  The Romans littered their homes with carved images of illustrious ancestors.  But when, as is the case today, the public rejects history and longs to start again from zero, its relationship to the institutions that sustain it will be one of radical ingratitude.  Once privilege is felt to be natural, a matter of birth rather than previous effort, the phantom that is the nihilist becomes flesh in the rebellious public – and any failure, any fall from perfection, will ignite a firestorm of discontent.

I called this a latent condition.  Latency has been sometimes actualized – this book can be read as a series of variations on that theme.  From above, governments have failed habitually, and are doomed to fail while they continue to promise the impossible.  The public, from below, has seized on each failure to batter the ruling institutions, on occasion with a nihilistic contempt for the consequences.  In between, attempting to mediate the conflict, stand the clumsy mechanisms of representative democracy.  The answer to the riddle of the nihilist, I said, wasn’t particularly difficult to arrive at.  Those who worry about the future of democracy – and I count myself in that number – have good reason to do so.

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