One of the oldest ideas in Western political thought is the analogy between the individual human and the body politic – think only of Abraham Bosse’s justly celebrated frontispiece for Hobbes’s Leviathan. A giant crowned figure towers over the landscape, his torso and arms made up of over 300 men.
Few historians think about states in this way today. But few historians have had even a tenth of the impact on the popular understanding of history that has been achieved by the polymath Jared Diamond, whose Guns, Germs and Steel (1997) has outsold most, if not all, history books published since. If Diamond now ventures to revive the idea that nations are individuals writ large, we should all pay attention.
“Nations undergo national crises, which … may or may not get resolved successfully through national changes”, he writes. “There is a large body of research and anecdotal information, built up by therapists, about the resolution of personal crises. Could the resulting conclusions help us understand the resolution of national crises?” Diamond believes that they can. Here is the final twist to an extraordinarily eclectic academic career, which began with physiology and seems to be concluding with pop psychology: Diamond has reinvented himself once again, this time as shrink to the nations.
“Successful coping with [crises caused by] either external or internal pressures requires selective change”, he explains. “That’s as true of nations as of individuals.” On close inspection, Upheaval turns out to be the self-help answer to Daron Acemoglu and James Robinson’s Why Nations Fail (2012). Unlike Acemoglu and Robinson’s book, which rested on a broad foundation of social scientific data (of varying degrees of reliability), Diamond’s book is free of datasets and models. In the great American tradition of self-help books, however, it is rich in anecdotes.
In the United Nations General Assembly today, 193 sovereign nations are represented. But Diamond considers the histories of just seven – Finland, Japan, Chile, Indonesia, Germany, Australia and the United States – all of which he knows well, having lived in six of them and learnt all the relevant languages, save Japanese. As he acknowledges, this sample is “too small for extracting statistically significant conclusions”. His approach is therefore narrative and comparative. The book is not archivally researched, but a work of synthesis based on secondary sources. There is nothing wrong with any of that. It is only when Diamond organizes his material by importing insights from the realm of personal experience – his own divorce, the death of a cousin, a friend’s anxieties about her love life – that the historian winces.
Upheaval has twelve organizing ideas drawn from modern psychotherapy and applied to modern history:
1. The first step to dealing with a crisis is acknowledging that you are in crisis, whether you are an individual or a nation.
2. The next step is acceptance of your personal/national responsibility to do something about the situation.
3. Step three is to “build a fence [not necessarily physical] to delineate one’s individual/national problems needing to be solved”.
4. It may then very well help to get material and emotional help from other individuals/nations.
5. You may benefit from using other individuals/nations as models of how to solve problems.
6. You are more likely to succeed if you have “ego strength”, which for states translates as a sense of national identity.
7. Diamond also recommends for both individuals and states “honest self-appraisal”.
8. It helps if you have experience of previous personal/national crises.
9. It also helps to have patience.
10. Flexibility is a good idea.
11. You will benefit from having “core values”.
12. It also helps to have freedom from personal/geopolitical constraints.
Now, there is much in Upheaval to enjoy, especially the more autobiographical passages which radiate Diamond’s own insatiably curious, enquiring, genial personality. But there is a fundamental, inescapable problem with this book, which is that it runs counter to the obvious reality that nation states are not that much like individual people. It would be much more accurate to say that they, like any large-scale polity, are complex systems. As such, they are not governed by the same broadly Gaussian rules as individual members of our species.
For example, we human beings at adulthood are all roughly the same height. A histogram of human stature is a classic bell curve, with most of us somewhere between 5 and 6 feet tall and nobody shorter than a foot or taller than 10. There are no ant-sized people and no human skyscrapers.
This is not true of nation states, a form of polity that became dominant only relatively recently in history. Two mega-states – China and India – account for 36 per cent of the world’s population. Then come eleven big states, from the US down to the Philippines, each of which have over 100 million people, accounting for just over a quarter of the world’s population. Seventy-five medium-sized states have between 10 and 100 million inhabitants: another third of the world’s population. But then there are seventy-one with between 1 million and 10 million (5 per cent of the humanity), forty-one states with between 100,000 and 999,000 (0.2 per cent) and a further thirty-three states with fewer than 100,000 residents.
Of Diamond’s seven case studies, three (the US, Indonesia and Japan) are in the 100 million category; Germany is just below that threshold (82 million); Australia (24 million) and Chile (18 million) are medium-sized; Finland is small but not tiny (5 million).
Just as the sizes of states are not normally distributed, so too are the crises. The major upheavals – wars, revolutions, financial crises, coups – that historians love to study are technically “tail” events, low-frequency, high-impact events located in the tails of the distributions. Again, these very big crises happen more frequently than if they were normally distributed. The incidence of war, for example, would seem to follow a power law. That said, one should not overstate the disastrousness of history. Most days in the history of most countries are quite dull. Even the cataclysmic wars that affected all of Diamond’s countries left most places unscathed. The great revolutions of history – the English, the American, French, the Russian and the Chinese – did not happen everywhere. Some countries (think Argentina) have had vastly more financial crises than others.
Individual human histories are not like this. We may not all have adolescent and midlife crises, but enough of us do for the terms scarcely to need definition. We nearly all have health crises of one sort or another. And we all die – mostly in a relatively narrow age range, again normally distributed.
Some nation states, by contrast, live a very long time. The United Kingdom is more than 400 years old (its constituent parts are much older), the US approaching 250. Others have been subject to tremendous institutional discontinuity. Chinese leaders love to claim that China is 2,000 years old, but this is a fairy tale: the People’s Republic of China is about to celebrate its seventieth birthday, making it twelve years younger than Jared Diamond. And the majority of the world’s nation states are not much older, as they were formed, like Indonesia, in the period of decolonization that followed the end of the Second World War. What is the life expectancy at birth of a nation state? No one can say.
In short, it is surely a giant category error to expect nation states to behave like humans – as if one tried to extrapolate the incidences of pile-ups and traffic jams on motorways from an understanding of the internal combustion engine. At best, Diamond’s book is a sustained metaphor. But precisely because complex polities are not subject to the same constraints as individual people, it is a misleading one. It is even more misleading when, in a final chapter, Diamond attempts to apply his framework to the entire human race and planet.
In each of his cases, the nation in question overcame the crisis or crises that afflicted it. Missing from the sample is one or more of the cases of polities that irrevocably fell apart – such as the Soviet Union or Yugoslavia – or the former protectorates that didn’t make it to independent statehood, or the ethnic groups who never achieved self-government. If nation states are scaled-up individuals, what are these? There are options open to polities, for which dismemberment need not be fatal, which we humans don’t have. The US might not have undone the secession of the Confederacy; the Australian colonies might never have formed a federation; the UK may not come out of its current agonies in one piece.
This brings us to Diamond’s reflections on the contemporary US. He identifies four “fundamental problems now threatening American democracy”, beginning with “our accelerating deterioration of political compromise”, due not just to the well-documented decline of bipartisanship in Washington, but also to the effects of eroding social capital and expanding social media. The other problems he identifies are low electoral participation, not all of it voluntary; rising inequality and declining social mobility; falling educational investment and standards.
How is the patient coping with this slow-burning crisis? “Factors that stand in the way of a good outcome”. observes Dr Diamond, “are our current lack of consensus about whether we are indeed entering a crisis, our frequent blaming of our problems on others rather than recognizing our own responsibilities, the efforts of too many powerful Americans to protect themselves rather than working to fix their country, and our unwillingness to learn from the models of other countries.”
Taking up the challenge of the last point, Diamond seeks to compare the US case with others. But the first rule of comparative history is not to liken apples to lemons, and this is what Diamond proceeds to do by repeatedly likening the US to Chile on the eve of the military dictatorship established in 1973. This analogy overlooks so many differences – not least in terms of the distribution of wealth, especially but not only land – that it is impossible to take seriously. Although Diamond knows that a military coup in the United States is far less likely today than it seemed to some observers in the 1960s, he nevertheless “foresee[s] one political party in power in the U.S. government or in state governments increasingly manipulating voter registration, stacking the courts with sympathetic judges, using those courts to challenge election outcomes, and then invoking ‘law enforcement’ and using the police, the National Guard, the army reserve, or the army itself to suppress political opposition”. This is the kind of febrile thinking that these days pervades American campuses, where professors seem collectively incapable of assessing the politics of their own country in a sober way and predictions of the imminent collapse of the republic are made on a weekly basis.
The reader’s confidence is further undermined by a number of errors. Germany’s last military offensives on the Western Front had failed long before October 1918. Britain voted in 2016 not 2017 to leave the European Union. And it is absurd to assert that Augusto Pinochet’s dictatorship in Chile “smashed previous world records for government-perpetrated sadistic torture”. The crimes of Lenin, Stalin, Hitler and Mao dwarf those of Pinochet by three orders of magnitude. Even Suharto, as Diamond shows, killed vastly more people in Indonesia in 1965.
It is not only in political thought that the tradition of anthropomorphizing the state can be found. Politicians through the ages have spoken of their fatherlands and motherlands, endowing them with the personalities of usually heroic individuals. Uncle Sam and (to a lesser extent) Britannia are still staples of the cartoonist’s craft. (By contrast, Germany has had a severe personality disorder, worse even than Dr Jekyll’s. After the self-inflicted catastrophes of the first half of the twentieth century, its self-image has reverted under Angela Merkel to the stolid but a little simple deutsche Michel of the pre-Unification era.) Yet if there is one thing the historical profession has achieved over the past fifty years, it has been to dismantle such national stereotypes and expose the extent to which they have been instrumentalized nefariously by demagogues and press barons.
In that sense, Upheaval seems as much of a step in the wrong direction as Guns, Germs and Steel was a step in the right one. The older book taught us historians to think more seriously about geography and climate, and not to be afraid of writing world history over long timescales. Those of us who sought to rise to those challenges cannot help being a little disappointed to find Jared Diamond – of all people – telling the kind of nation-as-person stories we thought we had discarded.
Trigger warnings. Safe spaces. Preferred pronouns. Checked privileges. If you work at an American university these days, you have to tread as if on eggshells, if not land mines. One ill-judged microaggression is all it takes to be accused of racism or sexism, transphobia or Islamophobia, harassment or full-blown rape. Often, such accusations lead to investigations that are the antithesis of due process, with the transgressor deemed guilty until proved innocent.
I remember when it was not like this. Sixteen years ago, what lured me away from Oxford to New York University (NYU) and Harvard was the sense that the real intellectual action in my field (economic history) was on the western side of the Atlantic. The US economists, in particular, were impressively free in their speech. To present a paper at one of their seminars was to run a gauntlet of caustic criticism. “There are idiots,” Larry Summers famously began one of his papers. “Look around.” He was right. Unfortunately, idiotic ideas were in the process of taking over large swathes of academic life.
The speed with which campus life has changed for the worse is one of the most important points made by Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt in this important if disturbing book. Lukianoff is a lawyer and head of the Foundation for Individual Rights in Education (Fire), which works to protect academic freedom. Haidt is a professor of social psychology at NYU’s Stern School of Business and the founder of Heterodox Academy, which promotes intellectual diversity in academic life — the one type of diversity that universities appear not to care about.
Of course, the authors no more believe in a prelapsarian paradise than I do. When Allan Bloom published The Closing of the American Mind more than 30 years ago, there were already reasons to worry about where the fad for “political correctness” was leading: after all, Bloom’s subtitle was How Higher Education Has Failed Democracy and Impoverished the Souls of Today’s Students. The crusade against the western civilisation and the “dead white men” who created it is not new.
But Lukianoff and Haidt are describing not the closing but the losing of the American mind. In their view, things changed as recently as 2013, when they first heard students demanding that “triggering” material be removed from courses and “offensive” speakers be disinvited from giving talks.
The media tend to cover only the sensational episodes: the violence at Middlebury College, Vermont, last year when the social scientist Charles Murray came to speak, or the Antifa riot at Berkeley that prevented an appearance by the provocateur Milo Yiannopoulos. But the real story here is much more widespread and insidious. Rowdy protests are the least original things today’s student radicals do — and by the standards of the anti-Vietnam era they are amateurs.
What we see today is more like a religious cult than a political moment. Devotees insist on using the pronouns “they” or the made-up “zhe” for students who regard “he” or “she” as “cis-heteronormative”. They like to congregate in “safe spaces” where they can take refuge from ideas they find uncongenial. (The original safe space, at Brown University in 2015, “was equipped with cookies, colouring books, bubbles, Play-Doh, calming music, pillows, blankets, and a video of frolicking puppies, as well as students and staff members purportedly trained to deal with trauma”. Cult members glory in infantilising themselves.)
Rather than protest against speakers they consider heretics, the zealots prefer to have them disinvited or “no-platformed”. According to Lukianoff’s research, there have been 379 disinvitation campaigns since 2000. Nearly half were successful.
The campus cult also owes a debt to China’s Cultural Revolution. Like their predecessors, today’s American Red Guards like to humiliate academics who stand up to them — professors such as Nick Christakis, the master of Silliman College at Yale, whose wife dared to defend Halloween costumes from the charge of cultural appropriation, and Bret Weinstein, the biology professor at Evergreen who opposed a “day of absence” that required white students and faculty to vacate the college’s premises for a day.
I highly recommend watching the videos of these struggle sessions. The students scream hysterically at their incredulous victim, refusing to let him speak, or sinisterly snapping their fingers to indicate their disapproval.
Lukianoff and Haidt trace all this lunacy back to three bad ideas that have spread throughout American education, beginning in primary school. The first is that “what doesn’t kill you makes you weaker”. The “coddling” of the book’s title begins early with the measures devised in schools to protect children from such menaces as peanut allergies. Today’s students expect to be equally well protected from white supremacists.
Bad idea number two is what the authors call “the untruth of emotional reasoning: always trust your feelings”. Today’s students rarely say: “I think that…” The correct form is: “As a gay woman of colour, I feel that…”
The third bad idea is that “life is a battle between good people and evil people”, an idea lent intellectual respectability by the likes of Herbert Marcuse and Michel Foucault, but the basis for witch-hunts since time immemorial.
As Lukianoff argues, on the basis of his own positive experiences with cognitive behavioural therapy, these ideas are the opposite of what young people need if they are to develop mental resilience.
Yet bad ideas are always lying around. The libraries are full of them. The really interesting question is why these ones have gained ascendancy now. Here Lukianoff and Haidt tell a plausible story. The increasing polarisation and shrill tone of American politics has played a part. The mental-health epidemic, especially among girls, is another variable. (A 2016 report by the Center for Collegiate Mental Health, based on data from 139 colleges, found that half of all students surveyed in 2015–16 had sought counselling for mental-health concerns.)
Children who grew up with smartphones and social media (“iGen”) seem more prone to depression than the millennials who preceded them. Also at fault, however, are the paranoid parents, who thought that wrapping their offspring in cotton wool was the way to raise them.
The final, fatal ingredient has been the tendency of academic administrators to appease snowflake students. Every university in America has an ever-growing contingent of “officers” whose role it is not just to coddle their fragile charges but to encourage them to vent grievances. To give just one example, Fire has found that two-fifths of American colleges have established some form of bias reporting system.
Despite all the evidence they present, the authors are optimists. All this can be fixed, they insist, concluding their book with a list of remedies, from free play for younger children to free speech for older ones. If only the problem were so fixable. Unfortunately, history suggests that such cultural revolutions are quite slow to subside unless, as in China, they are forcibly suppressed. Belief in witchcraft took at least a century to die out after the 17th-century witch craze.
When I look at today’s universities, where conservative academics have gone from being an endangered species to an oxymoron, I see little if any sign of impending improvement. As for Lukianoff and Haidt, it’s surely only a matter of time before they are both “called out” as white supremacists or otherwise defamed.
Once it was closing; now it is coddled. What’s next for the American mind? A return to sanity seems too much to hope for.
Allen Lane £20 pp338
Niall Ferguson is Milbank Family Senior Fellow at the Hoover Institution, Stanford
‘I am a square,” Richard Nixon told a journalist towards the end of his life, drawing a square in the air with his forefinger. “My values are traditional: God, country, family. I am absolutely opposed to the destruction of those values that came about during the Vietnam era. Free love, drugs, tearing down your country, denying God, selfishness and indulgence — everything I despise took root when I was president and there was so little I could do to stop it…I represented everything they were trying to overthrow.”
In the affections of the baby-boomer generation that runs America today — from the Oval Office to the casting couches of Hollywood — Nixon does indeed occupy a uniquely low place. Never in the history of American democracy have so many people loved to hate one man so much.
True, most baby-boomers long ago reached some kind of accommodation with God, country and family. But to this day, they still hate Nixon. They look back on his resignation as one of their generation’s greatest achievements. Although he was by no means the least popular of modern presidents while in office, he is certainly bottom of the league today.
It is, of course, easy to see why Nixon is hated. His presidency ended more ignominiously than any other, with resignation forced upon him following the exposure of his efforts to obstruct the FBI’s investigation of the Watergate break-in. Nor was this an isolated lapse. Dicky was always tricky: witness his denials during the Alger Hiss case that he had spent time at key witness Whittaker Chambers’s farm, or the 1952 funding scandal that nearly cost him his place on the Republican presidential ticket.
Nixon’s youthful anti-communism, too, always irritated liberals. As a congressman, he came to national attention with his implacable pursuit of Hiss, the State Department official accused of spying for the Soviet Union. As Dwight D Eisenhower’s vice-president in the 1950s, he continued to play the Cold Warrior, famously confronting Nikita Khrushchev in a televised debate about the merits of Soviet and American kitchens. Above all, there was Nixon’s ultimately unsuccessful attempt to save South Vietnam from communism, unhappy memories of which are currently being stirred by Ken Burns and Lynn Novick’s 18-hour documentary series.
In this new biography, John A Farrell (born in 1953, Nixon’s first year as vice-president) re-retells the tale in terms that few of his fellow boomers will find objectionable. We read here of Nixon’s culpability in helping the South Vietnamese “steal…a moment of genuine hope” for peace in Vietnam in 1968 — according to Farrell, the “most reprehensible” of all Nixon’s acts. We read, too, that an option existed the following year, Nixon’s first as president, for “an immediate withdrawal of US forces under terms that would lead to the unification of Vietnam under a communist government”. Instead, Farrell writes: “More than 20,000 US soldiers…died on Nixon’s watch.”
Never mind that these counterfactuals can easily be shown to be unrealistic and the statistic misleading. The conspiracy theory that Nixon scuttled a chance for peace in 1968 has two logical defects. First, the South Vietnamese knew very well, without any help from Nixon, that President Lyndon B Johnson was cynically timing a Vietnam “October surprise” to help Hubert Humphrey defeat Nixon. They had every incentive to drag their feet and hope for a Republican victory. Second, the North Vietnamese had no serious intention of making peace in 1968 or 1969. Despite the failure of their Tet Offensive, they had not given up on achieving outright military victory even as they went to Paris to negotiate in bad faith.
As for the death toll, the reality is that nearly two-thirds of all US fatalities in Vietnam happened under Democratic administrations. And of the 21,000 who died between 1969 and 1974, more than half lost their lives in 1969. By 1974, the toll was down to one. The Nixon administration ended American involvement in the Vietnam War. It was not Nixon, but the Democrat-dominated Congress that doomed South Vietnam by cutting off the aid on which its defence depended.
Farrell’s misrepresentation of Nixon’s Vietnam policy is unfortunate, as it detracts from his readable if superficial book’s recognition that, on a host of issues, Nixon was in truth the most liberal Republican president of the modern era. Admittedly, this was partly a matter of congressional arithmetic. As Farrell notes, Nixon was the first president since Zachary Taylor in 1849 to take office with both houses of Congress in the hands of the opposition party. Yet Nixon was drawn to the kind of big government solutions to social problems that the Democrats had favoured since Franklin D Roosevelt’s New Deal. “The problem with the right-wingers,” he told HR Haldeman, his chief of staff, was that “they have a totally hard-hearted attitude where human problems and any compassion is concerned.” As Alan Greenspan, the future Federal Reserve chairman, rightly noted: “The size of government under Nixon grew immensely. His reasoning was always, ‘Well, if we don’t do it, they [the Democrats] will do more.’”
As assistant to the president for domestic policy, Daniel Patrick Moynihan introduced the Family Assistance Plan, a welfare reform that guaranteed a basic annual income, day care, and training for the jobless. This was just one of many Nixon-era initiatives that modern-day conservatives blame for the subsequent hypertrophic growth of the “administrative state”.
Farrell dwells on Nixon’s “Southern strategy”, which was designed to woo disgruntled white voters away from the Democrats by implicitly criticising the previous administration’s civil-rights legislation. Race was without question the decisive factor in the 1968 election, but more because so many erstwhile Democrats defected to the segregationist George Wallace. Once in office, Nixon pushed harder than his predecessor for the desegregation of Southern schools. He increased by a factor of 35 the funds available for enforcing civil rights.
Abroad, too, Nixon confounded efforts to typecast him. Not only was he intent on ending the Vietnam War; it was Nixon who went to China and met Mao Tse-tung, Nixon who signed the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty and the interim Strategic Arms Limitation agreement with the Soviets in May 1972.
Many commentators today draw casual parallels between Donald Trump and Nixon. The only things the two men really have in common, thus far, is their irresistible impulse to wage war on the media and the media’s insatiable desire to do them in. Contrary to liberal folk memory, Nixon was a centrist who secured a second term by a landslide not through skulduggery but because his foreign and domestic policies were hugely popular. That he was a square was a large part of his appeal at a time of national and international upheaval. That he was a crooked square should not distract us, as it has distracted Farrell, from the undoubted achievements of his presidency.
Doubleday £30 pp737
Niall Ferguson is the author of Kissinger: 1923-68: The Idealist
Tony Judt is an intellectuals' intellectual. To review a book composed of his book reviews, which are often about other people who wrote a lot of book reviews, you feel you really ought to be sitting in a caf' on the Rive Gauche, smoking Gauloises and sipping Pernod.
In fact, you are more likely to encounter Judt in downtown Manhattan, where he directs the Erich Maria Remarque Centre at New York University. Readers of Postwar, his recent, critically acclaimed history of Europe since 1945, will know that he is a highly readable authority on sometimes unreadable west European (and especially French) intellectuals. What this new collection reveals, however, is how the Left Bank looks viewed from the West Village.
A regular reviewer for the unwaveringly liberal New York Review of Books, Judt is accustomed to writing for an elite American audience. At times, he is content to lead that audience in a liberal singalong. On page one of Reappraisals, he laments the years between the fall of the Berlin wall and "the catastrophic American occupation of Iraq" as "the years the locust ate: a decade and a half of wasted opportunity and political incompetence on both sides of the Atlantic". His parting shot is a call for "the left in Europe ... to reconstruct a case for the activist state". Ho hum.
Thankfully, Judt says these boring things only so his liberal readers drop their guard. Then he delivers the intellectual equivalent of a left hook. "The Jewish intellectuals of interwar and postwar Central Europe", he writes, "were especially drawn to Marxism ... 'Zydokomuna' ('Judeo-communism') may be an anti-Semitic term of abuse in Polish nationalist circles, but for a few crucial years it also described a reality." It takes nerve to write a sentence like that, especially in the NYRB.
The uppercut soon follows: "After 37 years of military occupation [of Gaza and the West Bank since 1967], Israel has gained nothing in security; it has lost everything in domestic civility and international responsibility; and it has forfeited the moral high ground forever."
And finally, a knockout punch: "Eric Hobsbawm is the most naturally gifted historian of our time; but rested and untroubled, he has somehow slept through the terror and the shame of the age."
Judt is by education (King's, Cambridge, 1966-1972) a man of the left. But, as his devastating verdict on Hobsbawm suggests, he reserves his harshest words for Marxist intellectuals, especially formerly line-toeing communists. Judt now understands what some people knew all along: "Some version of liberalism that accords the maximum of freedom and initiative in every sphere of life is the only possible option."
Judt is also by birth and upbringing a secular Jew; the descendant of Lithuanian rabbis, he spent his gap year on a kibbutz and even volunteered for the Israeli Defence Forces during the Six-Day war. But in this volume he bestows his highest praise on Edward Said, for decades the Palestinians' most vociferous spokesman in the US.
He even endorses Said's view that Israel should recognise the Palestinian refugees' "right of return" and become a "binational" state, shared equally between Jews and Arabs.
Many of the "rootless cosmopolitans" about whom Judt writes were uprooted by forces beyond their control. Judt is a cosmopolitan who has uprooted himself. He has lapsed not just once but twice: as a socialist and as a Zionist.
It is not surprising, then, that so many of Judt's heroes are what the Germans call Querdenker or contrarian thinkers: Arthur Koestler, Hannah Arendt and, especially, Albert Camus. The thread linking these intellectuals, in Judt's mind, was their readiness to question dogma, especially when they saw it used to justify violence. "Mistaken ideas always end in bloodshed," he (twice) quotes Camus, "but in every case it is someone else's blood."
As a rule, the Querdenker ends up with more enemies than friends. Certainly, Judt lost friends by criticising Israel. But he is clearly a man with the courage of his (new) convictions. He abhors bloodshed but relishes a verbal fight. You sense that he rather admires Koestler for (as one contemporary recalled) being "capable of reciting the truths of the multiplication table in a way to make some people indignant with him".
Judt certainly has a wonderful eye for the telling quotation. Here, in all its awfulness, is the snobbery of the London left circa 1970, as exemplified by Sonia Orwell at a dinner party: "Auschwitz, oh dear, no! That person was never in Auschwitz. Only in some very minor death camp."
Also beautifully captured is the pompous, overblown style that EP Thompson favoured in debate: "There was a time when you, and the causes for which you stood, were present in our innermost thoughts," he wrote to the great Polish political philosopher Leszek Kolakowski, author of the definitive (and damning) Main Currents of Marxism. Kolakowski's withering riposte was entitled "My Correct Views on Everything".
Judt's deepest fear is that this world - that of the "free-standing intellectual" - is fading as fast as the Marxist ideology that was its principal talking point. Nothing, in his view, can be done to salvage Marxism. But Judt would love to preserve the milieu within which it was discussed - though I can't help feeling that intellectuals without Marxism are a bit like jazz musicians without cigarette smoke.
Like all collections of essays, this one has its duds. On the fall of France in 1940 Judt is beta-double-plus at best. Ditto the piece on the Cuban missile crisis. There is disappointingly little insight in the 1998 critique of Henry Kissinger. And, apart from one slightly funny line ("Blair ... is the gnome in England's Garden of Forgetting"), the piece on New Labour's Britain is off-key.
The discrepancy between these and the many straight alpha essays is easily explained. When Judt writes about generals, politicians and statesmen, he is playing away from home, far from his familiar bohemian haunts. Try as he may, he simply cannot empathise with the men of action who actually make history.
It is only as a reviewer of those who themselves review - the denizens of the caf's, not the situation rooms - that the intellectuals' intellectual excels.