Political Asylum — November 5, 2012, 9:42 pm

The Withdrawal of the American Establishment

An election-eve elegy for the country???s former guardians of sanity

Regardless of what happens in the presidential election tomorrow, the one undeniable fact to come out of this campaign is that the American establishment has punted.

Since before the Second World War, the establishment—the powerful, the affluent, the leading opinion-makers in the national press, clustered disproportionately but not exclusively along the Northeast Corridor—has claimed the right to shape the acceptable parameters of our national debate, and to define what our national priorities should be.

No more. What this election has made clear is that our elite has seceded so far from the rest of the United States—a process that has been underway for decades—that they are now concerned almost exclusively with their own most narrow self-interest.

The establishment has not always won, and it has not always been right. During the Cold War, it was responsible for debacles like Vietnam, as well as the most heinous crimes America has committed in the greater world, such as the campaigns of assassination, terrorism, and torture we aided and abetted in Latin America.

Yet while the establishment was capable of such calamitous missteps, it was also able to steer the country away from disaster and extremism. When Midwestern isolationists in the Republican Party seemed on the verge of nominating their champion, Ohio senator Robert Taft, in the midst of World War II, for example, the Atlanticists in the East quickly manufactured an internationalist alternative in Wendell Willkie.

In 1964, when a far-right stealth movement toppled the Republican hierarchy and nominated Barry Goldwater—in what was more a logistical coup than a genuine grassroots uprising—the establishment struck back with a vengeance. Leading party figures such as Nelson Rockefeller, William Scranton, Charles Percy, and yes, George Romney, balked or dragged their feet at supporting the top of the ticket. Ike stayed on his farm at Gettysburg.

And for only the second time since the Civil War, the vast majority of the nation’s magazines and newspapers endorsed the Democratic candidate. Such staunchly Republican outlets as the Hearst syndicate, the New York Herald Tribune, the Cleveland Plain-Dealer, the Rocky Mountain News, the Detroit Free Press, the Philadelphia Bulletin—papers that had not endorsed a Democrat for president since the 1930s, or the nineteenth century, or ever—turned away from Goldwater.

The result was a landslide for Johnson, and the lesson was clear: Goldwater’s right-wing radicalism, and the sheer, unbridgeable contradictions of his campaign, would not be tolerated. Thus, even during the slow emergence of Reaganism over the next thirty years or so, the establishment helped keep in place what was still basically the New Deal/Great Society/Cold War consensus.

This all began to come a cropper during the 1990s, as the G.O.P. started to change into a hardline ideological party. Just how far this change had progressed, and how radical (and nonsensical) the party had become grew into full, horrifying perspective during the 2012 primary season, as the Traveling Klown Kollege of Republican candidates paraded around the country, offering paeans to Ayn Rand, promising to dissolve what remains of the social-safety net, telling parents not to send their kids to college, falling all over themselves to promise vast new wars and confrontations with leading foreign powers, scornfully mocking our allies in Europe, and promising enormous, budget-dissolving tax cuts for the wealthiest among us. Fifty—or even twenty-five—years ago, the establishment would have taken one look at this menagerie and reached for the power switch. But this time, they didn’t.

Most disappointing of all was the response of the mainstream media, which seemed more intent on protecting their tattered brands than on protecting the country from dangerous ideologies. The coverage of the campaign by the New York Times this weekend, for instance, seemed intended mostly as a requiem for the president’s career. A front-page article on Saturday contained two different pictures of an exhausted Barack Obama, around a story stressing how much grayer and careworn he looked than four years ago, and how much smaller and less excited his crowds were.

False equivalencies between the candidates have abounded in the media. Both the Times’s leading European correspondent, Steven Erlanger, and columnist Frank Bruni chastised the president for daring to dismiss Governor Romney’s suggestion that our current navy might be weaker than it was in 1916, and our air force weaker than the one we had in 1947. Old establishmentarians would have been appalled that a major-party candidate would dare spout such nonsense. Not today’s national media, which exists largely in the relative world that the American right prefers. Similarly, both Nicholas Kristof of the Times and Bruni blamed Obama and Romney equally for having ignored climate change in their three debates,” as though the candidate who has at least made some effort at slowing climate change and the candidate who has openly ridiculed the very idea of it are one and the same.

This is not simply poor reporting, I fear, but a vital moral obliviousness. Bruni’s Sunday column—again equating the tone and substance of the two candidates’ campaigns—called for a truce on acrimony after the election; for “granting that person [the winner] an initial degree and grace period of trust.”

It’s a nice thought. But one of the proposals Romney has backed is a constitutional amendment that would ban gay marriage—thereby enshrining millions of Americans, including Bruni himself, as second-class citizens. Should Democrats really allow President Romney a “grace period” to carry out such policies? Or to limit women’s access to birth control? Or to strip Medicare away from seniors, or Social Security benefits from those under age fifty-five, or to pack the Supreme Court with more right-wing extremists . . .

I don’t mean to pick on Bruni, or to suppose that he would seriously countenance any of the above. But to pledge oneself to tolerance and patience in the face of opponents who vow to pursue fanatical and immoral policies—and who have granted absolutely no such tolerance and patience to the president now laboring through the end of his term—is to adopt a chilling moral neutrality.

Many in the media elite have even made the pernicious argument that the very radicalism of the Republicans—and the very opportunism of Mitt Romney—are the best reasons to give them power. Here is the Times’s Grand Exalted Mufti of Silly, David Brooks—in an article titled “The Upside of Opportunism”—arguing that while it’s true President Obama, in a second term, would push “a moderate and sensible agenda,” it’s best to elect Romney, with his proven, “shape-shifting nature . . .”

Brooks’s reasoning is that a Democratic Senate would force Romney to abandon the far-right budget plan that his running mate came up with, and that his entire party signed on to. Then, despite an “uproar” from the Republican base, “Republicans in Congress would probably go along.” In the end, “Romney is more of a flexible flip-flopper than Obama” and is “more likely to get big stuff done.” Brooks offers no hint as to what will happen if, say, Romney’s right-wing friends in the House don’t go along, or if there’s no operative Democratic majority in the Senate.

But believe it or not, this argument has actually caught on. The Des Moines Register, for instance, in its much-ballyhooed endorsement of a Republican presidential candidate for the first time since it backed Richard Nixon in 1972, admits that “The president’s prescription upon entering office was a government stimulus, which was the right call”—and, though the paper’s editorial doesn’t mention it, one that Romney didn’t support. Nonetheless, it buys into Romney’s magical thinking that simply electing him will imbue consumers and corporate heads alike with “a new sense of confidence.”

Ah, yes. “Vote for the man who was wrong before if you want confidence!”

It may seem difficult to believe that adults who manage to dress themselves and go to work every morning can write—and believe—such dreck. But look closely enough at their arguments, and there’s a simple enough explanation for it—one of the oldest and most understandable ones in the book: They don’t want to admit they were wrong.

In fact, the Times’s Thomas Friedman, reigning grand doyen of conventional wisdom, was arguing on Sunday that he and his fellow believers in a “grand bargain” could not be wrong. No matter who wins this election, a “civil war” will start within both parties, eventually, driving them back into “the center-right/center-left.”

“Had Obama, though, embraced the Simpson–Bowles deficit-reduction plan and run from the center from the start, Romney would have been locked out on the fringes long ago and never been able to pull off his ‘born again’ move to moderation,” Friedman insisted.

Friedman and his friends in the DLC have been pushing this center-left/center-right idea for more than twenty years, and it has as little traction now as it did in the beginning. A “grand bargain” that makes older Americans retire later on less money, in exchange for the rich paying a slightly higher tax rate and maybe fixing a few bridges is not shared sacrifice, and not a bargain.

A health care plan that still doesn’t insure everyone, doesn’t control costs, but forces millions to buy a product from a corrupt cartel; a re-regulation of Wall Street that still leaves us with banks too large to fail and no real penalties for financial skullduggery; a set of fiscal policies that don’t address and never have addressed the fundamental flaws in our Ponzi-scheme economy—all this and so many more items from the “center-left/center-right” come straight from the Island of Misfit Policy Toys.

Yet this is the agenda that today’s American establishment preferred, and this is the agenda that Barack Obama loyally followed. It’s too late now to try to pass the blame off on his salesmanship, or to pretend that it won’t really matter if he’s replaced by some cipher of a candidate and his wingnut party. One after another, these individuals have agreed that Obama did what they consider to be the right thing.

The old establishment would at least have stood by their man, because they believed it meant standing by their country. Those who would lead and direct us today are washing their hands, concerned first and foremost with preserving their own brands.

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The Printed Word in Peril·

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In February, at an event at the 92nd Street Y’s Unterberg Poetry Center in New York, while sharing the stage with my fellow British writer Martin Amis and discussing the impact of screen-based reading and bidirectional digital media on the Republic of Letters, I threw this query out to an audience that I estimate was about three hundred strong: “Have any of you been reading anything by Norman Mailer in the past year?” After a while, one hand went up, then another tentatively semi-elevated. Frankly I was surprised it was that many. Of course, there are good reasons why Mailer in particular should suffer posthumous obscurity with such alacrity: his brand of male essentialist braggadocio is arguably extraneous in the age of Trump, Weinstein, and fourth-wave feminism. Moreover, Mailer’s brilliance, such as it was, seemed, even at the time he wrote, to be sparks struck by a steely intellect against the tortuous rocks of a particular age, even though he labored tirelessly to the very end, principally as the booster of his own reputation.

It’s also true that, as J. G. Ballard sagely remarked, for a writer, death is always a career move, and for most of us the move is a demotion, as we’re simultaneously lowered into the grave and our works into the dustbin. But having noted all of the above, it remains the case that Mailer’s death coincided with another far greater extinction: that of the literary milieu in which he’d come to prominence and been sustained for decades. It’s a milieu that I hesitate to identify entirely with what’s understood by the ringing phrase “the Republic of Letters,” even though the overlap between the two was once great indeed; and I cannot be alone in wondering what will remain of the latter once the former, which not long ago seemed so very solid, has melted into air.

What I do feel isolated in—if not entirely alone in—is my determination, as a novelist, essayist, and journalist, not to rage against the dying of literature’s light, although it’s surprising how little of this there is, but merely to examine the great technological discontinuity of our era, as we pivot from the wave to the particle, the fractal to the fungible, and the mechanical to the computable. I first began consciously responding, as a literary practitioner, to the manifold impacts of ­BDDM in the early 2000s—although, being the age I am, I have been feeling its effects throughout my working life—and I first started to write and speak publicly about it around a decade ago. Initially I had the impression I was being heard out, if reluctantly, but as the years have passed, my attempts to limn the shape of this epochal transformation have been met increasingly with outrage, and even abuse, in particular from my fellow writers.

As for my attempts to express the impact of the screen on the page, on the actual pages of literary novels, I now understand that these were altogether irrelevant to the requirement of the age that everything be easier, faster, and slicker in order to compel the attention of screen viewers. It strikes me that we’re now suffering collectively from a “tyranny of the virtual,” since we find ourselves unable to look away from the screens that mediate not just print but, increasingly, reality itself.

Photograph (detail) by Ellen Cantor from her Prior Pleasures series © The artist. Courtesy dnj Gallery, Santa Monica, California
Among Britain’s Anti-Semites·

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This is the story of how the institutions of British Jewry went to war with Jeremy Corbyn, the leader of the Labour Party. Corbyn is another feather in the wind of populism and a fragmentation of the old consensus and politesse. He was elected to the leadership by the party membership in 2015, and no one was more surprised than he. Between 1997 and 2010, Corbyn voted against his own party 428 times. He existed as an ideal, a rebuke to the Blairite leadership, and the only wise man on a ship of fools. His schtick is that of a weary, kindly, socialist Father Christmas, dragged from his vegetable patch to create a utopia almost against his will. But in 2015 the ideal became, reluctantly, flesh. Satirists mock him as Jesus Christ, and this is apt. But only just. He courts sainthood, and if you are very cynical you might say that, like Christ, he shows Jews what they should be. He once sat on the floor of a crowded train, though he was offered a first-class seat, possibly as a private act of penance to those who had, at one time or another, had no seat on a train.

When Corbyn became leader of the Labour Party, the British media, who are used to punching socialists, crawled over his record and found much to alarm the tiny Jewish community of 260,000. Corbyn called Hez­bollah “friends” and said Hamas, also his “friends,” were devoted “to long-term peace and social justice.” (He later said he regretted using that language.) He invited the Islamist leader Raed Salah, who has accused Jews of killing Christian children to drink their blood, to Parliament, and opposed his extradition. Corbyn is also a patron of the Palestine Solidarity Campaign and a former chair of Stop the War, at whose rallies they chant, “From the river to the sea / Palestine will be free.” (There is no rhyme for what will happen to the Jewish population in this paradise.) He was an early supporter of the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement and its global campaign to delegitimize Israel and, through the right of return for Palestinians, end its existence as a Jewish state. (His office now maintains that he does not support BDS. The official Labour Party position is for a two-state solution.) In the most recent general election, only 13 percent of British Jews intended to vote Labour.

Corbyn freed something. The scandals bloomed, swiftly. In 2016 Naz Shah, Labour MP for Bradford West, was suspended from the party for sharing a Facebook post that suggested Israel be relocated to the United States. She apologized publicly, was reinstated, and is now a shadow women and equalities minister. Ken Livingstone, the former mayor of London and a political supporter of Corbyn, appeared on the radio to defend Shah and said, “When Hitler won his election in 1932, his policy then was that Jews should be moved to Israel. He was supporting Zionism before he went mad and ended up killing six million Jews.” For this comment, Livingstone was suspended from the party.

A protest against anti-Semitism in the Labour Party in Parliament Square, London, March 26, 2018 (detail) © Yui Mok/PA Images/Getty Images
Nothing but Gifts·

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If necessity is the stern but respectable mother of invention, then perhaps desperation is the derelict father of subterfuge. That was certainly the case when I moved to Seattle in 1979.

Though I’d lived there twice during the previous five years, I wasn’t prepared for the economic boom I found upon this latest arrival. Not only had rent increased sharply in all but the most destitute neighborhoods, landlords now routinely demanded first, last, and a hefty security deposit, which meant I was short by about fifty percent. Over the first week or so, I watched with mounting anxiety as food, gas, and lodging expenses reduced the meager half I did have to a severely deficient third. To make matters even more nerve-racking, I was relocating with my nine-year-old son, Ezra. More than my well-being was at stake.

A veteran of cold, solitary starts in strange cities, I knew our best hope wasn’t the classifieds, and certainly not an agency, but the serendipity of the streets—handmade for rent signs, crowded bulletin boards in laundromats and corner grocery stores, passersby on the sidewalk; I had to exploit every opportunity that might present itself, no matter how oblique or improbable. In Eastlake, at the edge of Lake Union between downtown Seattle and the University District, I spied a shabby but vacant one-story house on the corner of a block that was obviously undergoing transition—overgrown lots and foundation remnants where other houses once stood—and that had at least one permanent feature most right-minded people would find forbidding: an elevated section of Interstate 5 just across the street, attended by the incessant roar of cars and trucks. The house needed a new roof, a couple of coats of paint, and, judging by what Ezra and I could detect during a furtive inspection, major repair work inside, including replacing damaged plaster-and-lath walls with sheetrock. All of this, from my standpoint, meant that I might have found a solution to my dilemma.

The next step was locating the owner, a roundabout process that eventually required a trip to the tax assessor’s office. I called the person listed on the rolls and made an appointment. Then came the moment of truth, or, more precisely, untruth, when dire circumstance begot strategic deception. I’d never renovated so much as a closet, but that didn’t stop me from declaring confidently that I possessed both the skills and the willingness to restore the entire place to a presentable—and, therefore, rentable—state in exchange for being able to live there for free, with the length of stay to be determined as work progressed. To my immense relief, the pretense was well received. Indeed, the owner also seemed relieved, if a bit surprised, that he’d have seemingly trustworthy tenants; homeless people who camped beneath the freeway, he explained, had repeatedly broken into the house and used it for all manner of depravity. Telling myself that inspired charlatanry is superior to mundane trespassing—especially this instance of charlatanry, which would yield some actual good—I accepted the keys from my new landlord.

Photograph (detail) © Larry Towell/Magnum Photos
Checkpoint Nation·

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Laura Sandoval threaded her way through idling taxis and men selling bottles of water toward the entrance of the Cordova International Bridge, which links Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, to El Paso, Texas. Earlier that day, a bright Saturday in December 2012, Sandoval had crossed over to Juárez to console a friend whose wife had recently died. She had brought him a few items he had requested—eye drops, the chimichangas from Allsup’s he liked—and now that her care package had been delivered, she was in a hurry to get back to the Texas side, where she’d left her car. She had a …
Checkpoint on I-35 near Encinal, Texas (detail) © Gabriella Demczuk

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Illustration by Stan Fellows

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