Author Archive

The secret of the flower

[Die Mandelbäume in Blüte (1912)]
from Uncollected Poems ed. by Edward Snow (New York: North Point Press, 1997)
by Rainer Maria Rilke

Die Mandelbäume in Blüte: alles, was wir hier leisten können,
ist, sich ohne Rest zu erkennen in der irdischen Erscheinung.

Unendlich staun ich euch an, ihr Seligen, euer Benehmen,
wie ihr die schwindliche Zier traget in ewigem Sinn.
Ach wers verstünde zu blühn: dem wär das Herz über alle
schwachen Gefahren hinaus und in der großen getrost.

[Inflorescent Almond Trees]
[translated by DK Fennell]

The Almond Trees in bloom: the only thing we can accomplish
here is to recognize ourselves, without any residue, in worldly phenomena.

I never cease, oh happy ones, to marvel at your bearing,
With that endless wisdom you support your dwindling splendor.
If one could know how to flower, the heart would transcend all
Trifling perils and take comfort against the greatest.

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“… we do not admire what we cannot understand”

Poetry
from Observations (New York: The Dial Press, 1924)
by Marianne Moore

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician—
nor is it valid
to discriminate against “business documents and

school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
“literalists of
the imagination”—above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,” shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.

Gentle advice to a familiar stranger said only to oneself

To a Sad Daughter
from Secular Love (Toronto: The Coach House Press, 1984)
by Michael Ondaatje

All night long the hockey pictures
gaze down at you
sleeping in your tracksuit.
Belligerent goalies are your ideal.
Threats of being traded
cuts and wounds
—all this pleases you.
O my god! you say at breakfast
reading the sports page over the Alpen
as another player breaks his ankle
or assaults the coach.

When I thought of daughters
I wasn’t expecting this
but I like this more.
I like all your faults
even your purple moods
when you retreat from everyone
to sit in bed under a quilt.
And when I say ‘like’
I mean of course ‘love’
but that embarrasses you.
You who feel superior to black and white movies
(coaxed for hours to see Casablanca)
though you were moved
by Creature from the Black Lagoon.

One day I’ll come swimming
beside your ship or someone will
and if you hear the siren
listen to it. For if you close your ears
only nothing happens. You will never change.

I don’t care if you risk
your life to angry goalies
creatures with webbed feet.
You can enter their caves and castles
their glass laboratories. Just
don’t be fooled by anyone but yourself.

This is the first lecture I’ve given you.
You’re ‘sweet sixteen’ you said.
I’d rather be your closest friend
than your father. I’m not good at advice
you know that, but ride
the ceremonies
until they grow dark.

Sometimes you are so busy
discovering your friends
I ache with loss
—but that is greed.
And sometimes I’ve gone
into my purple world
and lost you.

One afternoon I stepped
into your room. You were sitting
at the desk where I now write this.
Forsythia outside the window
and sun spilled over you
like a thick yellow miracle
as if another planet
was coaxing you out of the house
—all those possible worlds!—
and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics.

I cannot look at forsythia now
without loss, or joy for you.
You step delicately
into the wild world
and your real prize will be
the frantic search.
Want everything. If you break
break going out not in.
How you live your life I don’t care
but I’ll sell my arms for you,
hold your secrets forever.

If I speak of death
which you fear now, greatly,
it is without answers.
except that each
one we know is
in our blood.
Don’t recall graves.
Memory is permanent.
Remember the afternoon’s
yellow suburban annunciation.
Your goalie
in his frightening mask
dreams perhaps
of gentleness.

Ondaatje is the Sri Lanka-born Canadian novelist-poet best known for the Booker Prize winning novel The English Patient (1992).

Three Songs from Senegal

Stanzas from D’Autres Chants …

in Éthiopiques, poèmes
(Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1956)

by
Léopold Sédar Senghor

(pour khalam)

Je ne sais en quels temps  c’était, je confonds toujours l’enfance et l’Eden
Comme je mêle la Mort et la Vie—un pont de douceur les relie.

Or je revenais de Fa’oye, m’étant abreuvé à la tombe solennelle
Comme les lamantins s’abreuvent à la fontaine de Simal.
Or je revenais de Fa’oye, et l’horreur était au zénith
Et c’était l’huere où l’on voit les Esprits, quand le lumière est transparente
Et il fallait s’écarter des sentiers, pour éviter leur main fraternelle et mortelle.
L’âme d’un village battait à l’horizon. Etait-ce des vivants ou des Morts?

«Puisse mon poème de paix ètre l’eau calme sur tes pieds et ton visage
«Et que l’ombre de notre cour soit fraîche à ton cœur», me dit-elle.
Ses mains polies me revètirent d’un pagne de soie et d’estime
Son discours me charma de tout mets délectable—douceur de lait de la mi-nuit.
Et son sourire était plus mélodieux que le khalam de son dyâli.
L’étoile du matin vint s’asseoir parmi nous, et nous pleurâmes délicieusement.
—Ma sœur exquise, garde done ces grains d’or, qu’ils chantent l’éclat sombre de ta gorge.
Ils étaient pour ma fiancée belle, et je n’avais pas de fiancée.
—Mon frère élu, dis-moi ton nom. Il doit résonner haut comme un sorong
Rutiler comme le sabre au soleil. Oh! chante seulement ton nom.
Mon cœur est un coffret de bois précieux, ma tète un vieux parchemin de Djenné.
Chante seulement ton lignage, que ma mémoire te réponde.

Je ne sais en quels temps c’était, je confonds toujours présent et passé
Comme je mêle la Mort et la Vie—un pont de douceur les relie.

(pour khalam)

Si je pouvais haler son cœur, tel pêcheur sur la plage plane
Si je pouvais haler son cœur par le cordon ombilical.

Long mais long ce regret à la Porte du Sud—ne donnez pas à ma fierté.
Quand exulter aux cris métalliques de merles, aux pieds grondants dans les nuages?

Je suis le marigot au long de la saison. Pas une palombe n’y boit l’amour.
C’est la sapotille tépide que ronge le ver de l’absence.

Simplement saluer mon nom sur l’aile blanche de la mouette
Et je calme d’une main d’ambre le grand piaffant de ma poitrine.

(pour flûtes et balafong)

Absente absent, ô doublement absente sur la sécheresse glacée
Sur l’éphémère glacis du papier, sur l’or blanc des sables où seul pousse l’élyme.
Absents absents et tes yeux sagittaires traversant les horizons de mica
Les verts horizons de mirages, et tes yeux migrateurs de tes aïeux lointains.
Déjà le pan de laine sur l’épaule aiguë, comme la lance qui défie la fauve
Déjà le cimier bleu sur quoi se brisent les javelines de mon amour,

Écoute ton sang qui bat son tam-tam dans test tempes rythmiques lancinantes
Oh! écoute—et tu es très loin par-dalà les dunes vineuses
Ecoute les jeux qui frémissent, quand bondit rouge ta panthère
Mais écoute les mains sonores, comme les vagues sur la plage.
Ne te retient plus l’aimant de mes yeux plus fort que le chant des Sirènes?
Ah! plus le chant de l’Élancé? dis comme un feu de brousse la voix de l’Amant?

Absent absent, ó doublement absent ton profil qui ombre les Pyramides.

Translated as “Other Songs”

in Léopold Sédar Senghor, The Complete Poetry
(Charlottesville, Va: University Press of Virginia, 1991)

by Melvin Dixon

(for khalam)

I do not know what age it was, I always confuse childhood and Eden
Just as I mingle Death and Life—a tender bridge joins them.

Once I was returning from Fa’oye, having drunk deeply at the solemn
Tomb like sea cows drink at the Simal springs.
I was returning from Fa’oye, and the horror was at its peak,
It was the hour when Spirits could be seen, when the light was clear
And one had to shun the footpaths to avoid being touched
By brotherly and deathly hands. The village’s soul was beating
At the horizon. Were they the living or the Dead?

She said to me, “May my poem of peace be a calm water on your feet
And face and may the shade of our courtyard cool your heart.”
Her kind hands dressed me in a pagne of silk and esteem.
Her speech charmed me with every delectable meal—
Sweet milk of midnight, and her smile was more musical
Than her dyâli’s khalam. The morning star came
And sat with us, and we wept with pleasure.

—My beautiful sister, hold onto these golden seeds,
Let them praise the dark brightness of your throat.
They were intended for my lovely fiancée, but I have no fiancée.
—My chosen brother, tell me your name. It should resound
Loud like the sorong, shine like a sword in the sun.
Oh, just sing you name. My heart is a coffer of precious wood.
My mind an ancient parchment from Djenne.
Just sing your lineage so my memory may answer.

I do not know what age it was, I always confuse present and past
As I mingle Death and Life—a tender bridge joins them.

(for khalam)

If I could pull in her heart like a fisherman on a flat beach,
If I could pull in her heart by the umbilical cord.

Long, so long this sorrow at the South Gate—
Do not give in to my pride. When can I rejoice in the metallic cries
Of thrushes, in the grumbling feet up in the clouds?
I am the seasonal swamp. Not even a ringdove comes to drink love there.
The worm of absence nibbles the tepid sapodilla.

Just by greeting my name on the white wings of the gull,
I can soothe with an amber hand the great pounding in my chest.

(for flute and balaphon)

Gone, gone, O twice missing from this freezing dryness,
From the paper’s glaze, from the golden whiteness of the sands
Where only wild rye grows.
Gone, gone, and your Sagittarian eyes crossing the mica horizons,
The green horizons of mirages, and your eyes
Wander back to your ancient forefathers.
Already the wood flap on your pointed shoulder,
Like the spear defying the beast, already the blue shield
That breaks my love’s javelins.

Listen to your blood beating its drum in your throbbing temples
Oh! listen—and you are far way, beyond the vintage dunes
Listen to the trembling games when your blood pounces like a panther.
Oh, listen to the sound of hands clapping like waves upon the shore.
Do you still attract the magnet of my eyes stronger
Than the singing Sirens? Ah! stronger than the Wrestler’s song?
Still speak the Lover’s voice like a brushfire?

Gone, gone, O twice missing is your profile that eclipses
The Pyramids.

Notes

balaphon: percussion instrument similar to xylophone.

Djenne: Large town in Mali, an early entrepôt of Arab trade in West Africa.

dyâli: troubadour.

khalam: four stringed guitar-like instrument, used to accompany elegies.

pagne: loin cloth.

sapodilla: fruit of a slow-growing, long-lived evergreen by the same name.

Sagittarian: Characteristic of secretary bird (Sagittarius serpentarius).

Simal: Bombax tree; a large tree with thick trunk with deciduous leaves shed during the dry season.

sorong: multiple stringed instrument strung along a wooden arm suspended from a hollowed gourd.

Why are you like this?

Why Are You Like This?

from Bratsk Station and Other New Poems tr. Tina Tupikina-Glaessner, Geoffrey Dutton and Igor Mezhakoff-Korakin (NY: Doubleday Anchor, 1967)

by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

When the radio operator of the Morianna, head bent,
was searching for a radio beacon,
by chance he picked up on the receiver a woman’s voice:
“Why are you like this, why are you like this?”

From Amderma she shouted
across the masts and ice and barking dogs,
and like a storm it grew louder all around:
“Why are you like this, why are you like this?”

Pressing inhumanly against each other,
crunching on all sides against each other,
each ice floe wheezed to the other:
“Why are you like this, why are you like this?”

With all its being the white whale
tangled in the nets cried to the hunter
through a fountain of blood:
“Why are you like this, why are you like this?”

And he, poor fellow,
swept away by a curling wave,
whispered as he perished without trace:
“Why are you like this, why are you like this?”

Like a swine I betray you
and nothing will stop me,
while all the time your eyes implore me:
“Why are you like this, why are you like this?”

You look at me, estranged and full of hate,
already almost like an enemy,
and hopelessly I implore you:
“Why are you like this, why are you like this?”

And heart to heart, nation to nation,
every year more distrustfully
they shout through storms and darkness:
“Why are you like this, why are you like this?”

Two tangos

A classic one: when we were whole:

Astor Piazzolla’s Vuelvo al Sur:

 

A tango for our time:

Alfred Schnittke’s Tango in a Madhouse:

 

 

 

Oh, we’re sunk enough here, God knows!

In 1995 Umberto Eco published in The New York Reivew of Books a piece (later that year reprinted in Utne Reader) entitled “Eternal Fascism: Fourteen Ways of Looking at a Blackshirt.” The purpose was to list warning signs of the emergence of anti-democratic, authoritarian reactionaries.

Looking back over two decades, 1995 may seem like a relatively benign epoch, hardly worth raising alarms about democracy. But in fact the tributaries that would form the great flood we find ourselves in  could already be spotted by the observant: The “Christian” right had solidified , submerging the doctrinal disputes of numerous sectarians under the umbrella of a right-wing political ideology, perfecting fund raising operations, operating media companies and “universities.” The Christian right increased its cultural dominance, not by preaching the saving grace of Jesus, but by leading a war on life-styles, sexual orientations, “liberals” and lately Islam. The Republican Party, long proud of its “good governance” tradition (in opposition to boss-headed Democratic machines in urban centers) under the patrician George H.W. Bush, decided to take off its white gloves (without abandoning its plutocratic sponsors) and take up the tactics of scorched-earth sliming of opponents innovated Lee Atwater.  And by 1995 the “Gingrich Revolution” was in full swing. Newt himself broke numerous conventions  in Congress and led the party to the impeachment articles. While the right was perfecting its subversion of parliamentary process, it ignored good governance and allowed the likes of  Jack Abramoff to turn the Republican congress into a vast corrupt payola game for lobbyists. And then, of course, Roger Ailes converted a network into a right-wing propaganda-entertainment.

Because one way to verify a theory in any of the historical sciences (paleontology, history, political science, etc.) is to make a prediction of what later evidence will show and wait to see if it is verified or falsified. (This is exactly what Darwin did.) So it is instructive to revisit Eco’s signs to see how two decades have treated them. Below I reprint the article with my own annotations after each sign. (My readers who follow the news obsessively will, I hope, forgive me for stating the obvious. I have put my comments to the right, so you can ignore them if you think them too obvious.)

Eternal Fascism:
Fourteen Ways of Looking at a Blackshirt
By Umberto Eco

In spite of some fuzziness regarding the difference between various historical forms of fascism, I think it is possible to outline a list of features that are typical of what I would like to call Ur-Fascism, or Eternal Fascism. These features cannot be organized into a system; many of them contradict each other, and are also typical of other kinds of despotism or fanaticism. But it is enough that one of them be present to allow fascism to coagulate around it.

*   *   *

1. The first feature of Ur-Fascism is the cult of tradition. Traditionalism is of course much older than fascism. Not only was it typical of counterrevolutionary Catholic thought after the French revolution, but is was born in the late Hellenistic era, as a reaction to classical Greek rationalism. In the Mediterranean basin, people of different religions (most of the faiths indulgently accepted by the Roman pantheon) started dreaming of a revelation received at the dawn of human history. This revelation, according to the traditionalist mystique, had remained for a long time concealed under the veil of forgotten languages — in Egyptian hieroglyphs, in the Celtic runes, in the scrolls of the little-known religions of Asia.

This new culture had to be syncretistic. Syncretism is not only, as the dictionary says, “the combination of different forms of belief or practice;” such a combination must tolerate contradictions. Each of the original messages contains a sliver of wisdom, and although they seem to say different or incompatible things, they all are nevertheless alluding, allegorically, to the same primeval truth.

As a consequence, there can be no advancement of learning. Truth already has been spelled out once and for all, and we can only keep interpreting its obscure message.

If you browse in the shelves that, in American bookstores, are labeled New Age, you can find there even Saint Augustine, who, as far as I know, was not a fascist. But combining Saint Augustine and Stonehenge — that is a symptom of Ur-Fascism.

[Make America Great Again
America First
Session’s recent invocation of the Immigration Act of 1924]

2. Traditionalism implies the rejection of modernismBoth Fascists and Nazis worshipped technology, while traditionalist thinkers usually reject it as a negation of traditional spiritual values. However, even though Nazism was proud of its industrial achievements, its praise of modernism was only the surface of an ideology based upon blood and earth (Blut und Boden). The rejection of the modern world was disguised as a rebuttal of the capitalistic way of life. The Enlightenment, the Age of Reason, is seen as the beginning of modern depravity. In this sense Ur-Fascism can be defined as irrationalism.

[Trump’s insincere bashing of Goldman Sachs and
hedge funds during the campaign.
Republican voters’ distrust of universities.
Trump’s loathing of “globalism.”]

3. Irrationalism also depends on the cult of action for action’s sakeAction being beautiful in itself, it must be taken before, or without, reflection. Thinking is a form of emasculation. Therefore culture is suspect insofar as it is identified with critical attitudes. Distrust of the intellectual world has always been a symptom of Ur-Fascism, from Hermann Goering’s fondness for a phrase from a Hanns Johst play (“When I hear the word ‘culture’ I reach for my gun”) to the frequent use of such expressions as “degenerate intellectuals,” “eggheads,” “effete snobs,” and “universities are nests of reds.” The official Fascist intellectuals were mainly engaged in attacking modern culture and the liberal intelligentsia for having betrayed traditional values.

[Trump’s entire life has been a series of impulsive actions.
Trump decides without consultation now:

E.g., Paris accords, DACA, tariffs, talking with North Korea.
“Fake news” and all the other ad hominems in his repertory.]

4. The critical spirit makes distinctions, and to distinguish is a sign of modernism. In modern culture the scientific community praises disagreement as a way to improve knowledge. For Ur-Fascism, disagreement is treason.

[Personal loyalty is the only value Trump cherishes.
The examples are legion from James Comey to Steve Bannon.]

5. Besides, disagreement is a sign of diversity. Ur-Fascism grows up and seeks consensus by exploiting and exacerbating the natural fear of difference. The first appeal of a fascist or prematurely fascist movement is an appeal against the intruders. Thus Ur-Fascism is racist by definition.

[The first acton by the administration was the Moslem ban,
the organizing principle of his campaign—the Great Other.]

6. Ur-Fascism derives from individual or social frustration. That is why one of the most typical features of the historical fascism was the appeal to a frustrated middle class, a class suffering from an economic crisis or feelings of political humiliation, and frightened by the pressure of lower social groups. In our time, when the old “proletarians” are becoming petty bourgeois (and the lumpen are largely excluded from the political scene), the fascism of tomorrow will find its audience in this new majority.

[Even mainstream Democrats now recognize
the discontent of the white working class as the 
core of Trumpism.]

7. To people who feel deprived of a clear social identity, Ur-Fascism says that their only privilege is the most common one, to be born in the same country. This is the origin of nationalism. Besides, the only ones who can provide an identity to the nation are its enemies. Thus at the root of the Ur-Fascist psychology there is the obsession with a plot, possibly an international one. The followers must feel besieged. The easiest way to solve the plot is the appeal to xenophobia. But the plot must also come from the inside: Jews are usually the best target because they have the advantage of being at the same time inside and outside. In the United States, a prominent instance of the plot obsession is to be found in Pat Robertson’s The New World Order, but, as we have recently seen, there are many others.

[America First.]

8. The followers must feel humiliated by the ostentatious wealth and force of their enemiesWhen I was a boy I was taught to think of Englishmen as the five-meal people. They ate more frequently than the poor but sober Italians. Jews are rich and help each other through a secret web of mutual assistance. However, the followers of Ur-Fascism must also be convinced that they can overwhelm the enemies. Thus, by a continuous shifting of rhetorical focus, the enemies are at the same time too strong and too weak. Fascist governments are condemned to lose wars because they are constitutionally incapable of objectively evaluating the force of the enemy.

[The fury directed at  “Liberal Elites” can be
traced back 
to Lee Atwater.]

9. For Ur-Fascism there is no struggle for life but, rather, life is lived for struggle. Thus pacifism is trafficking with the enemy. It is bad because life is permanent warfare. This, however, brings about an Armageddon complex. Since enemies have to be defeated, there must be a final battle, after which the movement will have control of the world. But such “final solutions” implies a further era of peace, a Golden Age, which contradicts the principle of permanent war. No fascist leader has ever succeeded in solving this predicament.

[Mexican rapists and killers, subversive refugees, “China,”
“terrorists” all must be fought agazinst.]

10. Elitism is a typical aspect of any reactionary ideology, insofar as it is fundamentally aristocratic, and aristocratic and militaristic elitism cruelly implies contempt for the weakUr-Fascism can only advocate a popular elitism. Every citizen belongs to the best people in the world, the members or the party are the best among the citizens, every citizen can (or ought to) become a member of the party. But there cannot be patricians without plebeians. In fact, the Leader, knowing that his power was not delegated to him democratically but was conquered by force, also knows that his force is based upon the weakness of the masses; they are so weak as to need and deserve a ruler.

[This is why, after campaigning against them, Trump’s administration
is filled with Goldman Sachs affliates.]

11. In such a perspective everybody is educated to become a heroIn every mythology the hero is an exceptional being, but in Ur-Fascist ideology heroism is the norm. This cult of heroism is strictly linked with the cult of death. It is not by chance that a motto of the Spanish Falangists was Viva la Muerte (“Long Live Death!”). In nonfascist societies, the lay public is told that death is unpleasant but must be faced with dignity; believers are told that it is the painful way to reach a supernatural happiness. By contrast, the Ur-Fascist hero craves heroic death, advertised as the best reward for a heroic life. The Ur-Fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death.

[Trump’s unabashed fawning over military parades.
His own self-portrait as a hero: I would have run in without a weapon!]

12. Since both permanent war and heroism are difficult games to play, the Ur-Fascist transfers his will to power to sexual matters. This is the origin of machismo (which implies both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality). Since even sex is a difficult game to play, the Ur-Fascist hero tends to play with weapons — doing so becomes an ersatz phallic exercise.

[Trump’s sexual behavior needs not comment.]

13. Ur-Fascism is based upon a selective populism, a qualitative populism, one might say. In a democracy, the citizens have individual rights, but the citizens in their entirety have a political impact only from a quantitative point of view — one follows the decisions of the majority. For Ur-Fascism, however, individuals as individuals have no rights, and the People is conceived as a quality, a monolithic entity expressing the Common Will. Since no large quantity of human beings can have a common will, the Leader pretends to be their interpreter. Having lost their power of delegation, citizens do not act; they are only called on to play the role of the People. Thus the People is only a theatrical fiction. There is in our future a TV or Internet populism, in which the emotional response of a selected group of citizens can be presented and accepted as the Voice of the People.

Because of its qualitative populism, Ur-Fascism must be against “rotten” parliamentary governments. Wherever a politician casts doubt on the legitimacy of a parliament because it no longer represents the Voice of the People, we can smell Ur-Fascism.

14. Ur-Fascism speaks NewspeakNewspeak was invented by Orwell, in Nineteen Eighty-Four, as the official language of what he called Ingsoc, English Socialism. But elements of Ur-Fascism are common to different forms of dictatorship. All the Nazi or Fascist schoolbooks made use of an impoverished vocabulary, and an elementary syntax, in order to limit the instruments for complex and critical reasoning. But we must be ready to identify other kinds of Newspeak, even if they take the apparently innocent form of a popular talk show.

[There has been no president in modern times with as
impoverished a vocabulary—and verbal ability in
general— as Trump. But he also invents phrases
that short-circuit thought: “Crooked Hillary,” “Lyin’ Ted,”
“Little Marco,” “Fake News,” etc.]

*   *   *

Ur-Fascism is still around us, sometimes in plainclothes. It would be so much easier for us if there appeared on the world scene somebody saying, “I want to reopen Auschwitz, I want the Blackshirts to parade again in the Italian squares.” Life is not that simple. Ur-Fascism can come back under the most innocent of disguises. Our duty is to uncover it and to point our finger at any of its new instances — every day, in every part of the world. Franklin Roosevelt’s words of November 4, 1938, are worth recalling: “If American democracy ceases to move forward as a living force, seeking day and night by peaceful means to better the lot of our citizens, fascism will grow in strength in our land.” Freedom and liberation are an unending task.

—Umberto Eco

Analogies are just that—analogies, not proof. And history is not driven by simple rules. Trump, some might say, is too buffoonish to wreck American democracy. But all fascists started out as buffoons; the ideology can only be promoted by buffoons.

I believe we are in worse danger than we were a year ago. A year’s experience has shown us that the Republican Party is no bulwark against authoritarianism. In many ways Trump is the logical outcome of their political strategies. And even the temperance that mainstream Republicans might give the administration is becoming almost impossible, as Trump has shed the White House of nearly all “sane” Republicans. The rumors that he is considering replacing H.R. McMaster with John R. Bolton is entirely consistent with the picture of a president gripped by a dangerous, reactionary ideology.  And those who claimed that John Kelly would “tame” Trump now see him as he is: a right wing ideologue who, if anything, is a cheerleader for the slash-and-burn president.

We cling to a faint hope: that Democrats regain at least one house in November. Regaining the Senate would be especially important, because otherwise the Supreme Court will be lost (and probably will render opinions like Citizens United, which will entrench reactionaries in office) for a generation or more. But the prospects for that house are bleak: the vulnerable Democrats (which outnumber the Republicans) seem to believe that by acting “Republican-lite” will save their seats. They should consider Mary Landrieu’s fate. Even if, however, there is a Democratic sweep in November, the fecklessness of the party is no guaranty that they will act as a barrier. But we must try; writing off the Democratic candidate (flawed and compromised as she was) led the the current predicament. When we are hanging by the skin of our teeth, every piece of floating driftwood can be a life raft.

Oh, we’re sunk enough here, God knows!
But not quite so sunk that moments,
Sure though seldom, are denied us,
When the spirit’s true endowments
Stand out plainly from its false ones,
And apprise it if pursuing
Or the way way or the wrong way,
To its triumph or undoing.
Robert Browning
from “Cristina”

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