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The paradox of fairness

Is the world a better place if the vicious suffer for their viciousness? And what exactly are just deserts?

For as far back as I can remember language, and uttered the very last time I saw her, one of my mother’s most repeated sentences was: “Every dog has its day.” She said it aloud to herself and to the knowing, listening universe, though, when I was in the room, her eyes might be pointing in my direction. It was an incantation, voiced in a low growl. There was something of a spell about it, but it was mainly an assertion of a fundamental and reassuring truth, a statement to vibrate and stand in the air against whatever injustice she had just suffered or remembered suffering. It was, I understood, a reiterated form of self-comfort to announce that justice, while taking its time, was inevitably to come; perhaps, too, a bit of a nudge for the lackadaisical force responsible for giving every dog its day.

Hers was an other-worldly view, of justice meted out from beyond the human sphere, held in this case by an uneducated non-observant Jewish woman with parents from the shtetl, but it is a foundational promise made by all three religions of the Book, and surely their most effective selling point. My mother’s recitation of her truth belonged with another, more impassioned phrase, which I recall her saying only when sitting in a chair, rocking back and forth, or in bed, rolling her head from side to side. “God! God! What have I done to deserve this?” Generally, unlike the harsh confidence of the first phrase, it was wept, sometimes screamed, mumbled madly, wailed, moaned, and usually repeated over and over again, whereas “Every dog has its day” needed saying only once, whenever the situation merited it. Both phrases were occasioned by my repeatedly philandering, disappearing, money-withholding conman father, and each marked opposite ends of the continuum of disappointment on which my mother lived.

I learned from this, in the first place, obviously, to sneak away so that I wouldn’t get dragged in to the conversation and end up (perhaps not unjustly) as a substitute accusee for my father’s failure to care. But I learned also that she had certain expectations of the world: that the world properly consisted of a normality, and that the world had peculiarly failed her in respect of it.

From a very early age I already knew about the norms of the world, what it was supposed to be like, from nursery rhymes, fairy tales, books, films, television and radio. I knew that the most basic of all the norms was that fairness was to be expected. I doubt that I needed to be taught that; it was inward to me, never unknown, and I would guess that I knew it in some way even before I got the hang of language. I would also guess that it was the same for you.

I suppose what I importantly learned from my cursing and keening mother was that grown-ups still knew it, too. That fairness was not just one of those always suspect childish expectations – like money in return for a tooth, or a man coming down the chimney – that one grew out of.

At the same time, I learned from her that fairness was not an infallible fact of the world and that the most apparently fundamental essentials failed, yet the idea I got from my mother about this was that she (and sometimes I was included) was the only person on the planet whom the arranger of fairness had let down. All other husbands and fathers were true and trustworthy, everyone else had enough money to pay the rent and buy food, everyone else had relatives or friends who rallied round, so my mother often explicitly said. Everyone except her (and me, as the appendage inside her circle of misfortune).

It did rather astonish me that we should be so unfortunate to have been singled out, but I was also impressed that we should have received such special treatment from the universe. The stories and nursery rhymes had told me that bad things were supposed to happen to people who had done something to merit it. But my mother had no doubt she had done nothing, had been a helpless victim, yet the world was bad to her, and therefore bafflingly unfair. When she wailed to her personal inattentive God, “What have I done to deserve this?” she meant that she had done nothing.

It seemed that there was a crack in the heart of fairness, and she had fallen into it. She was innocent and deserving of better in her adulthood than her emotionally and economically impoverished childhood had provided, and yet she was receiving punishment and unhappiness in the form of my father and his bad behaviour. He, not she, deserved her misery, and yet, having disappeared and left us behind, he was living an apparently untroubled, unpunished life.

So I understood that on the one hand there was a rule of universal fairness, and every dog had to have its day, even if it was late in coming, and on the other hand that it was possible for some people to be delivered into unhappiness for no reason at all (as I grew older I understood it wasn’t just her and me). What was odd was the way my mother kept calling, albeit reproachfully, on this God who had so let her down.

I grew up to ditch the notion of a structural fairness, of a god or a nature that rewarded and punished on a moral basis. What occurred in people’s lives was consequent on their choices, their lack of choice, and the interrelation between the two, as well as high-or-low-risk-taking or simple arbitrary happenstance. I settled for a universe where narratives and meanings were fractured rather than based on moral cause and effect.

Lives were fragmented, subject to chance, not a continuing stream of moral repercussions, and although chance did have consequences, those consequences, too, were subject to chance. I recognised it in the devil’s distorting mirror from The Snow Queen which accidentally fell and broke into millions of splinters – a random shard falling into Kay’s eye but not into the eye of his friend Gerda. The story starts and takes its shape from a shrug of fate that knows nothing of you or what you deserve, but quite by accident or because of how our story-craving minds work, life could look as if it was conforming to moral judgement. I built a way to pass and describe my time around the rejection of the expectation of fairness, playing with the sharp edges of deconstructed fairy stories and tales children and adults are easily told. And I shook my head against those I came across who echoed my mother, such as, 30 years later, my mother-in-law, who contracted breast cancer at the age of 75 and asked, over and over, whenever I visited her: “How could this have happened to me? I’ve never done anything to deserve cancer.”

My attempt to grow up and away from the childishness of just deserts was, it goes without saying, no more than a position I took. It was necessary and useful, and allowed me to construct narratives that were more interesting to me than the most expected ones, but naturally I never did manage to do away with the sense of outrage against unfairness that I conclude is at the heart of self- and other-conscious life. I have to acknowledge the fundamental human desire for fairness, which, turned inwards, hampered my mother and which, turned outwards, causes people to work in danger and discomfort in places of war and hunger to improve imbalances of fortune.

Desert, the noun deriving from the verb “to deserve”, appears to be an essential human dynamic. It is at least a central anxiety that provides the plot for so many novels and films that depend on our sense that there is or should be such a thing. Like Kafka and Poe, Hitchcock repeatedly returns to the individual who is singled out, wrongly accused, an innocent suffering an injustice. Yet consider Montgomery Clift’s priest in I Confess, Henry Fonda in The Wrong Man, Blaney, the real killer’s friend played by Jon Finch in Frenzy, James Stewart in The Man Who Knew Too Much and Cary Grant in North by Northwest; none of them is – or could be according to Hitchcock’s Catholic upbringing – truly innocent of everything, and often their moral failings give some cause for the suspicion that falls on them. There is always a faint tang of consequence about their troubles.

We worry about people not getting what they deserve, but, due to religion or some essential guilt we carry with us, we are also concerned that there might be a deeper, less obvious basis for guilt that our everyday, human sense of justice doesn’t take into account. In Victorian fiction, Dickens and Hardy are masters of just and unjust deserts, as innocents such as Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure become engulfed by persecutory institutions and struggle, only sometimes with success, to find the life they ought, in a fair world, to have.

In Dickens, readers get a joyful reassurance after evil intent almost overcomes goodness but justice finally, though at the last moment, wins out by decency and coincidence. Hardy, in his covert modernism, offers no reassurance at all that his innocents’ day will come; his victims’ hopes and lives are snuffed out by forces such as nature and class that have no concern at all with the worth of individual lives and hopes. For both writers, however, the morally just or unjust result is usually an accident that works in or against the protagonist’s favour.

Every child ever born has at some time or other wailed, “It’s not fair.” To which the adults answer, “Life isn’t fair,” and always, surely, with a sense of sorrow and a vague feeling of betrayal, but also an understanding that a vital lesson is being imparted.

Fairness and desert are not exactly the same, I suppose; we might have a basic requirement for a generalised fairness – equality of opportunity, say – that has nothing to do with what anyone deserves, but our strangely inbuilt earliest sense of fairness provides our first encounter with the complexity of justice and injustice. Perhaps it arose even earlier than human consciousness. There are those who, like the primatologist Frans de Waal, suggest that a sense of fairness is an inherent emotion in monkeys:

An experiment with capuchin monkeys by Sarah Brosnan, of Georgia State University’s CEBUS Lab, and myself illuminated this emotional basis. These monkeys will happily perform a task for cucumber slices until they see other getting grapes, which taste so much better. They become agitated, throw down their measly cucumbers, and go on strike.

I’m not sure if this is exactly a sense of fairness. If so, it is a limited, unidirectional sense. Perhaps a sense of unfairness precedes the more general idea. I imagine a full sense of fairness would be demonstrated by a capuchin throwing her grapes down when she sees her fellow worker receiving cucumber. All for one and one for all. I couldn’t find any experiment that showed this.

A sense of personal unfairness may be all that is experienced by small children, too. It is always easy enough to come up with the idea that we have been morally mistreated. We manage to do it from a very young age and, like my mother-in-law, continue to the end of our lives. That others might deserve something is a more sophisticated thought. Usually, before any egalitarian fervour has a chance to emerge on its own, we have introduced the children, if not the monkeys, to the concept of desert. You get the grape for good behaviour, or helping with the washing-up, or not hitting your baby brother when he hits you, and you don’t get a grape if you throw a tantrum, or refuse to put on your socks. In this way, you and your brother get different amounts of goodness according to some very general rule that you are not much in a position to question, and the inherent problems of universal fairness are put into abeyance, except in the deepest dungeon of our consciousness.

There’s a revival of the childish sense of unfairness in adolescence when they/we cry, “I didn’t ask to be born.” To which we/they reply, again with an implication of just des - erts: “The world doesn’t owe you a living.” But neither party explains how either statement asks or answers the difficulty of unfairness in the world.

I dare say all this harks back to our earliest desperation – the battle for the breast – with the helpless infant demanding that her hunger be assuaged and demanding comfort for her discomfort, the formerly helpless infant now in charge and having the capacity to deny it. It starts in a milky muddle and goes on to just des(s)erts. It is astonishing, actually, that the word for pudding in English is not, as it plainly ought to be, related to the desert that is getting what you deserve.

Nevertheless, eventually the hard-learned reward and punishment system becomes social glue and enters into the world as law and civic organisation, as a clumsy attempt to solve the insoluble. The legislation starts early, in the family, and is a necessity in the community and the state, because, in any unlegislated situation, goodness and altruism are not necessarily rewarded on an individual level. Payback, positive and negative, is rarely found in the wild, and only sometimes in what we call civilisation. Cheats very often prosper and an eye for an eye is a brutal, primitive formulation that advanced cultures (us, as we like to think of ourselves) reject as a kind of exact justice that lacks all mature consideration of circumstances. Yahweh hardly applied fairness when he repaid Job’s devotion with vastly incommensurate loss just to win a bet with Satan. And certainly the knotted family romance that is the basis for Judaism, Christianity and Islam, involving Abram, Sara, Isaac, Hagar, Ishmael and Yahweh, is resolved only by Abram’s adultery with Hagar, then Hagar’s expulsion with her son, nearly ending in their death, and the near-filicide of Isaac. All the victims are as completely innocent as human beings and God can be.

In an attempt properly to get to grips with the idea of fairness, justice and desert, I have recently been struggling with the story of Amos, Boris, Claire and Zoey. They are the protagonists in a drama plotted by Shelly Kagan in his new book, The Geometry of Desert. To simplify, but only slightly, all four of them are injured by an explosion at work. A fifth person, You, comes along with a syringe containing a single dose of painkiller, while they wait in agony for the ambulance.

There is no point in giving everybody a little bit; it won’t help any of them enough. Whom do you give the single useful dose to? At this point, the devastation fades into the background and we learn that Amos was hurt as he happened to walk past an explosion from a device planted by the disgruntled or revolutionary Boris, who failed to get away in time, and that Claire, who instigated the bomb attack and set off the detonator, stood too close and was also injured by the blast, while Zoey came on the horrible scene and was wounded by a second blast as she was trying to go to the aid of the other three. The carnage can now return to the forefront of your mind and you have to choose whom to help with your exiguous morphine supply.

The first thing that should become clear before you start mulling over whom to assist is that you are, in fact, in the middle of a philosophical thought experiment. If you are, like me, a novelist with a resistance (as well as a –probably related –hopelessly inept attraction) to this kind of theoretical reasoning, you might reject the entire scenario, because it never happened and your plot is as good as anyone else’s. No, you think, as if you were back in school rebelling against the insistence that all lines meeting at infinity is a given, I don’t have to make any choice at all.

The bomb at the factory didn’t go off. It was never set in the first place. Boris and Claire are gentle vegans who have no animus that would impel them to set a bomb, and no one is hurt. Amos, Boris, Claire and Zoey can continue their ordinary daily business, perhaps never even meeting, or, if they do, knowing nothing about the drama that never happened and which they all failed to be involved in. Or perhaps each of them becomes the protagonist of his or her own novel of which You, and not Shelly Kagan, are the author – the A, B, C, Z Quartet.

In my version, You’s choices are broadened infinitely, there is no given, and I can simply refuse the parameters of the thought experiment because I am not a philosopher, I do not wish to be restricted to the terms set by someone else for their own didactic purposes, and likely I’ve got several deadlines that don’t depend on figuring out how much or how little guilt deserves the morphine and why. And so, once again, I fail to get to grips with academic philosophy.

The Geometry of Desert considers both the fundamental and the complex nature of deserving. Kagan poses familiar questions initially (what makes one person more deserving than another?; what is it that the more deserving deserve more of?; does anyone deserve anything at all?) and then puts them aside in order to examine the underlying complexity of desert by means of graphs that represent his elaborately anatomised notion of desert and all the possible implications and interactions between its teased-apart elements. This graphical representation of desert is, he says, the most important and original part, and the point, of his book.

Which I dare say it is, but I got no further than my enjoyment and childish rejection of the initial elementary narrative. If I were Alice, the Wonderland in which I find myself wandering, enchanted but fearful and utterly baffled, would be geometry, algebra and (as Alice also encounters) formal logic. I am, if it is possible, spatially challenged. Maps and reality completely fail to come together in my brain. My eyes tear up and the trauma of school maths lessons returns to me as Kagan translates away from situation to number and algebraic representation to devise graphs whose plotted lines meander across their grid in a, to me, mysterious arithmetical relation to each other. I’m rubbish at all things numerical and graphical and, with all the will in the world, which I started off with, I could no more have read the greater part of Kagan’s book with comprehension than I could read the Bhaga­vadgita in Sanskrit.

And yet and yet, I can’t get away from the foothills of desert. I can’t shake off the elementary problems that Amos, Boris, Claire and Zoey create, lying there, waiting for that ambulance, me with a hypodermic full of morphine still in my pocket. Amos and Zoey innocent as lambs, but perhaps Zoey more innocent, having put herself in harm’s way in order to help the others? Boris and Claire guilty, for sure, but is Claire, the initiator of the harmful event, more guilty than Boris the foot soldier? Does it go without saying that I should perform a moral triage in order to decide which sufferer to give the morphine, based on the hierarchy of guilt and innocence? Kagan calls it “Fault Forfeits First”, so that Zoey would be first in line for the morphine and Claire and Boris at the back of the queue. But he points out a basic division in Fault Forfeits First, between the “retributionists” and “moderates” who subscribe to that belief.

The retributionists would not give Claire or Boris any morphine even if some were left over after soothing Zoey’s pain, because they deserve to suffer, having caused suffering. The moderates believe that no one should suffer, but that the innocent Amos and Zoey should be helped first if a choice has to be made. The world, the moderates believe, I believe and perhaps you believe, is improved by an improvement in everyone’s well-being. The retributionists think that the world is a better place if the vicious suffer for their viciousness.

But, as John Rawls claimed early in his career, unless you completely accept free will in people’s behaviour, unclouded by fortune or misfortune in birth, education or life experience, it is possible that no one deserves anything as a result of his actions, good or bad. The first instinct is to give Zoey the pain­killer, other things being equal. Other things being equal is the problem. Why, when you come to think of it, does Zoey deserve less pain or more well-being on account of her good will? Did she have a particularly fortunate upbringing or, indeed, an unfortunate one that inclined her to acts of benevolence? No one is culturally, genetically free of influence. In any case, she had no intention of being injured when she went to help. And who knows why Claire, who conceived a bomb and detonated it, became the person she did?

How do we know (butterfly wings beating in the rainforest, and all that) if there might not be something we are not aware of that would make it more beneficial to give Claire the morphine? What if she has information about other bombs that have been planted? And what if, given an “undeserved” benefit, she came to rethink her viciousness? There may be more purely angelic joy in heaven over such a change of heart, but there are also very good practical reasons to rejoice far more, here on earth, over the redemption of one sinner than over 99 people who do not need to repent.

The retributionists and the moderates believe as they do for the same complicated reasons as the good and the vicious. In the practical world, getting just deserts is enshrined in legislation, and justice is separated from fairness, precisely to avoid the endless entailments of the philosophy of desert. It isn’t so surprising that there have been 20 seasons of Law and Order, which in every episode neatly segments and plays out the uncertainties of policing wrongdoing and providing justice. Finally, I suppose, we have to settle for the muddle of “good enough” fairness, while thinking and trying for something better. But don’t try telling that to my mother.

Jenny Diski’s most recent book is “What I Don’t Know About Animals” (Virago, £9.99)

This article first appeared in the 01 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Special Issue

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A nervous breakdown in the body politic

Are we too complacent in thinking that the toxic brew of paranoia and populism that brought Hitler to power will never be repeated?

The conventional wisdom holds that “all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing”, in Edmund Burke’s familiar phrase; but this is at best a half-truth. Studying the biography of a moral monster triumphantly unleashed on the political and international stage points us to another perspective, no less important. What is necessary for the triumph of evil is that the ground should have been thoroughly prepared by countless small or not-so-small acts of petty malice, unthinking prejudice and collusion. Burke’s axiom, though it represents a powerful challenge to apathy, risks crediting evil with too much of a life of its own: out there, there are evil agencies, hostile to “us”, and we (good men and women) must mobilise to resist.

No doubt; but mobilising intelligently demands being willing to ask what habits and assumptions, as well as what chances and conditions, have made possible the risk of evil triumphing. And that leads us into deep waters, to a recognition of how what we tolerate or ignore or underestimate opens the way for disaster, the ways in which we are at least half-consciously complicit. If this is not to be the silly we-are-all-guilty response that has rightly been so much mocked, nor an absolution for the direct agents of great horrors, it needs a careful and unsparing scrutiny of the processes by which cultures become corruptible, vulnerable to the agendas of damaged and obsessional individuals.

This can be uncomfortable. It raises the awkward issue of what philosophers have learned to call “moral luck” – the fact that some people with immense potential for evil don’t actualise it, because the circumstances don’t present them with the chance, and that some others who might have spent their lives in blameless normality end up supervising transports to Auschwitz. Or, to take a sharply contemporary example, that one Muslim youth from a disturbed or challenging background becomes a suicide bomber but another from exactly the same background doesn’t. It is as though there were a sort of diabolical mirror image for the biblical Parable of the Sower: some seeds grow and some don’t, depending on the ground they fall on, or what chance external stimulus touches them at critical moments.

If what interests us is simply how to assign individuals rapidly and definitively to the categories of sheep and goats, saved and damned, this is offensively frustrating. But if we recognise that evil is in important respects a shared enterprise, we may be prompted to look harder at those patterns of behaviour and interaction that – in the worst cases – give permission to those who are most capable of extreme destructiveness, and to examine our personal, political and social life in the light of this.

***

It would be possible to argue that the anti-Semitism of a lot of German culture – as of European Christian culture overall – was never (at least in the modern period) genocidal and obsessed with absolute racial purity; limited but real possibilities of integration were taken for granted, converts to Christianity were not disadvantaged merely because of their race, and so on. Yet the truth is that this cultural hinterland offered a foothold to the mania of Adolf Hitler; that it gave him just enough of the permission he needed to identify his society’s problems with this clearly definable “alien” presence. In his new book, Hitler: the Ascent, Volker Ullrich compellingly tells us once again that no one could have been under any illusion about Hitler’s general intentions towards the Jews from his very first appearance as a political figure, even if the detailed planning of genocide (lucidly traced in the late David Cesarani’s recent, encyclopaedic Final Solution) took some time to solidify. Yet so much of the German public heard Hitler’s language as the slightly exaggerated version of a familiar trope and felt able to treat it as at worst an embarrassing overstatement of a common, even a common-sense, view. One of the most disturbing things about this story is the failure of so many (inside and outside Germany) to grasp that Hitler meant what he said; and this failure in turn reinforced the delusion of those who thought they could use and then sideline Hitler.

To say that Hitler “meant what he said”, however, can be misleading. It is one of the repeated and focal themes in Ullrich’s book that Hitler was a brazen, almost compulsive liar – or, perhaps better, a compulsive and inventive actor, devising a huge range of dramatic roles for himself: frustrated artist, creative patron, philosopher-king (there is a fine chapter on the intellectual and artistic circle he assembled frequently at his Berchtesgaden residence), workers’ friend, martyr for his people (he constantly insinuated that he believed himself doomed to a tragic and premature death), military or economic messiah and a good deal else besides. His notorious outbursts of hysterical rage seem to have been skilfully orchestrated as instruments of intimidation (though this did not exactly indicate that he was otherwise predictable). Ullrich devotes a fair measure of attention to the literal staging of National Socialism, the architectural gigantism of Albert Speer which gave the Führer the sophisticated theatre he craved. In all sorts of ways, Hitler’s regime was a profoundly theatrical exercise, from the great public displays at Nuremberg and the replanning of Berlin to the various private fantasies enacted by him and his close associates (Göring above all), and from the emotional roller coaster he created for his circle to the dangerously accelerated rate of military-industrial expansion with which he concealed the void at the centre of the German economy.

Theatre both presupposes and creates a public. In the anxiety and despair of post-Versailles Germany, there was a ready audience for the high drama of Nazism, including its scapegoating of demonic enemies within and without. And in turn, the shrill pitch of Hitler’s quasi-liturgies normalised a whole set of bizarre and fantastic constructions of reality. A N Wilson’s challenging novel Winnie and Wolf, a fantasia on Hitler’s relations with Winifred Wagner, culminates in a scene at the end of the war where refugees and destitute citizens in Bayreuth raid the wardrobe of the opera house and wander the streets dressed in moth-eaten costumes; it is an unforgettable metaphor for one of the effects of Hitlerian theatre. Ullrich leaves his readers contemplating the picture of a vast collective drama centred on a personality that was not – as some biographers have suggested – something of a cipher, but that of a fantasist on a grand scale, endowed with a huge literal and metaphorical budget for staging his work.

All of this prompts questions about how it is that apparently sophisticated political systems succumb to corporate nervous breakdowns. It is anything but an academic question in a contemporary world where theatrical politics, tribal scapegoating and variegated confusions about the rule of law are increasingly in evidence. On this last point, it is still shocking to realise how rapidly post-Versailles Germany came to regard violent public conflict between heavily armed militias as almost routine, and this is an important background to the embittered negotiations later on around the relation between Hitler’s Sturmabteilung and the official organs of state coercion. Ullrich’s insightful account of a de facto civil war in Bavaria in the early 1920s makes it mercilessly plain that any pretensions to a state monopoly of coercion in Germany in this period were empty.

Yet the idea of such a state monopoly is in fact essential to anything that could be called a legitimate democracy. In effect, the polity of the Third Reich “privatised” coer­cion: again and again in Ullrich’s book, in the struggles for power before 1933, we see Nazi politicians successfully bidding for control of the mechanisms of public order in the German regions, and more or less franchising public order to their own agencies. A classical democratic political philosophy would argue that the state alone has the right to use force because the state is the guarantor of every community’s and every individual’s access to redress for injury or injustice. If state coercion becomes a tool for any one element in the social complex, it loses legitimacy. It is bound up with the rule of law, which is about something more than mere majority consent. One way of reading the rise of Hitler and National Socialism is as the steady and consistent normalising of illegitimate or partisan force, undermining any concept of an independent guarantee of lawfulness in society. It is the deliberate dissolution of the idea of a Rechtsstaat, a law-governed state order that can be recognised by citizens as organised for their common and individual good. Rule by decree, the common pattern of Nazi governmental practice, worked in harness with law enforcement by a force that was essentially a toxic hybrid, combining what was left of an independent police operation with a highly organised party militia system.

So, one of the general imperatives with which Hitler’s story might leave us is the need to keep a clear sense of what the proper work of the state involves. Arguments about the ideal “size” of the state are often spectacularly indifferent to the basic question of what the irreducible functions of state authority are – and so to the question of what cannot be franchised or delegated to non-state actors (it is extraordinary that we have in the UK apparently accepted without much debate the idea that prison security can be sold off to private interests). This is not the same as saying that privatisation in general leads to fascism; the issues around the limits to state direction of an economy are complex. However, a refusal to ask some fundamental questions about the limits of “franchising” corrodes the idea of real democratic legitimacy – the legitimacy that arises from an assurance to every citizen that, whatever their convictions or their purchasing power, the state is there to secure their access to justice. And, connected with this, there are issues about how we legislate: what are the proper processes of scrutiny for legislation, and how is populist and short-view legislation avoided? The Third Reich offers a masterclass in executive tyranny, and we need not only robust and intelligent counter-models, but a clear political theory to make sense of and defend those models.

***

Theatre has always been an aspect of the political. But there are different kinds of theatre. In ancient Athens, the annual Dionysia festival included the performance of tragedies that forced members of the audience to acknowledge the fragility of the political order and encouraged them to meditate on the divine interventions that set a boundary to vendetta and strife. Classical tragedy is, as political theatre, the exact opposite of Hitlerian drama, which repeatedly asserted the solid power of the Reich, the overcoming of weakness and division by the sheer, innate force of popular will as expressed through the Führer.

Contemporary political theatre is not – outside the more nakedly totalitarian states – a matter of Albert Speer-like spectacle and affirmation of a quasi-divine leader; but it is increasingly the product of a populist-oriented market, the parading of celebrities for popular approval, with limited possibilities for deep public discussion of policies advanced, and an assumption that politicians will be, above all, performers. It is not – to warn once again against cliché and exaggeration – that celebrity culture in politics is a short route to fascism. But a political theatre that never deals with the fragility of the context in which law and civility operate, that never admits the internal flaws and conflicts of a society, and never allows some corporate opening-up to the possibilities of reconciliation and reparation, is one that exploits, rather than resolves our anxieties. And, as such, it makes us politically weaker, more confused and fragmented.

The extraordinary mixture of farce and menace in Donald Trump’s campaign is a potent distillation of all this: a political theatre, divorced from realism, patience and human solidarity, bringing to the surface the buried poisons of a whole system and threatening its entire viability and rationality. But it is an extreme version of the way in which modern technology-and-image-driven communication intensifies the risks that beset the ideals of legitimate democracy.

And – think of Trump once again – one of the most seductively available tricks of such a theatre is the rhetoric of what could be called triumphant victimhood: we are menaced by such and such a group (Jews, mig­rants, Muslims, Freemasons, international business, Zionism, Marxism . . .), which has exerted its vast but covert influence to destroy us; but our native strength has brought us through and, given clear leadership, will soon, once and for all, guarantee our safety from these nightmare aliens.

***

This is a rhetoric that depends on ideas of collective guilt or collective malignity: plots ascribed to the agency of some dangerous minority are brandished in order to tarnish the name of entire communities. The dark legacy of much popular Christian language about collective Jewish guilt for the death of Jesus could be translated without much difficulty into talk about the responsibility of Jews for the violence and poverty afflicting Germans in the 1920s. (Shadows of the same myths still affect the way in which – as recent reports suggest – sinister, vague talk about Zionism and assumptions of a collective Jewish guilt for the actions of various Israeli politicians can become part of a climate that condones anti-Semitic bullying, or text messages saying “Hitler had a point”, on university campuses.)

Granted that there is no shortage of other candidates for demonic otherness in Europe and the United States (witness Trump’s language about Muslims and Mexicans), the specific and abiding lesson of Nazi anti-Semitism is the twofold recognition of the ease with which actually disadvantaged communities can be cast in the role of all-powerful subverters, and the way in which the path to violent exclusion of one kind or another can be prepared by cultures of casual bigotry and collective anxiety or self-pity, dramatised by high-temperature styles of media communication.

Marie Luise Knott’s recent short book Unlearning With Hannah Arendt (2014) revisits the controversy over Arendt’s notorious characterisation of the mindset of Nazism as “the banality of evil”, and brilliantly shows how her point is to do with the erosion in Hitlerian Germany of the capacity to think, to understand one’s agency as answerable to more than public pressure and fashion, to hold to notions of honour and dignity independent of status, convention or influence – but also, ultimately, the erosion of a sense of the ridiculous. The victory of public cliché and stereotype is, in Arendt’s terms, a protection against reality, “against the claim on our thinking attention that all events and facts make by virtue of their existence”, as she memorably wrote in The Life of the Mind. Hitler was committed to the destruction of anything that challenged the simple self-identity and self-justification of the race and the nation; hence, as Ullrich shows in an acutely argued chapter of Hitler: a Biography, the Führer’s venom against the churches, despite their (generally) embarrassingly lukewarm resistance to the horrors of the Reich. The problem was that the churches’ rationale entailed just that accountability to more than power and political self-identity that Nazi philosophy treated as absolute. They had grounds for thinking Nazism not only evil, but absurd. Perhaps, then, one of the more unexpected questions we are left with by a study of political nightmare such as Ullrich’s excellent book is how we find the resources for identifying the absurd as well as for clarifying the grounds of law and honour.

The threats now faced by “developed” democracy are not those of the 1920s and 1930s; whatever rough beasts are on their way are unlikely to have the exact features of Hitler’s distinctive blend of criminality and melodrama. But this does not mean that we shouldn’t be looking as hard as we can at the lessons to be learned from the collapse of political legality, the collective panics and myths, the acceptance of delusional and violent public theatre that characterised Hitler’s Germany. For evil to triumph, what is necessary is for societies to stop thinking, to stop developing an eye for the absurd as well as the corrupt in language and action, public or private.

Hitler: a Biography – Volume I: Ascent by Volker Ullrich is published by the Bodley Head

Rowan Williams is an Anglican prelate, theologian and poet, who was Archbishop of Canterbury from 2002 to 2012. He writes on books for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism