What do you think?
Rate this book


256 pages, Hardcover
First published January 7, 2020
Our tragedy is that we diverge as countrymen further and further away from one another, like a space ship broken apart in flight which now drifts mournfully in isolated orbits, satellites to each other, planets none, communications faint (quoted by Bacevich, 187).Yet was Mailer’s “diagnosis” sheer fiction when he wrote it? Was the spaceship “America” intact in 1962? It was, after all, a-not-unremarkable year. Not only did 1962 immediately precede the first presidential assassination in more than half a century, it was also the year American involvement in a small southeast Asian country called Vietnam began slowly but ineluctably to pick up speed. In addition, it was, as Mailer highlights, a year very much under the shadows of the disputed (if not outright stolen, thanks not to Russian meddling but the mob’s) 1960 presidential election and the failed 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba. This latter would itself contribute to the Cuban Missile crisis that in October 1962 risked triggering nuclear Armageddon. All was not well, in short, in 1962 America. It was because all was not well that a young black man named James Meredith had to brave a deadly riot in order to register for classes at the University of Mississippi in the fall of that year - a reminder, then, that, in 1962, racial segregation was enforced de jure south of the Mason-Dixon line, and de facto for the most part north of it. Yet a country that is segregated is by definition divided. And this division wasn’t new; rather, it echoed back to the nation’s “original sin,” one that, a century before Meredith enrolled at the University of Mississippi, was literally tearing the country apart. What Meredith was implicitly protesting may not have been slavery in its most iconic form, but its logic was continuous with that of slavery: it was a logic that valued black lives at some small fraction of white. It is a logic that is, as recent events in Minneapolis underscore unambiguously, by no means a thing of the past - which suggests that, pace Bacevich’s claim that the Civil War “destroyed slavery” (200), something of slavery lives on still today. My point, in any case, is that it doesn’t take a lot of effort to see that the United States of 1962 was marked by divergences and fractures that not only justified Mailer’s “diagnosis” at the time, but, by harkening back to the nation’s “original sin,” might leave one wondering whether the “space ship” had flown itself apart or had simply never quite come together in the first place.
Culture warriors on the left, more often than not loosely affiliated with the Democratic Party, saw America as a place in which pervasive discrimination on the basis of race, gender, and sexuality allowed freedom for some - notably for white heterosexual males whose forebears came from northern or western Europe - while denying it to others. They demanded redress of these injustices, with unconditional freedom for all their ultimate goal.It is hard, however, to find this description terribly compelling, especially during the summer of 2020 when it is precisely the culture warriors of the right who insist on a freedom at once so absolute and so devoid of responsibility that they consider mask-mandates during a pandemic tantamount to tyranny. This fact alone suggests that the distinction between those for whom freedom carries an obligation and those for whom it doesn’t is not one that maps very well, or at all, on the left-right political dichotomy. What is especially noteworthy, however, is that a certain Bacevich himself recognizes this, albeit again without registering its implications for his book. In particular, he recognizes it in a discussion not of post-Cold War America but of the Vietnam War - a war that occurred at the very height of the Cold War:
Culture warriors on the right, broadly identified with the Republican Party, believed - indeed, were dead certain - that from its very founding the United States had been the ‘land of liberty.’ Yet whether interpreting scripture literally or metaphorically, they took seriously God’s warning in Genesis that fateful consequences awaited anyone tempted to reject all limits on the actual exercise of freedom. To disregard that injunction, as had Adam and Eve, was to open the floodgates of moral anarchy. In true freedom, self-restraint tempered self-indulgence (77).
From 1965 to 1972, when U.S. troops were fighting in Vietnam, the divide appeared to be between those who supported the war and those who opposed it or, within the ranks of the boomers, between those who served in Vietnam (as I did) and those who refused to serve. In retrospect, however, that pro-war/anti-war construct turned out to possess only transitory significance. The real split - the lasting one - occurred between boomers who saw Vietnam as an event requiring them to take a forthright stand, whether for or against, and those who saw the war as no more than an annoyance, not worth attending to except as a potential impediment to the pursuit of their own ambitions (18)The divide during the Vietnam War was not between those, like Bacevich, who felt a responsibility to take up arms, and those, like, for example, Noam Chomsky, who felt a responsibility to protest. It was between those who felt duty-bound to respond in one way or another, and those who felt no such responsibility whatsoever. People like, for example, Donald Trump:
[O]n the matter widely considered to be the defining issue of the day, Trump was a no show. Many of his contemporaries fought. Many others protested. He remained firmly on the sidelines, implicitly betting that, in the long run, the war wouldn’t matter (...). Trump was hardly alone in making that bet - and it turned out to be a shrewd one (18).What needs to be underscored here is that, in the 1960s and 70s, freedom had already “liberated” itself from any corresponding sense of responsibility. And this morally anchorless freedom, adrift in a world taken to offer little more than occasions for its exercise, can be said to have found, half a century ago, its champion in the figure of Donald J. Trump. For if Trump sat on the sidelines, a mere spectator to a bloodsport that was as real, or unreal, for him as would be his reality television show, or, for that matter, the presidency itself, he was, as Bacevich notes, by no means alone. Perhaps he was an abomination; but, already, right spank in the middle of the Cold War, “he was also very much a man of his time.”
it is no longer God, something absolute and objective, that stands in the center. On the contrary, the individual subject treats the world as the occasio of his activity and productivity. For him, even the greatest external event - a revolution or a world war [or, say, the Vietnam War -EW] - is intrinsically indifferent. (...) [T]rue reality has only what the subject makes into the object of its creative interest. By means of a simple reversal, the subject has become the creator of the world (96-7).And finally:
Lacking all social and intellectual stability, they [the romantic subjects] succumbed to every powerful complex in their vicinity that made a claim to be taken as true reality. Thus lacking all moral scruples and any sense of responsibility other than that of a zealous and servile functionary, they could allow themselves to be used by any political system (106).Whence the “reality” of Trumpworld, which swerves violently from one truth to the next based on the whims of the real-estate developer at its center - or, rather, based on whatever “powerful complexes (...) ma[king] a claim to be taken as true reality” happen across his twitter feed or television screen. But whence also the “reality” of the world of so many who oppose Trump, people who awakened, as it were, the morning after Trump’s election to something that they didn’t think was possible but who, still today, refuse to recognize that this by itself means that they were asleep.