The Lights of Europe. Chapter III
The crisis of the democratic conscience
“The moment that Emperor Wilhelm appeared in the picture, a spontaneous wild whistling and stamping of feet began in the dark hall. Everybody yelled and whistled, men, women, and children, as if they had been personally insulted. The good-natured people of Tours, who knew no more about the world and politics than what they had read in their newspapers, had gone mad for an instant. I was frightened. I was frightened to the depths of my heart. For I sensed how deeply the poison of the propaganda of hate must have advanced through the years, when even here in a small provincial city the simple citizens and soldiers had been so greatly incited against the Kaiser and against Germany that a passing picture on the screen could produce such a demonstration. It only lasted a second, a single second. Other pictures followed and all was forgotten. The people laughed at the Chaplin film with all their might and slapped their knees with enjoyment, roaring. It had only been a second, but one that showed me how easily people anywhere could be aroused in a time of a crisis, despite all attempts at understanding, despite all efforts”
- Stefan Zweig, The world of yesterday. Memories of a European, “Light and shadow over Europe”.
So here we are, at the dawn of the First World War in a small French provincial cinema that was broadcasting the news. But to introduce this anecdote, Stefan Zweig clues us in on the difference between History and Time telling: “We know from experience that it is a thousand times easier to reconstruct the facts of an era than its spiritual atmosphere. Its traces are not to be found in official events, but rather in the small, personal episodes such as I would like to include here.” I wouldn’t say that last January's riot at the US Capitol falls into the category of “small, personal episodes”, but it does seem like the type of event from which future historians will be able to reconstruct the “spiritual atmosphere” of our time.
For some time now, public resentment seems to have reached a point of no return, or at least it has gone well beyond the type of opposition that we were used to. Until recently, different ideas and political positions could be strongly opposed, but still rely on a common thinking and shared language. They relied on common facts. But now, we have left the realm of rational debate, and anger has broken out of the democratic space: it is nowhere and everywhere, it has no ideology and all of them together. Resentment doesn’t aim at opposing specific arguments, it simply denies the whole institution and undermines the function of political representation. And that’s precisely what the Capitol riot is all about: contempt for the democratic order, suddenly burst into the old cleavage between Civilization and Barbarism. How do we make sense of this chaos? Well, some images can help.
Remember when we saw the storming of the Capitol on TV? Seemed like a movie right? Well, that was some surreal show. I must say, even if symbolic violence is quite mainstream now, it can still give me goosebumps. But all in all, everything seemed inconsequential, as if it was part of some game. Someone physically breaking into the rooms of established power, just like the Barbarians - come on?! Maybe we’d expect it from some clumsy National Geographic reenactment of the French Revolution, but not on the news, right? So, when the now-famous Buffalo Bill appeared with his horde to proclaim the new order - an order that would definitively trample the democratic space, not only figuratively but literally - my shock was beyond rational. It felt more likely that we had all been induced into some collective hypnosis.
There are quite a number of iconic shots, but the one that most vividly reminds me of this tragic prank is this one:
The mocking smile of a guy who plunders the relics of a dismissed order, while greeting the camera for posterity. What gives the shot its fascinating mystery is the discrepancy between the lighthearted joy of what seems to be a reckless child, and the drama going on. A comedy and a tragedy are happening at the same time - so, the historical meaning of this particular moment is suspended between these two possibilities. One path retreats to the inconsistency of an unhappy joke, the other makes this an (embarrassing) historical breaking point. Whatever the outcome, the fact that we are unsure of what to make of the event is a serious symptom of the spiritual atmosphere of our time.
Something about this guy’s awful cheer, though, made me think of Baudelaire. You might not recall Baudelaire as a funny guy, but he had his own ideas about comedy. The essence of laughter, he says, is diabolical: in fact, it has always been the prerogative of the mad - or let’s say, of those who can detach themselves from what is happening to just become watchers and enjoy reality as if it were a funny show. That makes the power of derision something which is in the eye of the one who sees and laughs, rather than in the comedy of a scene itself. Makes sense: there is no such thing as a comic scene without anyone laughing at it. Also, laughing at something or someone implies a (not so) veiled hierarchy: ask your touchy friends what they don’t like about you laughing at them. Not that I am one of those, of course, but if I had to dig into it, I’d be upset that the laugh states a kind of impertinent superiority. For instance - since Baudelaire was a pragmatic guy - it is hardly the man who trips and falls in the street who laughs at his own misfortune, but rather his unharmed observer who can afford the insolence to laugh. Well, let’s agree: it is irritating!
See, I’ve chosen the happy guy above precisely because of his barefaced, annoying smile: everything about his expression tells us that there was something deeply decadent and satanic about this march on the Congress. Historical decays are usually dramatic: there’s a big war and then a civilisation crumbles, roughly. But not this one: like Baudelaire’s scene of the clumsy walker who trips and falls, bringing down our legal system with a pair of big horns seems quite enjoyable. Buffalos actually just wanna have fun. This absolute comedy does have then a very real subversive power that literally overturns commonly shared values: what is tragic becomes hilarious, what was ruled by law shall be ruled by force. The current de jure authority falls before a de facto balance of power. Surely this disruption resounded from the Capitol one year ago, but it started way before that. Through the constant polarization of political forces, police brutality, and institutional and Constitutional abuse, the ethical basis of democracy was being silently worn away each day until it broke down. Slowly and imperceptibly, this is happening now: on the streets both in the US and all over Europe, the crisis of the democratic mind is reversing the sense and shaking the very heart of the political and legal structures that we have known. In other words, cynical and quivering laughter can shake big things.
My pulpit-bearing comedian recalls another disturbing joker, the character De La Tour represented in his Brawl of the musicians. In this broad-daylight scene, the set has changed: we can guess that it’s a working-class neighbourhood from the street musicians and beggars. So on the left hand of the picture, I present the ‘blind team’: a blind old man dressed in jute rags and an old woman who’s casting a petrified, glassy look toward the real eye of the painting: the observer’s. The matter takes place right in the centre of the picture: it’s a fight between the old man and a flautist, but no further clue is given: it’s impossible to say from our end where the attack is coming from, nor who’s the bad guy and who’s the good guy. One is holding a knife in one hand, while the other brandishes his flute as a weapon, trying at the same time to squeeze a lemon right into the eye of the (perhaps falsely) blind man and by doing so, reveal his deception.
The representation of De La Tour is, as usual, extremely dynamic. The staging of the event and the realism of the movements in fact confused the experts and, during its first attribution, the painting was believed to be a Caravaggio. Something of a theatrical atmosphere is highlighted by the disposition and the characters: it seems a Commedia dell’arte scene performed by puppets. To balance the maid’s disturbing look, a mocking violinist also glances at us from the other side of the painting, with an amused and knowing smile - from watcher to watcher, of course. His clothes seem to place him socially slightly above his companions, and from his attitude it is obvious that nothing of the ongoing drama touches him. But this “war of the poor” is quite fun to watch from a distance, and he seems to tell us exactly this: “enjoy the show”. A perfect counterpoint to the horrified old woman opposite. Although she also looks in the direction of the observer, her expression is one of extreme fright, and in a way, she reminds me of the terrified Stefan Zweig facing the crowd that chanted for Wilhelm's death. Two interpretations and two possible visions can give meaning to this violence: one sees a tragedy, and the other a comedy.
Just like this violinist, our Buffalo Bills laugh at their own violence, revealing themselves in the most cruel and brutal light. Like the masked Commedia dell’arte harlequin, they confuse and mix genres and joyfully reverse the moral order. What they are doing is both comic and tragic, precisely because evil is good and vice versa. The nature of the absolute comedian - Baudelaire says - is therefore profoundly cynical and violent. It aims at subverting power, breaking down not only the doors of Congress, but also the crucial boundary between good and evil, between legal authority and the authority of bullies, between democratic election and coup d'etat.
The phenomenon of brutalization on the political scene, and the consequent polarization of public opinion, has roots in a toxic media ecosystem which instills terror to excuse (and even call for) the state of urgency. The idea is that we have ended up in such extreme circumstances that we have no choice but to call for strong institutions and bypass the Constitution. This is a very radical change of mind, and it seeps into people’s perception and judgment. So… what if we actually have been put through all this chaos just because of the system? Let’s have a revolution! Even better: let’s have a war! Rings a bell? Political rhetoric is now, on a regular basis, just an angry guy who wants to justify anger as a political response. And in a sleight of hand, instincts and rage become fullblown opinions, and frustration substitutes the process of rational deliberation. For instance, in Portugal you can literally vote “Enough!” (Chega), which is like those 3-in-1 shampoos: it’s a party, it’s a program and it’s a slogan. Political reflection has never been cheaper: get it now or never!
Beasts like uncontrolled immigration and unfair taxation are painted as exceptional circumstances that justify an exceptional power, overstepping the rule of law to face the urgency. During the past century, the state of urgency was a big deal: it was conceived as intimately linked to the state of war, or near war. In any case, it had something to do with an obvious and indisputable national threat. But the legitimate grounds for an exception to constitutional rule have considerably widened over these last twenty years: new conditions are now considered as serious reasons to establish a regime of exception - and certainly the pandemic is the least objectionable of all. When Hannah Arendt talked about it with Roger Errera in 1973, the Watergate scandal had just broken on the news: “National security is really, if I may already interpret a bit, a translation of ‘raison d'état’ […] but [this reason] is not an exception to the rule. It’s not that they say, ‘because we are in such a special emergency, we have to bug everybody and sundry, including the president himself’, they just think that bugging belongs to the normal political process”. In describing this ‘massive intrusion of criminality into political processes’, Hannah Arendt also makes a fundamental distinction: authority is different from force. When an authority (let’s say a government administration) resorts to an external (or any kind of) force, it denies its own authority. In a nutshell, one wipes the other out: you cannot be a source of acknowledged authority and a bully. So when violence to rule - and then violence tout court - lies at the very heart of political culture, the impact resounds far beyond it, into communities and society.
The last chapter (but not the least): what to do when an immoral practice becomes a way of thinking and living. Political polarization is inextricable from the polarization of public opinion: the distrustful, exasperated protagonists of the rhetorical strategy of anger tend to think in big, caricatural contrasts and simplified ideas, to the point that they turn their opponents into an existential - even national - threat. And since the plurality of opinions and the democratic practice of dialogue can only be part of a culture that is open to debate, dissent is now just a cathartic exercise in the release of anger. In fact, it is growing among the public outside of electoral channels, as if to invalidate their institutional function. This is how populism disguises itself as the people’s voice.
There is more radicalism, and fewer ideas: everyone has his absolute, non-negotiable nor questionable truths to brandish (like the musician’s flute) over that of others. Voices rise, but they now speak to no one but themselves, without a counterpart. The logical trinity of thought (thesis-antithesis-synthesis) has been reduced to a thick, stand-alone idea that no longer needs dialogue but just loud noise to be pushed into people’s minds. Why these new rhetorical practices? Well, rationally convincing can be quite an exhausting practice: it is demanding and the result is not guaranteed. It’s fun in movies, but in politics it’s a lost cause. If your concern is efficiency, you’ll spend way less time and win more votes by haranguing the masses with whatever simple tale (but usually the ones that do the trick involve a scary witch: immigration, science, communism, or the unvaccinated. Pick a card, any card!). That is why we have grown lazy and slowly unlearned how to think through the complexity of our reality, how to rationally detach ourselves from frustration and instinctive anger. We have stopped questioning our ideas and seek only visions that empower our own: that’s the most threatening crisis our culture and the democratic mind have to face today.
For every striking fact such as that of the night of last January 6th, there is a slow, silent and anonymous degradation. Sometimes it brings extremist parties into government, other times it just breaks down the doors of Congress. Who can tell what it is going to be… Life is like a box of chocolates, right? As the political landscape becomes more polarized, the electorate is also increasingly moving outside the safe space of dialogue and public debate, into a battlefield. Before January 6th, the bad losers that disputed the result of the presidential election were actually fun to watch. I confess I could identify with the violinist from De La Tour’s painting: what’s not to enjoy about a good old, ridiculous brawl, right? But if the photograph of that diabolically smiling pulpit thief should teach us anything, it is that he who laughs last, laughs best...
The storming of the Capitol revealed the real face of the brutality that we have been generating through hate and anger, and it is not only a US phenomenon. New ways of communicating in European politics have also contaminated public debate. Whether in official speeches, interviews, or tweets, the more caricatural and excessive that politicians are, the more they will be heard. The focus of the media has undeniably come to control electorate attention, reshaping the balance of power. Even if extremism is an obviously subversive ideology, it sneaks quite silently into the political landscape by redistributing the cards and confusing the game. It first prepares a toxic environment to derail the debate, then wins when traditional parties are pushed to reposition themselves in order to survive on the new political stage. And, well, it’s not always easier said than done: sometimes it can be done just as easily as it is said. When democracy slips into authoritarianism it usually starts with a subterranean movement, and you just don’t notice the earthquake because of the noisy media show.
Voters are increasingly distanced from their governments, and institutions are being taken to trial. How then, can we rescue the democratic conscience? First, by bringing sensibile and argumentative discussion back into public debates, and I’m not talking about content: we have to re-learn the practice of dialogue and idea-sharing. We have to be able to (productivily) disagree in order to actually broaden both our own mind and that of our opponent. This means that populism must not be confronted by giving up our dialectical values and giving in to anger as opinion, but rather it must be fought through the strengthening of political structures that can re-establish sensible debate. Structures that establish a strong and direct connection between the electorate and its government, with local power that can act and represent voters, and with institutions that protect the law and the constitution that the people agreed on.
What Paul Hazard calledThe Crisis of the Europeanmind in the early eighteenth century might be seen as a similar switch of the collective mindset to that which we are currently living through. The extraordinary cultural shift that happened three centuries ago produced the Enlightenment. Our current crisis at first seems like the opposite. But progressive forces are rising, as ideas of fairness and a passionate concern for the future of our world are spreading through the younger generations . Their vision is of a world that empowers political life and gathers citizens around a community of values, one that opens our minds and keeps us aware and curious. (For those who can, check this Arte and France Culture project: “Et maintenant? Le festival international des idées de demain”. The initiative consisted of a general survey to sound out the new generations, and bring to light their concerns and ideas for the future. An important and outstanding example of how the media can act to actually restructure public discussion and empower collective reflection). So in this ideal world, the political stage doesn’t turn into a comedy show: buffalo would be held back in their meadow, and madmen in their asylums. The comedy version could make a great theatre show though, or maybe a movie - but let’s keep it off the news.