Writing in the Dark (8 page)
Read Writing in the Dark Online
Authors: David Grossman
The second question I asked while writing
See Under: Love
is closely related to the first one, and in some ways even derives from it: I asked myself how an ordinary, normal person—as most Nazis and their supporters were—becomes part of a mass-murder apparatus.
In other words, what is the thing that I must suspend within myself, that I must dull, repress, so that I can ultimately collaborate with a mechanism of murder?
What must I kill within me to be capable of killing another person or people, to desire the destruction of an entire people, or to silently accept it?
See Under: Love
is closely related to the first one, and in some ways even derives from it: I asked myself how an ordinary, normal person—as most Nazis and their supporters were—becomes part of a mass-murder apparatus.
In other words, what is the thing that I must suspend within myself, that I must dull, repress, so that I can ultimately collaborate with a mechanism of murder?
What must I kill within me to be capable of killing another person or people, to desire the destruction of an entire people, or to silently accept it?
Perhaps I should ask this question even more pointedly: Am I myself, consciously or unconsciously, actively
or passively, through indifference or with mute acceptance, collaborating at this very moment with some process that is destined to wreak havoc on another human being, or on another group of people?
or passively, through indifference or with mute acceptance, collaborating at this very moment with some process that is destined to wreak havoc on another human being, or on another group of people?
“The death of one man is a tragedy,” Stalin said, “but the death of millions is only statistics.” How do tragedies become statistics for us?
I am not saying, of course, that we are all murderers.
Of course not.
Yet it seems that most of us manage to lead a life of almost total indifference to the suffering of entire nations, near and far, and to the distress of hundreds of millions of human beings who are poor and hungry and weak and sick, whether in our own countries or in other parts of the world.
We are capable of developing apathy and alienation toward the suffering of the foreigners who come to work for us, and toward the misery of people under occupation—ours, and others’—and toward the anguish of billions of people living under any kind of dictatorship or enslavement.
I am not saying, of course, that we are all murderers.
Of course not.
Yet it seems that most of us manage to lead a life of almost total indifference to the suffering of entire nations, near and far, and to the distress of hundreds of millions of human beings who are poor and hungry and weak and sick, whether in our own countries or in other parts of the world.
We are capable of developing apathy and alienation toward the suffering of the foreigners who come to work for us, and toward the misery of people under occupation—ours, and others’—and toward the anguish of billions of people living under any kind of dictatorship or enslavement.
With wondrous ease we create the necessary mechanisms to separate ourselves from the suffering of others.
Intellectually and emotionally, we manage to detach the causal relationship between, for example, our economic affluence—in the sated and prosperous Western countries—and the poverty of others.
Between our own luxuries and the shameful working conditions of others.
Between our air-conditioned, motorized quality of life and the ecological disasters it brings about.
Intellectually and emotionally, we manage to detach the causal relationship between, for example, our economic affluence—in the sated and prosperous Western countries—and the poverty of others.
Between our own luxuries and the shameful working conditions of others.
Between our air-conditioned, motorized quality of life and the ecological disasters it brings about.
These “Others” live in such appalling conditions that they are not usually able to even ask the questions I am
asking here.
After all, it is not only genocide that can eradicate a person’s
luz
: hunger, poverty, disease, and refugee status can defile and slowly kill the soul of an individual, and sometimes of a whole people.
asking here.
After all, it is not only genocide that can eradicate a person’s
luz
: hunger, poverty, disease, and refugee status can defile and slowly kill the soul of an individual, and sometimes of a whole people.
There are many terrible things occurring not far from us, for which we are unwilling to take any personal responsibility, either through active involvement or through empathy.
It is convenient for us, where the burden of personal responsibility is concerned, to become part of a crowd, a faceless crowd with no identity, seemingly free from responsibility and absolved of blame.
It is convenient for us, where the burden of personal responsibility is concerned, to become part of a crowd, a faceless crowd with no identity, seemingly free from responsibility and absolved of blame.
Perhaps it is only in this global reality, where so much of our life is lived in a mass dimension, that we can be so indifferent to mass destruction.
For it is the very same indifference that the vast majority of the world displays time after time, whether during the Armenian Holocaust or the Jewish Holocaust, in Rwanda or in Bosnia, in the Congo, in Darfur, and in many other places.
For it is the very same indifference that the vast majority of the world displays time after time, whether during the Armenian Holocaust or the Jewish Holocaust, in Rwanda or in Bosnia, in the Congo, in Darfur, and in many other places.
And perhaps, then, this is the great question that people living in this age must relentlessly ask themselves: In what state, at which moment, do I become part of the faceless crowd, “the masses”?
There are a number of ways to describe the process whereby the individual is swallowed up in the crowd, or agrees to hand over parts of himself to mass control.
Since we, here, are people of literature and language, I will choose the one closest to our interests and to our way of life: I become part of “the masses” when I give up the right to think and formulate my own words, in my
own language, instead accepting automatically and uncritically the formulations and language that others dictate.
Since we, here, are people of literature and language, I will choose the one closest to our interests and to our way of life: I become part of “the masses” when I give up the right to think and formulate my own words, in my
own language, instead accepting automatically and uncritically the formulations and language that others dictate.
I become “the masses” when I stop formulating my own choices and the moral compromises I make.
When I stop articulating them over and over again, with fresh new words each time, words that have not yet eroded in me, not yet congealed in me, which I cannot ignore or defend myself against, and which force me to face the decisions I have made, and to pay the price for them.
When I stop articulating them over and over again, with fresh new words each time, words that have not yet eroded in me, not yet congealed in me, which I cannot ignore or defend myself against, and which force me to face the decisions I have made, and to pay the price for them.
The masses, as we know, cannot exist without
mass language
—a language that will consolidate the multitude and spur it on to act in a certain way, formulating justifications for its acts and simplifying the moral and emotional contradictions it may encounter.
In other words, the language of the masses is a language intended to liberate the individual from responsibility for his actions, to temporarily sever his private, individual judgment from his sound logic and natural sense of justice.
mass language
—a language that will consolidate the multitude and spur it on to act in a certain way, formulating justifications for its acts and simplifying the moral and emotional contradictions it may encounter.
In other words, the language of the masses is a language intended to liberate the individual from responsibility for his actions, to temporarily sever his private, individual judgment from his sound logic and natural sense of justice.
The values and horizons of our world, the atmosphere that prevails in it and the language that dominates it, are dictated to a great extent by what is known as mass media, or mass communication.
The term “mass media” was coined in the 1920s, when sociologists began to refer to “mass society.” But are we truly aware of the significance of this term today, and of the process it has gone through?
Do we consider the fact not only that, to a large
extent, the “mass media” today are media designed for the masses, but that in many ways they also
turn their consumers into the masses
?
The term “mass media” was coined in the 1920s, when sociologists began to refer to “mass society.” But are we truly aware of the significance of this term today, and of the process it has gone through?
Do we consider the fact not only that, to a large
extent, the “mass media” today are media designed for the masses, but that in many ways they also
turn their consumers into the masses
?
They do so with the belligerence and the cynicism that emanate from all their manifestations; with their shallow, vulgar language; with the oversimplification and self-righteousness with which they handle complex political and moral problems; with the kitsch in which they douse everything they touch—the kitsch of war and death, the kitsch of love, the kitsch of intimacy.
A cursory look would indicate that these kinds of media actually focus on particular personas rather than on the masses.
On the individual rather than on the collective.
But this is a dangerous illusion: although mass media emphasize and even sanctify the individual, and seem to direct the individual more and more toward himself, they are ultimately directing him
only
toward himself—his own needs, his clear and narrow interests.
In an endless variety of ways, both open and hidden, they liberate him from what he is already eager to shed: responsibility for the consequences of his actions on others.
And the moment they anesthetize this responsibility in him, they also dull his political, social, and moral awareness, molding him into conveniently submissive raw material for their own manipulations and those of other interested parties.
In other words, they turn him into one of the masses.
On the individual rather than on the collective.
But this is a dangerous illusion: although mass media emphasize and even sanctify the individual, and seem to direct the individual more and more toward himself, they are ultimately directing him
only
toward himself—his own needs, his clear and narrow interests.
In an endless variety of ways, both open and hidden, they liberate him from what he is already eager to shed: responsibility for the consequences of his actions on others.
And the moment they anesthetize this responsibility in him, they also dull his political, social, and moral awareness, molding him into conveniently submissive raw material for their own manipulations and those of other interested parties.
In other words, they turn him into one of the masses.
These forms of media—written, electronic, online, often free, highly accessible, highly influential—have an
existential need to preserve the public’s interest, to constantly stimulate its hungry desires.
And so even when ostensibly dealing with issues of moral and human import, and even when ostensibly assuming a role of social responsibility, still the finger they point at hotbeds of corruption and wrongdoing and suffering seems mechanical, automatic, with no sincere interest in the problems it highlights.
Their true purpose—apart from generating profits for their owners—is to preserve a continually stimulated state of “public condemnation” or “public exoneration” of certain individuals, who change at the speed of light.
This rapid exchange is the message of mass media.
Sometimes it seems that it is not the information itself that the media deem essential, but merely the rate at which it shifts.
The neurotic, covetous, consumerist, seductive beat they create.
The zeitgeist: the zapping is the message.
existential need to preserve the public’s interest, to constantly stimulate its hungry desires.
And so even when ostensibly dealing with issues of moral and human import, and even when ostensibly assuming a role of social responsibility, still the finger they point at hotbeds of corruption and wrongdoing and suffering seems mechanical, automatic, with no sincere interest in the problems it highlights.
Their true purpose—apart from generating profits for their owners—is to preserve a continually stimulated state of “public condemnation” or “public exoneration” of certain individuals, who change at the speed of light.
This rapid exchange is the message of mass media.
Sometimes it seems that it is not the information itself that the media deem essential, but merely the rate at which it shifts.
The neurotic, covetous, consumerist, seductive beat they create.
The zeitgeist: the zapping is the message.
In this world I have described, literature has no influential representatives in the centers of power, and I find it difficult to believe that literature can change it.
But it can offer different ways to live in it.
To live with an internal rhythm and an internal continuity that fulfill our emotional and spiritual needs far more than what is violently imposed upon us by the external systems.
But it can offer different ways to live in it.
To live with an internal rhythm and an internal continuity that fulfill our emotional and spiritual needs far more than what is violently imposed upon us by the external systems.
I know that when I read a good book, I experience internal clarification: my sense of uniqueness as a person grows lucid.
The measured, precise voice that reaches
me from the outside animates voices within me, some of which may have been mute until this other voice, or this particular book, came and woke them.
And even if thousands of people are reading the very same book I am reading at the very same moment, each of us faces it alone.
For each of us, the book is a completely different kind of litmus test.
The measured, precise voice that reaches
me from the outside animates voices within me, some of which may have been mute until this other voice, or this particular book, came and woke them.
And even if thousands of people are reading the very same book I am reading at the very same moment, each of us faces it alone.
For each of us, the book is a completely different kind of litmus test.
A good book—and there are not many, because literature too, of course, is subject to the seductions and obstacles of mass media—individualizes and extracts the single reader out of the masses.
It gives him an opportunity to feel how spiritual contents, memories, and existential possibilities can float up and rise from within him, from unfamiliar places, and they are his alone.
The fruits of his personality alone.
The result of his most intimate refinements.
And in the mass culture of daily life, in the overall pollution of our consciousness, it is so difficult for these soulful contents to emerge from the inner depths and be animated.
It gives him an opportunity to feel how spiritual contents, memories, and existential possibilities can float up and rise from within him, from unfamiliar places, and they are his alone.
The fruits of his personality alone.
The result of his most intimate refinements.
And in the mass culture of daily life, in the overall pollution of our consciousness, it is so difficult for these soulful contents to emerge from the inner depths and be animated.
At its best, literature can bring us together with the fate of those who are distant and foreign.
It can create within us, at times, a sense of wonder at having managed, by the skin of our teeth, to escape those strangers’ fates, or make us feel sad for not being truly close to them.
For not being able to reach out and touch them.
I am not saying that this feeling immediately motivates us to any form of action, but certainly without it no act of empathy or commitment or responsibility can be possible.
It can create within us, at times, a sense of wonder at having managed, by the skin of our teeth, to escape those strangers’ fates, or make us feel sad for not being truly close to them.
For not being able to reach out and touch them.
I am not saying that this feeling immediately motivates us to any form of action, but certainly without it no act of empathy or commitment or responsibility can be possible.
At its best, literature can be kind to us: it can slightly
allay our sense of insult at the dehumanization that results from living in large, anonymous global societies.
The insult of describing ourselves in coarse language, in clichés, in generalizations and stereotypes.
The insult of our becoming—as Herbert Marcuse said—“one-dimensional man.”
allay our sense of insult at the dehumanization that results from living in large, anonymous global societies.
The insult of describing ourselves in coarse language, in clichés, in generalizations and stereotypes.
The insult of our becoming—as Herbert Marcuse said—“one-dimensional man.”
Literature also gives us the feeling that there is a way to fight the cruel arbitrariness that decrees our fate: even if at the end of
The Trial
the authorities shoot Joseph K.
“like a dog”; even if Antigone is executed; even if Hans Castorp eventually dies in
The Magic Mountain
—still we, who have seen them through their struggles, have discovered the power of the individual to be human even in the harshest circumstances.
Reading—literature—restores our dignity and our primal faces, our human faces, the ones that existed before they were blurred and erased among the masses.
Before we were expropriated, nationalized, and sold wholesale to the lowest bidder.
The Trial
the authorities shoot Joseph K.
“like a dog”; even if Antigone is executed; even if Hans Castorp eventually dies in
The Magic Mountain
—still we, who have seen them through their struggles, have discovered the power of the individual to be human even in the harshest circumstances.
Reading—literature—restores our dignity and our primal faces, our human faces, the ones that existed before they were blurred and erased among the masses.
Before we were expropriated, nationalized, and sold wholesale to the lowest bidder.
When I finished writing
See Under: Love
, I realized that I had written it to say that he who destroys a man, any man, is ultimately destroying a creation that is unique and boundless, that can never again be reconstructed, and there will never be another like it.
See Under: Love
, I realized that I had written it to say that he who destroys a man, any man, is ultimately destroying a creation that is unique and boundless, that can never again be reconstructed, and there will never be another like it.
For the last four years I have been writing a novel that wishes to say the same thing, but from a different place, and in the context of a different reality.
The protagonist of my book, an Israeli woman of about fifty, is the mother of a young soldier who goes to war.
She fears
for his life, she senses catastrophe lurking, and she tries with all her strength to fight the destiny that awaits him.
This woman makes a long and arduous journey by foot, over half the land of Israel, and talks about her son.
This is her way of protecting him.
This is the only thing she can do now, to make his existence more alive and solid:
to tell the story of his life.
The protagonist of my book, an Israeli woman of about fifty, is the mother of a young soldier who goes to war.
She fears
for his life, she senses catastrophe lurking, and she tries with all her strength to fight the destiny that awaits him.
This woman makes a long and arduous journey by foot, over half the land of Israel, and talks about her son.
This is her way of protecting him.
This is the only thing she can do now, to make his existence more alive and solid:
to tell the story of his life.
In the little notebook she takes on her journey, she writes,
Thousands of moments and hours and days, millions of deeds, endless acts and attempts and mistakes and words and thoughts, all to make one person in the world.
Thousands of moments and hours and days, millions of deeds, endless acts and attempts and mistakes and words and thoughts, all to make one person in the world.
Then she adds another line:
One person, who is so easy to destroy.
One person, who is so easy to destroy.
This evening, at the opening of the International Literature Festival Berlin, we are allowed to remind ourselves, even with a modicum of pride, that the secret allure and the greatness of literature, which we will dwell upon during these days, the secret that sends us to it over and over again, with enthusiasm and a longing to find refuge and meaning—the secret is that literature can repeatedly redeem for us the tragedy of the one from the statistics of the millions.
The one about whom the story is written, and the one who reads the story.
The one about whom the story is written, and the one who reads the story.
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