The Camelot delusion: John F Kennedy’s legacy 50 years on

Tears are cheap and so, to a certain extent, are words. Deeds are what counts and on that score Kennedy’s presidency was a mix of good and bad, says David Runciman.

To Move the World: JFK’s Quest for Peace
Jeffrey Sachs
Bodley Head, 272pp, £14.99

JFK’s Last Hundred Days: an Intimate Portrait of a Great President
Thurston Clarke
Allen Lane, 448pp, £20

Luck plays a big part in presidents’ reputations – and not just in terms of what happens while they are in office (wars give presidents a boost; financial crises don’t). There is also the luck of who writes their biographies once they have gone. In this respect, the luckiest president of the past century has been Lyndon Johnson, the subject of a monumental, multivolume labour of love by the pre-eminent political biographer Robert Caro that has redeemed the ex-president’s reputation. Caro’s LBJ emerges as the ultimate fixer, a politician who knew better than anyone how to get his way in the vipers’ nest of Washington. Because of Caro, it’s Johnson’s wiles that people look to when they ask how Barack Obama could do better in his dealings with Congress.

As LBJ’s stock has risen, that of his predecessor has fallen. John F Kennedy has become the man who merely talked about the transformative legislative programme that Johnson turned into reality. Seen in LBJ’s large shadow, Kennedy is a glamorous but slight figure, the crowd-pleasing playboy president. He was brave, attractive and ambitious, yet ultimately ineffectual.

As we approach the 50th anniversary of Kennedy’s assassination, his admirers are trying to reverse this picture. The anti-Caro story has two basic elements. First, it turns on the assassination. Yes, LBJ did what JFK didn’t but that’s only because Kennedy wasn’t around to finish the job. Kennedy was just growing into his presidency when it was cruelly cut short. Second, the story focuses on foreign policy, which was Kennedy’s strength and Johnson’s weakness. LBJ’s achievements were domestic. The final, as yet unpublished volume of Caro’s biography will have to tell the tragic coda that is the terrible mess Johnson made of Vietnam. Kennedy’s presidency ended at its most hopeful phase, just as he was finding ways to move beyond the stale and terrifying logic of cold war confrontation that had taken the world to the brink of catastrophe in the Cuban missile crisis. In 1963, it looked as though Kennedy had stumbled on the path to a more peaceful future. Johnson was the man who stumbled off it.

Kennedy’s quest for safer relations with the Russians during the last year of his life is the subject of Jeffrey Sachs’s slim book, which celebrates the speeches Kennedy gave in the summer of 1963 about war, peace and the means of moving from one to the other. The centrepiece of this story is the Limited Test Ban Treaty (LTBT), a nuclear arms control agreement that Kennedy signed into law in October 1963. It was the proudest achievement of his presidency up to that point.

Sachs believes that this was a sure indicator of things to come, the first step towards stable and secure coexistence between the superpowers. Sachs is an economist, not a historian. His book is not biography but hagiography. He treats Kennedy as a moral visionary, the only man who possessed the gifts of oratory and character necessary to change the course of history at this perilous moment. It is from Kennedy’s example that Sachs thinks we must learn if we are to save ourselves.

His case rests on two assumptions. The first is that treaties matter. The LTBT was only what it said it was: limited. It prohibited further nuclear testing in space or underwater but permitted it underground. It had been watered down from something more comprehensive, first by Nikita Khrushchev’s qualms about international oversight and then by the misgivings of the US joint chiefs about the Russians. Charles de Gaulle refused to sign it. (The French have always been pathetically proud of their nuclear arsenal.)

However, Sachs is probably right when he argues it was a landmark moment. It signalled that the US and the Soviets could agree on something substantial. At the same time, it showed that a US president could get such an agreement past the Senate, which had a habit of shooting down plans for peace (Kennedy was haunted by Woodrow Wilson’s failure to get the Senate to ratify the League of Nations in 1919, with all that followed). Kennedy secured ratification of the LTBT by the impressive margin of 80 votes to 19. It opened the door to the subsequent ratification of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT), which was approved by the Senate in 1969 and has been vital in limiting the spread of nuclear weapons around the globe.

Sachs’s other contention is that speeches actually matter. This is much more dubious. He believes that Kennedy’s oratory in 1963 – above all, the “peace speech” he delivered at American University in Washington, DC on 10 June that year – was crucial in persuading Russia’s leaders, US politicians and people all over the world that the time was right for a sea change in international affairs. Sachs devotes much of his book to analysing Kennedy’s rhetoric line by line, talking up its logic, its beauty and its power to move. Yet he provides no evidence that it made the vital difference, beyond how it stirred him as a boy and stirs him still. Sachs is not Khrushchev (boy, is he not Khrushchev). His approach is extraordinarily literal-minded: he assumes that politicians say what they mean and then do what they say. When Kennedy says it’s time for peace and then the Soviets sign a peace treaty, Sachs concludes that it must be because they have been persuaded by whatKennedy has said. When Pravda agrees to publish a transcript of Kennedy’s speech, it must be because the Kremlin wants the Russian people to be similarly persuaded. Sachs does not consider that political speechmaking might simply be the ornamental side of political negotiation. It’s the icing on the cake. Sachs mistakes it for the cake.

What his book lacks is any sense of political context. He recognises that it was the near calamity of the Cuban missile crisis that persuaded both sides to look for alternatives. Yet he takes for granted that this took the form of turning away from war to peace. The terror for both sides had been not so much the risk of Armageddon as the temporary loss of control. For a short while, the two superpowers were groping in the dark without anything to cling on to. The LTBT and above all the NPT were ways of reasserting control and putting them back in charge. The treaties limited the ability of others to get nuclear weapons but they didn’t stop the superpowers from ramping up their own arsenals or pursuing proxy wars around the globe.

Sachs wants us to learn from the president’s vision for peace – but if the Cuban missile crisis was, for Kennedy, the precondition for achieving it, how can we follow his lead without a near-death experience of our own? Sachs is surely right that the world needs another prod in the direction of justice. But early-1960s oratory without the early-1960s context isn’t going to do it.

Sachs ignores how Kennedy’s decision to focus on foreign affairs in 1963 was not without cost. It came at the expense of doing other, equally urgent things. The great merit of Thurston Clarke’s account of the last 100 days in office is that it encompasses both sides of Kennedy: the statesman and the chancer; the moralist and the opportunist. Like Sachs, Clarke celebrates Kennedy’s great achievement in getting the LTBT past the Senate. In his account, however, it was done by calling in political favours that could not then get cashed in elsewhere. Forcing the treaty through came at the expense of a concerted push on civil rights legislation: you can’t call in favours twice. It was, Clarke writes, “a choice between ethics and history”. Kennedy, a vain and, when he needed to be, coldhearted man, chose history.

Clarke burnishes the Kennedy image as best he can yet this is still, compared to Sachs’s book, a warts-and-all portrait. We see Kennedy the insatiable womaniser: when, on her first visit to the White House, the 60-yearold Marlene Dietrich tells him she can only stay half an hour, he leads her to the bedroom, saying they had better get on with it. We see Kennedy the bully, the prankster, the whiner and the narcissist. After dinner, he shows his bemused and bored guests the film of his presidential debates with Richard Nixon. He weighs himself after every swim, terrified that he is turning into a jowly, middle-aged man. He turns the charm on and off like a light switch.

Nevertheless, Clarke is convinced that this was a great man cut down at the moment of his greatest potential. He repeats the basics of the anti-Caro line. First, he insists that Kennedy would have passed his own comprehensive civil rights legislation in his second term. Second, he argues that Kennedy had seen the folly of his Vietnam escapade and was determined to get out: he was just waiting for the right moment, which would come with his re-election.

Is this plausible? Presidents invariably think they will achieve in their second term what they failed to do in their first but it rarely happens like that. First terms are when the heavy lifting gets done. Kennedy kept talking up what he was going to do – “after 1964” became his mantra in 1963 – but he was also an inveterate ditherer who made sure there was always a get-out clause. Would it ever have been the right moment to cut his losses in Vietnam? And there is no evidence that he knew how to get round the openly racist Southern bloc in the Senate. In 1963, he sounded more like someone who had parked comprehensive civil rights legislation than a politician who knew how to accomplish it. The day after his peace speech, he gave a powerful talk on civil rights – but he also told black civil rights leaders that they should learn to be more like the Jews and focus on education as the path to improvement.

As distasteful as it is, think what Obama’s reputation would be if his first term had been cut short three years in and Joe Biden had inherited the keys to the White House. The messy compromise of health-care reform would be viewed as the first step on the road to a much more comprehensive triumph. Obama would be the man who was going to get out of Afghanistan once and for all, who was going to make the tough but moral choices on terrorism, drones and Guantanamo, who was waiting to use his re-election to face down Congress. His second term would be reimagined as the promised golden age, instead of what it looks like today –a hard, joyless slog to nowhere in particular. There is no reason to suppose Kennedy’s would have been any different.

Clarke also wants us to think that Kennedy was about to repair his marriage when his life was cut short. In August, the Kennedys had lost their son Patrick, who was born prematurely and died after a few days. Like the Cuban missile crisis, the terror and pathos of this event had the effect of drawing the warring parties together. Would it have lasted? Given the character of the protagonists, that seems unlikely. Kennedy was a sentimentalist, capable of great warmth and emotion, but he was also a selfish brute, and marriage lasts a long time. His last 100 days were probably the best of his marriage as they were of his presidency. Still, it was only 100 days.

Clarke cites as evidence of how much Kennedy meant to people and how much his passing mattered that, in an unsentimental age, when it was unusual to shed tears in public and unthinkable for many men, so many cried when they heard of the president’s assassination. A Gallup survey disclosed that 53 per cent of Americans had wept in the days following his death. Clarke claims that there is nothing comparable to this. But there is. Countless Britons cried in the days after the death of Diana, another glamorous and empathetic narcissist. They shed tears because ordinary people felt a connection to the princess and shared a feeling that her death represented the loss of some unspoken promise. That doesn’t make the promise real. Tears are cheap and so, to a certain extent, are words. Deeds are what counts and on that score Kennedy’s presidency was a mix of good and bad, like most of the others.

David Runciman is a professor of politics at the University of Cambridge. His book “The Confidence Trap” (Princeton University Press, £19.95) will be published in October

John F Kennedy in 1961. Photo: Getty

This article first appeared in the 12 August 2013 issue of the New Statesman, What if JFK had lived?

Nicola Snothum / Millenium Images
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The end of solitude: in a hyperconnected world, are we losing the art of being alone?

In the end, Solitude feels a bit like an amiable cop-out. 

Michael Harris is a Canadian writer who lives in a big city and whose life is defined and circumscribed, as so many Western lives are now, by digital technologies. He finds it hard to leave his phone at home in case he misses anything. He worries about his social media reputation. He uses apps and plays games, and relies on the internet hive mind to tell him which films to watch or where to eat. Here is what happens when he goes on holiday to Paris:

Disembarking from the train from London, I invited a friendly app to guide me to a hotel near the Pompidou . . . The next morning, Yelp guided me towards a charming café in the Marais. There, wizard-like, I held my phone over the menu and waited for Google Translate to melt the words into English. When the waiter arrived, I spoke into my phone and had it repeat my words to the grinning garçon in a soft, robotic French. Later, at the Louvre, I allowed a Nintendo-sponsored guidance system to track my steps up the centuries-old Daru staircase as I squinted confusedly at its glowing blue you-are-here dot . . .

Terrifying, isn’t it? Well, I thought so as I read it, and Harris thought so afterwards. It was situations like this, during which he realised that his life was controlled, confined and monitored by distancing technologies, that led him to wonder whether solitude – the act and the art of being alone – was in danger of disappearing.

Harris has an intuition that being alone with ourselves, paying attention to inner silence and being able to experience outer silence, is an essential part of being human. He can remember how it felt to do this, before the internet brought its social anxiety and addiction into his life. “I began to remember,” he writes, “a calm separateness, a sureness I once could live inside for an easy hour at a time.”

What happens when that calm separateness is destroyed by the internet of everything, by big-city living, by the relentless compulsion to be with others, in touch, all the time? Plenty of people know the answer already, or would do if they were paying attention to the question. Nearly half of all Americans, Harris tells us, now sleep with their smartphones on their bedside table, and 80 per cent are on their phone within 15 minutes of waking up. Three-quarters of adults use social networking sites regularly. But this is peanuts compared to the galloping development of the so-called Internet of Things. Within the next few years, anything from 30 to 50 billion objects, from cars to shirts to bottles of shampoo, will be connected to the net. The internet will be all around you, whether you want it or not, and you will be caught in its mesh like a fly. It’s not called the web for nothing.

I may not be the ideal reader for this book. By page 20, after a few more facts of this sort, I had already found myself scrawling “Kill everyone!” in the margins. This is not really the author’s fault. I often start behaving like this whenever I’m forced to read a list of ways in which digital technology is wrecking human existence. There are lots of lists like this around at the moment, because the galloping, thoughtless, ongoing rush to connect everything to the web has overcome our society like a disease. Did you know that cows are now connected to the internet? On page 20, Harris tells us that some Swiss dairy cows, sim cards implanted in their necks, send text messages to their farmers when they are on heat and ready to be inseminated. If this doesn’t bring out your inner Unabomber, you’re probably beyond help. Or maybe I am.

What is the problem here? Why does this bother me, and why does it bother Harris? The answer is that all of these things intrude upon, and threaten to destroy, something ancient and hard to define, which is also the source of much of our creativity and the essence of our humanity. “Solitude,” Harris writes, “is a resource.” He likens it to an ecological niche, within which grow new ideas, an understanding of the self and therefore an understanding of others.

The book is full of examples of the genius that springs from silent and solitary moments. Beethoven, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Einstein, Newton – all developed their ideas and approach by withdrawing from the crowd. Peter Higgs, the Nobel ­Prizewinner who discovered the Higgs boson particle, did his best work in peace and solitude in the 1960s. He suggests that what he did then would be impossible today, because it is now virtually impossible to find such solitude in the field of science.

Collaboration, not individuality, is fetishised today, in business as in science and the arts, but Harris warns that collaboration often results in conformism. In the company of others, most of us succumb to pressure to go with the crowd. Alone, we have more chance to be thoughtful, to see differently, to enter a place where we feel free from the mob to moderate our unique experience of the world. Without solitude, he writes, genius – which ultimately springs from different ways of thinking and seeing – becomes impossible. If Thoreau’s cabin in the woods had had wifi, we would never have got Walden.

Yet it is not only geniuses who have a problem: ordinary minds like yours and mine are threatened by the hypersocial nature of always-on urbanity. A ­civilisation can be judged by the quality of its daydreams, Harris suggests. Who daydreams now? Instead of staring out of the window on a train, heads are buried in smartphones, or wired to the audio of a streaming film. Instead of idling at the bus stop, people are loading up entertainment: mobile games from King, the maker of Candy Crush, were played by 1.6 billion times every day in the first quarter of 2015 alone.

If you’ve ever wondered at the behaviour of those lines of people at the train station or in the street or in the café, heads buried in their phones like zombies, unable or unwilling to look up, Harris confirms your worst fears. The developers of apps and games and social media sites are dedicated to trapping us in what are called ludic loops. These are short cycles of repeated actions which feed our brain’s desire for reward. Every point you score, every candy you crush, every retweet you get gives your brain a dopamine hit that keeps you coming back for more. You’re not having a bit of harmless fun: you are an addict. A tech corporation has taken your solitude and monetised it. It’s not the game that is being played – it’s you.

So, what is to be done about all this? That’s the multibillion-dollar question, but it is one the book cannot answer. Harris spends many pages putting together a case for the importance of solitude and examining the forces that splinter it today. Yet he also seems torn in determining how much of it he wants and can cope with. He can see the damage being done by the always-on world but he lives in the heart of it, all his friends are part of it, and he doesn’t want to stray too far away. He understands the value of being alone but doesn’t like it much, or want to experience it too often. He’ll stop checking his Twitter analytics but he won’t close down his account.

At the end of the book, Harris retreats, Thoreau-like, to a cabin in the woods for a week. As I read this brief last chapter, I found myself wishing it was the first, that he had spent more time in the cabin, that he had been starker and more exploratory, that he had gone further. Who will write a Walden for the Internet Age? This book is thick with fact and argument and some fine writing, but there is a depth that the author seems afraid to plumb. Perhaps he is afraid of what he might find down there.

In the end, Solitude feels a bit like an amiable cop-out. After 200 pages of increasingly disturbing facts about the impact of technology and crowded city living on everything from our reading habits to our ability to form friendships, and after warning us on the very last page that we risk making “an Easter Island of the mind”, the author goes back home to Vancouver, tells his boyfriend that he missed him, and then . . . well, then what? We don’t know. The book just ends. We are left with the impression that the pile-up of evidence leads to a conclusion too vast for the author, and perhaps his readers, to take in, because to do that would be to challenge everything.

In this, Solitude mirrors the structure of many other books of its type: the Non-Fiction Warning Book (NFWB), we might call it. It takes a subject – disappearing childhood; disappearing solitude; disappearing wilderness; disappearing anything, there’s so much to choose from – trots us through several hundred pages of anecdotes, science,
interviews and stories, all of which build up to the inescapable conclusion that everything is screwed . . . and then pulls back. It’s like being teased by an expert hustler. Yes, technology is undermining our sense of self and creating havoc for our relationships with others, but the solution is not to stop using it, just to moderate it. Yes, overcrowded cities are destroying our minds and Planet Earth, but the solution is not to get out of the cities: it’s to moderate them in some way, somehow.

Moderation is always the demand of the NFWB, aimed as it is at mainstream readers who would like things to get better but who don’t really want to change much – or don’t know how to. This is not to condemn Harris, or his argument: most of us don’t want to change much or know how to. What books of this kind are dealing with is the problem of modernity, which is intractable and not open to moderation. Have a week away from your screen if you like, but the theft of human freedom by the machine will continue without you. The poet Robinson Jeffers once wrote about sitting on a mountain and looking down on the lights of a city, and being put in mind of a purse seine net, in which sardines swim unwittingly into a giant bag, which is then drawn tightly around them. “I thought, We have geared the machines and locked all together into interdependence; we have built the great cities; now/There is no escape,” he wrote. “The circle is closed, and the net/Is being hauled in.”

Under the circumstances – and these are our circumstances – the only honest conclusion to draw is that the problem, which is caused primarily by the technological direction of our society, is going to get worse. There is no credible scenario in which we can continue in the same direction and not see the problem of solitude, or lack of it, continue to deepen.

Knowing this, how can Harris just go home after a week away, drop off his bag and settle back into his hyperconnected city life? Does he not have a duty to rebel, and to tell us to rebel? Perhaps. The problem for this author is our shared problem, however, at a time in history when the dystopian predictions of Brave New World are already looking antiquated. Even if Harris wanted to rebel, he wouldn’t know how, because none of us would. Short of a collapse so severe that the electricity goes off permanently, there is no escape from what the tech corporations and their tame hive mind have planned for us. The circle is closed, and the net is being hauled in. May as well play another round of Candy Crush while we wait to be dragged up on to the deck. 

Paul Kingsnorth's latest book, “Confessions of a Recovering Environmentalist” (Faber & Faber)

This article first appeared in the 20 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, May's gamble

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