On Rome and America

I recently finished listening to Mike Duncan’s excellent “History of Rome” podcast series. It left me with a confusing swirl of thoughts that I wanted to put down on paper before they gradually evaporated.

One of the themes I found myself reflecting on was the Moldbug point that a government is just a corporation. Moldbug used this argument to note that the difference between how the average westerner thinks governments should optimally be structured (with democracy and separation of powers and an independent judiciary), is radically different than how they think private corporations should be structured (with dispersed shareholders who vote for a board, who appoints and supervises an all-powerful CEO). Which either means that you need to explain what exactly it is about their different tasks that justifies the different form, or  if there's no fundamental difference in tasks, at least one of the two is suboptimal. 

When you see the various governing forms that the Roman Empire took over time, it brings to mind the more basic question – if a government is just a special case of a firm, well, what exactly is a firm, anyway? And Ronald Coase (and Jensen and Meckling) has an answer for us here. A government, like a firm, is a nexus of contracts. That is, a government is a way for various people to coordinate their behavior for some overall purpose. Some of those people are coordinated against their will, which is an odd form of contract, but not a fundamental obstacle to the idea. And secondly, most contracts are incomplete. We either can’t perfectly commit to future actions, or can’t observe other people’s information sets enough to know if they’re screwing us (is their lousy performance because got a bad draw, or because they stopped putting in effort?) or a variety of other problems in contract theory.

And in this lens, to say that contracts are always partially incomplete is another way of saying that power is always somewhat informal. The org chart can specify who answers to whom over what questions, but unless you can actually enforce action the whole way down the chain of command, there’s always a “run it up the flagpole and see” aspect to any given order. 

So in this sense, the simplest version that solves this incomplete contracts problem is the early Roman Republic – when “the Romans were like brothers, in the brave days of old”, in Macauley’s phrase. With enough mutual love and regard, the incomplete contracts problem gets largely solved, through sacrifice, shared understanding, and desire to not maximally exploit everyone else. Government as the expression of self-determination for a well-defined ethnic group with mutual fellow-feeling thus makes sense as a reliable way of solving the contracting problem. 

This is like the highly successful family business. But a firm where you only hire family members is limited in its capital and ability to expand, unless you’re having bazillions of children each generation. This creates incentives supporting the tendency to hire outsiders, but keep control and cash flow rights to the family. So now you go from the family-only operation, to a family-owned firm employing outsiders. This can be quite stable and allow for a lot of growth. But a lot of firms find out that if you really want to expand to take advantage of profitable opportunities, you may need to dilute control by selling shares in capital markets, and hiring competent external managers instead of just your eldest son, or even your most competent son. 

At each step, the challenge is figuring out how to coordinate the increasingly complex nexus of incomplete contracts that holds the whole thing together. And for the case of governments, this is an order of magnitude harder than for private firms, as there’s no larger governing apparatus or courts to appeal to in order to resolve disputes. You can get some progress due to personal loyalty, or traditions being a Schelling Point for behavior, or displays of force making things collapse to a single Nash equilibrium. But if people disagree enough on what the contract requires in a given high stakes situation, maybe the nexus itself breaks, reverting to smaller groups with less ambitious aims who can still agree on things. Assuming, that is, that those groups can actually operate independently of the broken off group. Complexity, like entropy, is easier to add than it is to get rid of again.

And this sounds a lot like the early history of the Rome. In the beginning, the Romans were literally the citizens of Rome, who were also the soldiers. And their enemies were other nearby cities – the Samnites, the Latins, and the rest. But once defeated, these become subject cities, then friendly allies, and then finally, Italians, the inner core of the expanded polity. The concept of who is “us”, at the core of the high trust solution to the incomplete contracts problem, gets expanded. And you see the genuine aspect of ethnogenesis – what exactly makes a people, anyway? This concept has been so abused by blank slate progressives advocating for open borders (where "there is some flexibility here" gets substituted for "there is thus infinite flexibility here"), that it’s easy to miss that there are genuinely multiple ways to construct identity. And the surest way you can tell this is that the old group names just stop appearing in the stories at a certain point. We stop hearing about the Samnites, then we stop hearing about Hispania, then finally we stop hearing about “the Gauls” (as a people) and just hear about “Gaul” (as a province). 

The flip side of this expansion, however, is that it becomes harder and harder to articulate an operating principle of what and whom the whole thing is for, especially in terms of the question of who gets to be in charge and who gets to enjoy the benefits. The Roman consuls first have to be Patricians, but then that gets discarded, and they can then be wealthy Plebs too, but they still have to be Roman. Then once it moves to emperors, they eventually can be Roman families from the provinces, like Trajan, but still generally of Roman stock. These expansions prove successful, then you get the series of great Ilyrian emperors, like Diocletian. But then you get peasant emperors like Maximinus Thrax, and then you get Gothic generals who wield lots of power over puppet emperors, but still do good service to the empire (like Stilicho). But then this gives way to barbarian generals like Ricimer, who notionally still serve the decaying empire successfully, but historians start to argue whether he’s actually just a King. And finally Odoacer decides to make our lives easy by actually sending the purple cloak back to the Eastern Roman Emperor and saying he’s done with the whole thing, and now is just the King. Which is lucky for us, only because it makes the whole narrative simpler for “when did they meaningfully stop being Roman Emperors”. The Senate kept meeting until the 7th century, even as it was totally useless and a joke. 

And it’s not just the leaders – by the end, when the western Roman empire is fighting off increasing barbarian invasions, the legions doing the fighting are mostly barbarian too, and there’s not always a lot in the legitimacy stakes to make you prefer the notional emperor(s) from the usurper. It’s certainly not obviously the extent to which they represent “the Roman people” in a Wilsonian sense. 

If all this sounds like it becomes a confusing mess of an org chart by the end, it is. Part of this is because when we refer to this as a nexus of contracts, there really aren’t any actual formal contracts anywhere once the simple ties of ethnic kin aren’t the main driver. The closest we get is clear rules of succession, whose importance becomes very obvious. And when these get ignored, we’re left to the coordination game version of the Melian dialogue – the strong (and their nexus of contracts) do what they will, and the weak either join the winning team, or get killed. This often happens surprisingly fast, and a lot things that seem like they’re going to turn into massive civil wars end up as a total collapse by one side without a fight, or after a small initial battle, where all the supporters of one side abandon their leader to join the opposing faction, and the losing general either gets killed by his former supporters or commits suicide. Say what you will about the late Romans, but they played politics for keeps. 

If democracy has any virtues, it’s certainly not the wisdom of the people, or even the legitimacy that elections confer, but probably just the well understood rules of succession, whereby power is transferred on schedule, and the losers generally get to live out their lives in peace without being thrown in jail or killed. Then again, this was true in Republican Rome too, until one day it wasn’t. In the early parts of the story, you hear mostly about cities and structures, with the individual Romans playing less of a central role (with occasional exceptions like Scipio Africanus). By the time you’re routinely hearing about individual personalities at high frequency, you’re well on the way to the collapse of the Republic. And at first this takes the form of utilizing factions of Romans violently against other Romans, then it becomes using foreign auxiliaries to overcome Roman legions (who are themselves mixed), then it ends with the foreigners just running the show. 

In this regard, what you’re trying to coordinate with the early Roman Republic is a form of group selection, whereby members of a group all end up benefitting in evolutionary fitness terms because of cooperative action. Like ethnogenesis, progressives love this idea, and abuse the concept mightily to argue for all sorts of nonsense. But it can exist – not only in the case of a termite mound, but also in terms of the cells in your body. They engage in all sorts of group coordination so that their DNA gets transferred on. For a while, so did the Romans, and then later on, so did the Italians (at least in our metaphorical sense, though perhaps in a literal one too). But even inside your body, defection is often locally profitable without strong enforcement mechanisms. When one section of cells starts growing uncontrollably at the expense of the rest, this is called cancer, and has a lot of parallels to a rebellion in civil society. But the metaphor is imperfect, because the cancer of rebellion doesn’t always kill the host. Rather, at some point it starts to look less like the body with cancer and more like a cancer in charge of what used to be the body. The polity, unlike your body, can theoretically absorb outsiders. 

Aside from these curious aspects about the nature of government and its change and decay, the other part I found myself wondering about were the parts of the story being left out. Not as a conspiracy or anything, but just which are the noticeably important aspects that don’t seem to get much emphasis in the Duncan retelling? 

There are two big ones. The first of these is birthrates. Obviously he’s not recounting a continuous census of fertility. But in the days of the Republic, the recurring theme is always that whenever a Roman legion gets wiped out, they just raise another one and keep fighting, refusing to give in. You can see this an indomitable spirit and resolution, but it’s worth pondering the sheer logistics too – there must have been a large excess of tough military age males sitting around at any time, ready to be brought into military service. Where those males all went by the end of the empire is not well explained. The standard view is that they were unwilling to fight, and were kept from service by rich land owners who didn't want to sacrifice their workers. But it also seems quite likely that they might just not have been around in the same numbers. Either way, it’s puzzling. 

The other piece that supports the latter interpretation is that by the time you get to the Empire (where there is much more focus on individuals, so we know their life stories better), you can’t help but notice just how few children the Roman emperors seemed to have. If you’re not constrained by resources, why not have 12 children, or 20? How on earth do you reach the stage that you don’t have enough sons to continue your dynasty, when this is the single most important aspect of succession? Or only one son who's a total muppet? Weirdly, having no children at all is more understandable than only having two, as the former might just be general unlucky infertility, but the latter suggests it's possible, just not done much. I had always viewed the overwhelming knock on Marcus Aurelius as being that he broke the tradition of the “Five Good Emperors” of appointing as successor the most competent man, rather than their blood offspring. This is true, but the part that Duncan notes (which I hadn’t known) is that none of the others actually had any blood sons! Which is bizarre, when you think about it. It’s not even like they’re Henry VIII, producing unlucky daughter after daughter. Aurelius appointed Commodus, who was a disaster, but as Duncan notes, he was rather in a bind. Either he probably had to kill him, or make him successor, since letting him just hang around was likely to lead to civil war, which is much worse. Even Augustus, the most powerful man in the empire, ran out of sons. Like, just get some mistresses! Or bang your wife more! I have a feeling something very odd was going on with Roman birthrates, which I want to understand more.

The other even less remarked on piece is Roman engineering and technology. Occasionally you get snippets of the story like Trajan building the longest bridge for the next thousand years, or Caesar shocking the Germanic tribes by building a bridge to transport his whole army across the Rhine before the barbarians knew it had happened. Or the general impressiveness of aqueducts, which managed to slope ever so gradually over miles and miles to deliver water from one place to the other. 

Nobody else was doing that. So how did Roman technology advance? How late in the story did that stop happening (surely an important question to those who judge present civilisational health by the existence of iPhones). And why couldn’t anyone else match it in the same way? You realize that you have such a tiny number of primary sources, and if it wasn’t a subject that people bothered to record the history of, you’re going to have a lot of guesswork.  

Finally, comes the applications to the present. One aspect that stands out is that the ability to forecast the lifespan of the empire is complicated by the fact that battles at that time were still largely tactical and not strategic. That is, there often might be only one or a couple of large encounters that decide who comes off the best in a war between nations. And because these often turn on small decisions on the battlefield, smaller armies can frequently rout and destroy much larger ones, or a small number of surprise defeats can threaten the entire nation (like in the Punic Wars with Carthage). This means that at a lot of places, something going differently could have ended the whole Roman experiment much sooner – the Punic Wars, for instance, or the Crisis of the Third Century. In the age of strategic warfare, you might actually have a better chance at forecasting which structural forces will prove decisive if the two sides just grind it out long enough. Then again, maybe not – there’s been no shortage of American defeats to notionally weaker foes that might not have seemed structurally obvious ahead of time. 

The last one is the surprisingly low correlation between the level of domestic misery at any given time and the actual instability of the whole project. The late Roman Republic was an utterly miserable time for its citizens compared with the previous centuries, with the advent of massive Roman civil wars, proscriptions and deaths of political opponents and their supporters, and general chaos and uncertainty. But all the protagonists at this point are still Roman. You never really get a sense that there’s an Alexander of Macedon equivalent waiting in the wings to crush all the war-weary parties. Instead, Rome still seemed pretty secure from external enemies. By contrast, there are lots of periods during the Empire where the barbarians seemed to be both stronger and more coordinated, and could tip the whole thing over. Even here, it’s not an inexorable decline. By the early 5th century, things actually seem to be looking slightly brighter for a while. Yet the striking thing at this stage is that even a competent Emperor like Aetius isn’t able to actually fully reverse the losses, only slow them. It’s not long then before things go off the rails for good, at least in the west. 

If we look at the level of America’s foreign predation, we see useless and counterproductive wars, and endless third world migration, but there is nothing like barbarian armies forcibly peeling off territory, or menacing the homeland. This calculus is made a little more difficult by the fact that we are highly dishonest about what the American empire actually is, and thus what it would mean to be losing territory if you only rule indirectly. If you defined the American empire crudely as “everywhere that had a George Floyd protest in 2020” (including places like Berlin, London and Melbourne) then maybe the calculus gets a little harder. But still – in physical fights, America loses, but it loses in other people’s backyards, when the stakes for the domestic citizens are mostly pretty low. 

And in a pinch, I find myself thinking that our recent developments seem to map more closely to the late Roman Republic than the late Roman Empire. If I had to guess who Trump most closely matches too, it’s probably the Gracchi brothers. They started using populism, and in their case threats of mob violence, to get their legislation passed. This isn’t exactly Trump, but the sense of tapping into populist anger to circumvent the normal political process seemed like a good description of his nomination and victory in 2016. And the establishment backlash to unseat him, both from dubious Russiagate investigations from the civil service and Democratic party, periodic deaths and violence in political confrontations and protests becoming more normal, unusual levels of election fraud in 2020, and Trump’s final temper tantrum protest on January 6th, all fit the same pattern. A gradual erosion of previous norms, a gradual escalation by each side. The Gracchi brothers both got killed, which I don’t think will be Trump’s fate (though blog.jim still is betting on this). But the important parallel I see is that they showed a path to a certain kind of escalation that later men like Marius, then Sulla, then finally Caesar and Augustus, would both increase and take to its logical conclusion. At some point, people just realize that the Republic is dead and not coming back. It takes a long time, and a lot of denial, before that point is reached.

Sometimes, that’s just your lot, and there’s not much you can do. To modify Brad Pitt’s character in Inglourious Basterds – you don’t gotta be Niccolo Machiavelli to know that you don’t want to live through “the Year of the Four Emperors”.

But America as the late Roman Republic is actually the optimistic scenario. Not because it won’t get worse – if the metaphor holds, it definitely will. But because it might eventually get better. 

Moving Porn

[Meta disclaimer: When I look back at some of the posts I've written that I think I got wrong, they're often in the category of what I'd call "therapy posts" - trying to universalise or rationalise some thought process of my own as a general life lesson, especially if I'm trying to convince myself that my actions make sense. I resolved at some point to try to stop writing those. I don't think this is one, but I'm not always a good judge of these matters, at least at the time.]

As Covid worries seem to fade into the rearview mirror, and life slowly gets back to normal, I find myself reflecting on the the strange way that being at home for a long period of time strongly exacerbated the idea of moving porn. Not as in emotionally touching depictions of sexual acts, but the fantasy, sometimes followed through on, that a better life awaits if only we move to somewhere else. 

This is always a hard one for me to think about. I don't want to say that everyone should just stay where they are. It is obviously, trivially false that every place is as good as every other place. So there really are changes in life happiness to be had for certain people in moving somewhere else. Indeed, I've had at least one myself, that I'm very glad about. 

In my case, after enough months of roaming around the same apartment, I had a strong desire to just get out. Maybe temporarily, but probably permanently. I started writing this post back when these feelings were still there fairly strongly, but already subsiding. From the number of stories about this, I don't think I was alone in this. Covid seemed to really send this urge into overdrive among a certain class of aspirational mobile white collar worker. 

There are two stories that can be written about this. The first, and most discussed, is the role of remote work. Covid made lots of educated people's jobs suddenly remote, so they could now move anywhere, at least temporarily. The big obstacle to moving is generally the coordination aspect - a city you want to live in, where you know people, where you can get a good job, where your husband or wife can also get a good job. Take away two of those conditional statements, and the choice set gets a lot bigger. 

But the second part is the one that I think is more interesting. The professional class were also, as a rule, more likely to comply with lockdowns and general social distancing. The net effect was a whole lot of people who hadn't actually spent any time in person with many (or any) of their friends or relatives, for maybe a year at a stretch. The effect of this was to enormously crank up the background sense of ennui and isolation that seems to be a large part of modernity. 

I remember this being one of the stranger aspects of educated Americans when I first moved here. If you grow up in Europe or South America or Asia, you are generally from somewhere. Your sense of place is typically a city. Whereas I'd meet quite a number of Americans whose story was something like "Well, I was born in Cleveland, and lived there for the first two years, then I was in Chicago until age 8, then we moved to Phoenix, then I went to college in Atlanta...". The typical educated American, by the time they reach graduate school, might be on their fourth set of friends, between high school, college, and first work stretch. Their parents may or may not still be living in the place where they were when they were born. 

In other words, the background feeling for a lot of people in the educated classes is already a vague sense of social isolation. Your friends, even your good friends, might pack up and move in a year or two's time. You have to keep investing in new friendships in order to maintain a steady state inventory. 

I can only guess, but I think this feeling is rather widespread, at least to a certain extent. But if it is, then moving cities to try to escape the sense of ennui you've developed is a very high risk strategy. You feel isolated and unhappy because you don't have enough close friends and family. It might indeed be hard to make friends where you are. But when you move to somewhere new, you go back to square one. Rather like changing lines in the customs queue at the airport, you'd better hope the new one is faster, because you start out at the back. 

I don't know how to balance out these two stories in terms of their prevalence. The first one is just a good news story - people can finally leave San Francisco (a city that is desperate to disprove the Lebowski dictum that the bums always lose) and go somewhere less shambolic, while still keeping their tech job. The latter is much less obvious. If your problem was that being rootless made you unhappy, digging up what shallow roots you currently have is not obviously going to help matters. Ironically, it resembles San Francisco's way of dealing with the homeless - the ameliorative steps to solve the current problem in fact just lead to the problem getting worse.  

In terms of telling these two versions apart, one aspect that is striking is the sense of where all these newly mobile people actually wanted to go. It tended to be the same places. Austin, Miami, or sometimes Nashville.

Don't get me wrong, I like all these cities! But still, it's striking that these form such a focal point for a large number of people who are all starting somewhere quite different. To hazard a guess, the main linking factor seems to be "better weather, some fun nightlife, increasingly trendy so my friends won't look at me too weirdly, but still cheaper than NY, SF, or Boston." They are always cities that are described as fun. Which seems to be a shorthand for sociable and full of interesting people to hang out with.

But if the problem you faced in Dallas or wherever is that you weren't able to meet people to hang out with, how exactly do you plan to find your fun circle of friends once you get to Austin? I'm not saying it's impossible. I'm just saying that most of the credible plans you would implement to solve this problem in Austin could also have been implemented to some extent in Dallas. 

The only exception to this rule is if the place you're moving to already has more old friends and relatives in it than the place you're at (and they're likely to stay there). To me, I think this is generally the only good reason to move to a place to escape ennui. 

The fact that all these people wanted to move to the same places tends to imply that this wasn't what was at stake. Maybe Austin helped a ton of people suddenly solve the coordination problem of where to live at the same time. But I don't think that's what's going on.  

If I'm right (and I'm not sure I am), I suspect a bunch of these people are going to wind up disappointed.

How can one tell if this seems like a credible description of one's mindset? I suspect that one telling aspect is the question of how specific and detailed are the ideas of what exactly you plan to do differently when you get to Austin. It's a Saturday. You're in your somewhat larger house, now that you don't live in the Mission any more. You've got the whole day ahead of you. What are you going to do that you can't do in San Francisco? Next day is Sunday. Same question. Then the weekend after. And so on.

I have a feeling that if you don't have a clear answer to that question, you are probably going to find that Austin does not make you as happy as you imagine. 

I would be delighted to be wrong. Austin, Miami and Nashville are all in fact cool cities. I hope everyone who moved there finds it awesome, and pities us saps that stayed put. But I can't help but wonder about the Last Psychiatrist's description of some of how change is often not really change at all: 

The unconscious doesn't care about happiness, or sadness, or gifts, or bullets.  It has one single goal, protect the ego, protect status quo.  Do not change and you will not die.  It will allow you to go to college across the country to escape your parents, but turn up the volume of their pre-recorded soundbites when you get there.  It will trick you into thinking you're making a huge life change, moving to this new city or marrying that great guy, even as everyone else around you can see what you can't, that Boulder is exactly like Oakland and he is just like the last guys.

Lest this all sound like meandering, there is a concrete prediction that can be made here. If I'm right, I expect the number of relocations to drop fairly quickly as life gets back to normal. If you haven't packed up and moved by now, I'll guess that you're not going to. Because as people actually start hanging out with their friends again, they'll slowly remember that the place they're in isn't actually as bad as it seemed in April 2020 when it felt like we were going to be locked up forever.

If you're still on the fence, take advantage of the warm weather to invite all your friends over for a party first. It did me a world of good. 

The Dog That Didn't Bark

As with many things in life, it's hard to notice the things that aren't there, but should be.

I remember my own personal experience of a number of US elections. The way I used to characterize them was that once every four years, people who ordinarily got along with each other pretty well had to scream at each other for a whole year, over things that neither of them could have any control over. Then the election would pass, and people would mostly get on with their lives.

There was also the inevitable rolling back of the start of the election cycle ever sooner. It kind of became like Christmas in the Anglosphere outside America - without Thanksgiving as a hard constraint on when the celebrations could start, you'd see Christmas decorations going up in November, then in October. Elections worked the same way. The buzz, then the party debates, then the primaries, then more party debates, then the conventions. Lord, how I hated the conventions. Just ghastly cliches aimed at true believer rubes. And then the presidential debates themselves, perfectly triangulated to sound compelling to 103 IQ midwits tuning in, sure that they'd learn important things about policy in America to help them make up their mind. I couldn't watch any of them, from either party, for more than a few minutes without feeling like I was being marketed to in a very obvious fashion, on the assumption that I was a moron.

When Trump got elected, there was a very temporary deflating on the left, which lasted about a day, mostly due to shock and disbelief. Then it geared up into protest (protesting an election outcome while professing to still believe in democracy? what does that even mean?), and finding a way to impeach him before he'd even taken office. 

And then, the rancor, normally limited to the election run-up, just became 24/7 in perpetuity. If Trump getting elected created a ton of schadenfreude on the election weary outer right, at some point the whole thing started to mostly be draining. All shared goodwill in America seemed to be eaten up by it. 

So given all this, I was utterly dreading the 2020 election.

And yet, here we are, less than three months out from the election, and instead there is... nothing. You could be forgiven for forgetting most days that it's actually going on. The level of energy devoted to the election itself is insanely low. There is a lot of energy about black lives matter protests, which you can take as a surrogate get-out-the-vote for the left. But there is almost nothing about the election itself.

To take a simple example - how many "Biden for President" signs do you see around your neighborhood? I'm in a pretty blue area, and the answer is approximately "zero".  

Crucial, basic questions remain unanswered. Will people be voting by mail? Will polling booths be open? Who knows! 

I don't pretend to know for sure what's going on there, but there are a few aspects to consider.

One is that this is strategic, a decentralised media strategy to conceal the extent of Joe Biden's mental decline, and just hope that dissatisfaction with Trump will carry the day. 

This might work to a certain extent, but I just don't think they could ordinarily help themselves. There's just too many juicy stories, too much power floating around, too many opportunities to land some exclusive injuring one's political enemies.

It's possible that Covid is just drawing too much of the energy away. But I think this hypothesis pretty much died around May, when the George Floyd protests kicked in in earnest. At that point, nobody in America even pretended to give a damn about Covid, and once that seriousness passed, it was very hard to get it back again. So I don't think there's a sense that Covid is so deathly important that we can't possibly consider mundane matters like who the president will be in three months' time.

My best guess, however, is is related to this paper. If your area had rain on the day of the initial tea party protests in 2009, you had significantly lower vote share for Republicans at the 2010 midterms. In other words, the whole monstrous circus of all the election theatre spectacle actually serves to get people fired up. Covid may not be considered important enough to drown out all other news, but it is important enough to stop tens of thousands people getting crammed into stadiums to host political rallies, or put in auditoriums to listen to presidential debates. Could you host the debate over zoom? Of course you could. Just like you can play NBA games to empty stadiums. Yet for some reason, nobody wants to watch either one. 

Every in-person event that drove the presidential news cycle is canceled. Take that away, and it seems the media just doesn't know what to do. How do you get people fired up? It turns out, it's quite hard. 

A final related aspect that's missing, which is probably even harder to spot, is the absence of lots of casual workplace conversations with people who might be of political opinions. If there's a person in America not heartily sick of zoom calls with anyone other than close friends and loved ones, I'd be surprised. Nobody's turning up to get into pointless arguments with friends and acquaintances, and so the whole cycle of disagreement, fury, righteous indignation, and seeking out new people to vent to / agree with / disagree with is also broken. 

All of this means that my priors on what's going to happen this election are probably wider than in any one I can remember. The most important thing is not the issues, or even the candidates. It's the bizarre, de-energising atmosphere the whole thing is taking place in, and whose voters end up being less lethargic on the day. On that question, I have no idea. 

George Lunt and the Tragedy of the Civil War

Apologies, my dear readers (if any of you still exist) for my extended absence. A combination of moving house, work being busy, and life in general contributed to my poor (read: nonexistent) showing of late. I was going to write something brief to this effect, but after long enough away, the only way back on the horse is a proper ride, not a symbolic hop-on-hop-off. So here we are at last.

I’ve been slowly continuing my way through the Moldbug Canon of primary sources. The most recent foray in this regard has been George Lunt's "The Origin of the Late War", the late war in question being the US Civil War.

At least for me, it was profoundly depressing reading. Not just for what it said about the Civil War, but for what it portends about the state of modern America.

Those of us of a reactionary bent are generally inclined to view history through a tragic lens, and to be vaguely attracted to lost causes.

It used to be acceptable to view the South (while regrettably tied to the injustice of the proximate cause of slavery) as nonetheless a lost cause of resistance to the overweening imperial might of Massachusetts, even if this was not the majority view. Then again, it used to be acceptable to have a statue of Robert E. Lee in your town as well. Increasingly, there is only one acceptable narrative of the Civil War, and Cthulu makes a few more strokes leftward.

But to me, the Civil War is still a tragedy even under the modern left's own terms. By these, I mean - that the only relevant issue was slavery, that it was a moral imperative that slavery be removed, and that any measures were sufficient to justify this end.

Discussions of the Civil War take place in a bizarre environment of historical illiteracy. Not about the Civil War itself, or of America's experience with slavery - Americans actually know quite a lot about their own history, even if they've only heard one version of events.

No, the ignorance that is more striking is the ignorance of the slavery experience anywhere else on the planet. Of which there was plenty. And in particular, the ignorance of the other ways that countries went about ending slavery. Because it somehow never occurs to people to ponder whether there might have been other, better ways to end slavery without resulting in 700,000 corpses.

For instance, if you were slightly more patient, you could try the Brazil option. After first outlawing the slave trade, they later passed a law to the effect that while current slaves would continue in slavery, the children of those slaves would no longer themselves be slaves. In this way, there wasn't a radical change in the labor supply overnight, but it meant that slavery had a use-by date, and would eventually become a smaller and smaller part of the economy, until at some point it could be eliminated entirely without being a massive disruption resulting in fierce and violent opposition.

To a lot of progressives, this gradualism is unacceptable because it takes too long. Slavery must not only be ended, but ended immediately, whatever the cost. In that case, you could do what the British did in Jamaica, and pass a law that not only abolished slavery, but provided for compensation to the slave owners, so they weren't getting all their assets (as they viewed it) confiscated with no recompense. Which is something people tend to strongly and violently oppose.

Because if you're serious about "whatever the cost", then it seems pretty likely that you could have simply bought every slave in the US for less than the cost of the Civil War. The 700,000 people who wound up dead might have been willing to contribute a fair bit towards the necessary tax, for instance.

But suppose you're an extremist who thinks that everyone in white America was so tarred by the injustice of slavery that their lives are literally worth nothing, even those of people in the North.

Even then, the Civil War and its aftermath resulted in the deaths of perhaps about a quarter of the slaves. Don't trust me, you can read it in famous reactionary papers like The Guardian:

Downs reconstructed the experiences of one freed slave, Joseph Miller, who had come with his wife and four children to a makeshift freed slave refugee camp within the union stronghold of Camp Nelson in Kentucky. In return for food and shelter for his family Miller joined the army. Yet union soldiers in 1864 still cleared the ex-slaves out of Camp Nelson, effectively abandoning them to scavenge in a war-ravaged and disease-ridden landscape. One of Miller's young sons quickly sickened and died. Three weeks later, his wife and another son died. Ten days after that, his daughter perished too. Finally, his last surviving child also fell terminally ill. By early 1865 Miller himself was dead.

Suppose this were a hostage rescue situation. You had proposed just paying the ransom, partly because in this unusual case it would come with a practical guarantee that this would be the last time you'd ever have to do it. Someone else decided that terrorism can never prosper, so sent in the army, who ended up inadvertently killing 1/4 of the hostages and a large number of their own troops to boot. Even if you hated the terrorists, would you view this as a triumph?

You may not like the idea of slave owners receiving money for freeing their slaves, still profiting one last time from their unjust system. Very well. Do you like the deaths of hundreds of thousands of slaves instead? Life is full of tradeoffs. Shut up and multiply, as Mr Yudkowsky put it.

It is against this background that the Origin of the Late War takes place. But the action of the book is not the war itself. Instead, the war stalks the narrative of the book, as the terrible tragedy just over the horizon.

And the unfortunate message, which Lunt emphasizes over and over again, is the following: if things had gone only slightly differently, all this could have been avoided.

And in Lunt's re-telling, it is amazing just how many places this could have happened. Some of these start long before the Civil War was even on the horizon. For instance, at one point he implies that the Whig Party's decision in 1840 to nominate William Harrison against the unpopular Martin Van Buren was a momentous one. Lunt claims, credibly, that had they nominated either of Daniel Webster (who "worked for compromises to stave off the sectionalism that threatened war between the North and the South") or Henry Clay ("the Great Compromiser"), the Whigs would likely have still won the election, and much of what followed might have been different. Instead, Harrison got elected, then died roughly a month into office.

Another aspect to this is the sense of slowly building antagonism that becomes self-reinforcing and self-fulfilling. People in both the North and the South were increasingly outraged by the violence in Bleeding Kansas. So they funneled money and support to their side, which outraged their opponents more. Or equivalently, the South seemed so shocked by John Brown's raid that they felt that there was little hope of reconciling with the North.

And you can see how they would have felt this. But the action is always haunted by the eternal elipses of the war itself. Lunt mostly elides over this, but the end of lots of the chapters dangles the implication: "Of course, this alternative didn't actually happen, and so..."

700,000 corpses are contained in those "..."

Because weighed against this, lots of other alternatives suddenly seem not so bad at all. Including, in Lunt's telling, for the South to just continue to take it. Not that this was the only option, but it certainly would have been a lot better for the South, even under their own preferences at the time, than the eventual outcome. The casualties for the whole Bleeding Kansas conflict amounted to perhaps 180 or so, according to La Wik. It is a horrifying thought to ponder how long it would have taken at Gettysburg to exceed this amount, and whether the time would be measured in minutes or seconds. And from the perspective of the South, the loss of slaves to Northern operatives sneaking them out through raids like those of Harriet Tubman is trivial compared with, for instance, losing all of your slaves everywhere, forever. Which is what happened.

As Lunt puts it, if the South had simply held their ground, the North actually had surprisingly little power to force the issue of emancipation. The vote to free the slaves during the Civil War barely passed as it was, and this was without any of the Confederate representatives in the room. Their presence would have been enough to make it a total non-starter. Lunt quotes Andrew Johnson from after South Carolina had voted to secede:

What is the reason for disunion ? Because one man was not elected ? If Mr. Breckinridge had been elected, nobody would have wanted to break up the Union ; but Mr. Lincoln is elected, and now they say they will break up the Union. He said, No. What was there to fear ? Mr. Lincoln was a minority President. Let South Carolina send her Senators back, and Mr Lincoln cannot even make his Cabinet without the consent of the Senate.

Lunt is no straightforward Southern apologist. While he is sympathetic towards the South's perception that they were suffering injustices at the hands of the North, his overall position is that open rebellion against the Government was both unnecessary and ill-advised. Towards this end, he often notes the ways in which Southern enthusiasm for confrontation led them to their own downfall. For instance, consider the relative glee and amusement with which Preston Brooks' caning of Charles Sumner was greeted in the South (he was, as the story goes, sent many replacement canes, including one inscribed "hit him again!"). But even to the most ardent southern supporter, it doesn't seem quite so funny in hindsight, does it? As Lunt notes:

The unlucky blow afterwards inflicted by Mr. Brooks, of South Carolina, upon Mr. Sumner, in the Senate Chamber, gave him a prominence which there is no reason to suppose that ho could otherwise have acquired. It also enlisted sympathy enough, on his account, to secure an indulgence to his extreme views, from persons to whom they had been hitherto repulsive ; and in this way powerfully seconded the general radical movement. Except for that blow, there is every ground for believing that Mr. Sumner's official course would have ended with his first senatorial term.

Relatedly, it is hard not to see the Democrats' decision to split their party into Northern and Southern candidates in the election of 1860 as a catastrophe for the South. By sticking to principle, they ensured that the Republicans, who lacked anything close to an absolute majority, nonetheless got into power.

Indeed, at this moment, the conservative masses of the country possessed an immense superiority of physical and moral force over their opponents ; and could that have been guided by prudence and patriotism, it must have resulted in the entire and permanent overthrow of the now concentrated elements of radicalism and discord. At the election for President, in the ensuing year, the Republican candidate, Mr. Lincoln, fell short of a majority by nearly a million of votes ; while his plurality, in the free States alone, was considerably less than two hundred thousand.' It needed now, far more than upon the important occasion to which Mr. Benton referred "in a note to the Debates in Congress, already cited in his volume, "the last words of the last great men of that wonderful time." There were many still upon the stage, inspired by as noble sentiments of patriotism as had ever animated the hearts of elder patriots ; but the latter had left few or no successors to the powerful influence which they personally exerted, and which had been found hitherto able to compose the stormy passions by which the country had at times been agitated. But, although the multitude, under the whip applied by a very inferior order of men, was fast getting possession of the bit, to run the sort of helter-skelter race which usually occurs under such circumstances, it needed, after all, but a very little of that true spirit of conciliation, among persons of substantial influence, on both  sides, which should have marked the conduct of fellow-citizens, in an enlightened and Christian age, to avert that terrible impending catastrophe, which, it is not to be supposed, that the great majority, upon either side, could have really desired to bring upon the common country. ...

As Carlyle remarks, somewhere, in reference to a certain period of English history, " The times were great and the men were small." 

Be very wary of giving up the reins of power for symbolic purity alone. There is, it seems, surprising value in being at the head of even a weakened and divided state.

And even up to the very end, the drumbeat of the counterfactual continues.

It is certain, however, that long after secession had begun, by the act of the South Carolina Convention, the breach could have been repaired without much serious difficulty. 

Indeed, Lunt argues that there is strong reason to believe that the Crittenden Compromise, if agreed to, would still have averted the war. He quotes a special reporter from the New York World on December 28th, 1860, eight days after South Carolina voted to secede:

"The Star (Washington paper), of this evening, says: 'Circumstances have come to our knowledge, within the last twenty-four hours, which lead us to hope that Mr. Seward will, ere the close of the current week, counsel a settlement upon the basis proposed by Mr. Crittenden.' 

"One word that way could instantly settle the controversy ; dethroning the disunionists per se at the South, whose power is but the result of the universal belief at the South that the Republican party made up its mind for war to the knife, from the start, upon the constitutional rights of the slaveholding States." ' 

It is very true, that a newspaper reporter may be mistaken both in regard to facts and to the conclusions which he deduces from them. But if an intelligent reporter, and the World at that time, a leading organ of the Republican party, was not likely to employ one who was not of that class, he could hardly make a mistake as to the opinion generally entertained at Washington, and especially among the Republicans themselves, with whom he would probably confer, as to the effect — and an effect how momentous ! — which " one word " from a particular source, and in a particular direction, might have exercised in the prevention of civil war. 

 But the "one word" was never spoken.

And so...

As irony would have it, I finished Lunt's book not long before the Charlottesville debacle. When having recently acquired a hammer, everything becomes a nail, and the temptation is to overfit the parallels.

But it did cement something that I had felt long before. One should be very hesitant before cheering on a rise in political violence, even when your side seems to be winning. Just read the stories of men stumbling blindly into a monstrous, calamitous war, whose consequences were far worse on all sides than the perceived slights over which arms were initially taken up.

Mr Lovecraft cautioned us to not call up that which we cannot put down. Political violence has a tendency to turn into one such aspect.

Compromise is always intellectually unsatisfying, and just continuing to take the abuse is undignified and maddening. More importantly, these are not the only options on the table, so it's not like defeatism is the only option, or the best one.

But be wary of stumbling inadvertently into open conflict. You may yet find out the horror of the elipses in some future narrative.

The Puritan Hypothesis Personified

We live in a period where Whig history is the only history that most people know. The west conquered the evils of Nazism and racism, and is moving towards a progressive utopia. People don't know the term 'Whig history', but they know the idea alright.

To me, the best summary of Whig history comes from our modern secular saint, Martin Luther King, who summed it up thus:

"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice."

The history of this quote is a fascinating one.

The MLK quote is actually a paraphrasing of a longer quote by Theodore Parker, who said:

Look at the facts of the world. You see a continual and progressive triumph of the right. I do not pretend to understand the moral universe, the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways. I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. But from what I see I am sure it bends towards justice.

I'd never heard of this guy before. I actually came across this while looking up the MLK quote as part of writing a different post, but ended up down this rabbit-hole instead.

The reason is that the story of Theodore Parker seems almost shockingly tailor-made to support Moldbug's puritan hypothesis of leftism - that it is primarily an offshoot of mainline American Protestantism that came out of New England Puritans, and over time gradually morphed to replace God with Social Justice.

First off, where would you guess that Theodore Parker was born? Where else, but Massachusetts! Lexington, MA, to be precise.

And for some reason, it wasn't a big surprise to find out that the rest of his life story fits almost eerily into place.

He was an ardent abolitionist, living from 1810 to 1860.

If I told those facts alone, what might you guess about his education and profession?

Would you guess, perhaps, a Unitarian Universalist preacher who had both undergraduate and graduate degrees from Harvard University?

Ding ding ding, we have a winner!

Even his ancestry is exactly on point:

His paternal grandfather was John Parker, the leader of the Lexington militia at the Battle of Lexington. 

Remember this the next time conservatives are revering the founding fathers. Their descendants, both literal and intellectual, are leftists. Skip the standard Jefferson and Washington hagiographies and read some Thomas Hutchinson instead.

Among his colonial Yankee ancestors were Thomas Hastings, who came from the East Anglia region of England to the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1634, and Deacon Thomas Parker, who came from England in 1635 and was one of the founders of Reading.

East Anglia, East Anglia, where have I heard that name before?

That's right, it's from David Hackett Fisher's book 'Albion's Seed'. It's where the English Puritans came from before they moved to Massachussetts.

But so what, a skeptic may say. Who cares about his background if he was able to perfectly capture the importance of aiming towards what is just and right?

Well, perhaps it might do to know exactly what the "justice" was that he thought the universe was bending towards. Because it looks an awful lot like "leftism".

First up, feminism! From Parker himself

"The domestic function of the woman does not exhaust her powers... To make one half of the human race consume its energies in the functions of housekeeper, wife and mother is a monstrous waste of the most precious material God ever made"

and from the mouths of others

Stanton called his sermons "soul-satisfying" when beginning her career, and she credited him with introducing her to the idea of a Heavenly Mother in the Trinity.

I'm no Christian, let alone a biblical scholar, but I apparently missed the Heavenly Mother part of the Trinity.

But don't strain yourself too hard trying to reconcile it, as Parker was pretty upfront about his perversions of Christianity. Next up, trying to bowdlerize the Bible to take out anything he perceived as inconvenient, leaving a mush of vague sentimental spiritualism:

  “I preach abundant heresies,” he wrote to a friend, “and they all go down—for the listeners do not know how heretical they are.” For years he had wrestled with the factuality of the Hebrew Scriptures, and by 1837 he was wishing “some wise man would now write a book…and show up the absurdity of…the Old Testament miracles, prophecies, dreams, miraculous births, etc.’”

In 1841, Parker laid bare his radical theological position in a sermon titled A Discourse on the Transient and Permanent in Christianity, in which he espoused his belief that the scriptures of historic Christianity did not reflect the truth. In so doing, he made an open break with orthodox theology. He instead argued for a type of Christian belief and worship in which the essence of Jesus’s teachings remained permanent but the words, traditions, and other forms of their conveyance did not. He stressed the immediacy of God and saw the Church as a communion, looking upon Christ as the supreme expression of God. Ultimately, he rejected all miracles and revelation and saw the Bible as full of contradictions and mistakes. He retained his faith in God but suggested that people experience God intuitively and personally, and that they should center their religious beliefs on individual experience.

The Bible is all a metaphor filled with mistakes and superstitions, just go with what you feel, man. But I'm still Christian, don't you know.

It will not come as a shock to find out that Parker's successors felt less bound to utter the last part. But Parker himself was definitely ahead of the curve, as you have to be when you're deemed heretical by the Unitarian Church (of all organisations).

By contrast, if you want to find out what someone thinks who actually does take the bible literally and cares what it says about slavery, read Robert Dabney's 'A Defense of Virginia'. In it, you will find over 100 pages of exhaustive yet fascinating discourse on what exactly the Bible has to say on the slavery question, and it's probably not what you'd think. Dabney was well acquainted with men like Parker, and skewered them wonderfully:

The Socinian and skeptical type of all the evasions of our Scriptural argument has been already intimated. If the most profane and reckless wresting of God's word will not serve their turn to make it speak abolitionism then they not seldom repudiate its authority. One of their leaders, long a professed minister of the Gospel, declares at the close of a train of tortuous sophisms that if he were compelled to believe the Bible countenances slavery he should be compelled to give up the Bible, thereby virtually confessing that he had never been convinced of the infallibility of that which for thirty years he had been pretending to preach to men as infallible. Others more blatant and blasphemous when compelled to admit that both the Bible and the American constitution recognized slavery exclaimed "Give me then an anti slavery constitution, an anti slavery Bible, and an anti slavery God!" 

This is almost exactly what Parker did.

And even outside slavery, the list of causes Parker supported is almost straight out of modern leftist orthodoxy

As Parker's early biographer John White Chadwick wrote, Parker was involved with almost all of the reform movements of the time: "peace, temperance, education, the condition of women, penal legislation, prison discipline, the moral and mental destitution of the rich, the physical destitution of the poor" though none became "a dominant factor in his experience" with the exception of his antislavery views. He "denounced the Mexican War and called on his fellow Bostonians in 1847 'to protest against this most infamous war.'"

Let's just count up how many modern leftist causes this guy managed to hit - blacks, hispanics, pacifism (of a sort), education, feminism, criminals, poverty, hating the rich. Parker loses points, however, for not having the foresight to also agitate about homosexuality and the environment. Had he been slightly more visionary on these fronts, he'd be a shoo-in for the 2020 Democratic Party nomination.

But still, justice! Who can forget that famous arc of justice, to which the moral universe is inevitably tending?

Well, it might not hurt to examine how exactly Parker advocated pushing that moral universe on its way, because he certainly wasn't interested in letting the universe work things out in its own due course. Parker was unusually far-sighted in terms of how he applied leftist aims too. Behold a life full of civil disobedience, incitement to violence, funding of guerrilla violence, and general Alinsky-style agitation:

He wrote the scathing To a Southern Slaveholder in 1848, as the abolition crisis was heating up and took a strong stance against slavery and advocated violating the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850, a controversial part of the Compromise of 1850 which required the return of escaped slaves to their owners. Parker worked with many fugitive slaves, some of whom were among his congregation. As in the case of William and Ellen Craft, he hid them in his home. Although he was indicted for his actions, he was never convicted.

Guilty as Sin, Free as a Bird. He's the Bill Ayers of 1850.

During the undeclared war in Kansas (see Bleeding Kansas and Origins of the American Civil War) prior to the outbreak of the American Civil War, Parker supplied money for weapons for free state militias. As a member of the Secret Six, he supported the abolitionist John Brown, whom many considered a terrorist. After Brown's arrest, Parker wrote a public letter, "John Brown's Expedition Reviewed," arguing for the right of slaves to kill their masters and defending Brown’s actions.

Obviously, the South were the untrammeled instigators of the Civil War through their reckless secession. They should have just stuck around to deal with guys like Parker who advocated for terrorism and slaves murdering their masters. Be reasonable, Southern slave owners!

Of course, you may think this is all just incidental to the original quote with which we started - the guy liked justice, even if in other arenas of his life he was a bit extreme.

But it turns out these ideas aren't incidental to the main point. They are in fact the essence of the idea. Here's the full context of the quote, from quote investigator

Look at the facts of the world. You see a continual and progressive triumph of the right. I do not pretend to understand the moral universe, the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways. I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. But from what I see I am sure it bends towards justice.

Things refuse to be mismanaged long. Jefferson trembled when he thought of slavery and remembered that God is just. Ere long all America will tremble.

In the context of everything he did and said, it is hard to read the last line as anything but a threat.

This was in 1853.

12 years and 620,000-odd corpses later, America had done a lot of trembling alright.

This is the context of the famous MLK quote with which we began. You will find a version of this quote on the MLK memorial in Washington D.C., which tells you how much the idea has become a source of bipartisan inspiration.

And this, incidentally, is the second Parker quote lightly paraphrased by a modern secular saint, and memorialised in Washington D.C. The other is even more famous. Parker, as well as agitating for violent overthrow of slavery, was a big fan of democracy:

A democracy — of all the people, by all the people, for all the people

And so at last, we see an odd correspondence between the old and the new.

For in fact,

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

in practice means

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward leftism. 

Which could be ever-so-slightly rephrased as:

Cthulhu may swim slowly. But he only swims left.

Indeed.

When stripped of the marketing, Parker, MLK and Moldbug can all agree on the trend, even if they disagree on how they feel about it.

It's not for nothing that they carve it in marble in Washington D.C.

Stop cheering for politicians

At the risk of cementing my place as a curmudgeon, the National Conventions of the US political parties always struck me as thoroughly bizarre. This is an entirely bipartisan feeling - they're a freakshow.

My overwhelming feeling, whenever it shows the crowd shots, is: who are all these people? Don't they have anything better to do do?

To the Australian mindset, there is something quite unseemly about turning up to cheer for politicians, especially in these degraded times. There is a reason that these events don't take place in Australia. They simply wouldn't pass the laugh test. If you built it, no one would come. This includes people who voted for the candidate.

Let the parties sort out their own tawdry affairs in private, and then we'll vote for whichever of the two repulses us less, if we're minded to do so. (In Australia, you legally have no choice on that last point)

If there is one advantage to living in a democratic age, you at least have the freedom to have open contempt for one's notional leaders without running afoul of les majeste laws or the like. This is fortunate, because the system tends to produce leaders richly deserving of the contempt that you're licensed to have.

Why throw that away for this bunch of clowns? Why act like a subject voluntarily for someone whom it is unworthy to be subjected to? Honestly, if you could actually pick a single person to be ruled by, no questions asked, would either of these two candidates be among the top 1000 people you'd pick? The top 10,000?

The rather visceral reaction I have to political conventions is, I will freely admit, a mostly aesthetic response. It seems like obvious pandering and boob bait for bubbas. Sometimes, some of the relevant applause lines strike home to me. Sometimes, they say things that seem true, and even important or compelling.

But even then, not far beneath the surface is the feeling I have during the few times I've had the misfortune to watch romantic comedies. When watching the sad bits, I sometimes feel brief pangs of sadness. But they quickly get followed by a sense of resentment of the fact that my emotions are being manipulated here, for other people's benefit, and in a crude and obvious manner.

Doubt not that this is happening to you. Even if you honestly think it's a good idea to vote for this candidate. In fact, especially if you honestly think it's a good idea to vote for this candidate.

Now, it is possible that these are generally new and interesting times, and genuinely new and uniquely worthy leaders. A lot of people on the right are really excited about Donald Trump. Maybe they're right to be thrilled.

I would caution you with the following though.

If you're honest with yourself, and remember what you felt at the time, did you not feel at least some similar excitement at Mitt Romney's speech? At John Bloody McCain? When you look back now, are you not embarrassed to have supported these shameless, self-promoting fools? One is a Democrat-lite, and the other took the 'Invade the World / Invite the World' idea so strongly that he probably would have started a war with Russia over the sinkhole that is Ukraine.

If you're a Democrat, for an equivalent test, try and summon up now the same enthusiasm for John Kerry that you had in 2004. It simply cannot be done.

With the passage of time, the raw tribalism goes away, and the sheer mediocrity of the candidates offered in democratic elections becomes strikingly clear.

So if you (like me for sure in 2008, and me to some extent still in 2012) felt some excitement at the time for those clowns, you should feel a little chastened. You might reflect that perhaps, indeed, I am one of the rubes after all, or at least am not wholly immune from rube-like tendencies. Perhaps I just like cheering for my team, and this is what I'm actually feeling right now. Perhaps most of what strikes me as absurd about the other party's convention applies equally strongly to my own.

In related news, November cannot come fast enough.

The perils of reading the fake government org chart

Out of the many oddities of the democratic process in the west, two points stand out.

First, the average citizen has very little idea about how his government works.

Second, the average citizen has very little idea that he has very little idea about how his government works.

If pushed, I think the second point is the more remarkable one. It is quite an amazing feat of propaganda. The evidence that government doesn't work the way most people assume it does is all around them. But they somehow manage to never notice.

I think it comes back to the distinction between the real and the nominal organisational chart of government.

In the case of China, your average American understands that he has no idea how its government functionally operates. Furthermore, he also assumes, rightly, not to trust the notional description coming from China of how its government works. America has a Congress. China, as it turns out, also has a Congress. The average American, however, is likely to be correctly skeptical about whether this body is actually exercising any substantial decision-making authority. He suspects that finding out how China's government actually works is likely to be a difficult task, and one that will require some considerable research.

But for some reason, these thoughts never seem to occur to him about his own government, even though every single one would be just as appropriate.

In the case of America, he has been inculcated with the official organisational chart since birth. There are three branches - legislative, judicial and executive. They exist in a separation of powers, and all are ultimately answerable to the voters, who elect Congress and the President, and thus can eventually appoint all the Supreme Court nominees.

Granted, this is not an absurd description. All these bodies really do exist. At some point, perhaps, this was how governmental decisions in America were actually made.

On the other hand, our hypothetical reader would need to only click on a news website on almost any given day to find events that seem wholly inconsistent with this being the set of people who in practice make decisions as to how government runs.

To take but one example, it was recently announced that Harriet Tubman will replace Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill.

This, of course, raises a number of questions that the average person almost certainly never gets around to asking, but probably should.

Let's start with the basics.

Who, exactly, decided that this would happen?

As a beginning, he has absolutely no idea. Without googling, he couldn't even name the office behind this decision.

Reading through the article, we're told that this was announced by Treasury Secretary Jack Lew. Hands up, nice and high, if you've ever heard that name before.

More to the point, being announced by Jack Lew is not the same as being decided by Jack Lew. If it were just decided by Jack Lew, then we can somehow finagle all this akwardly into the notional chart. Obama appointed Lew, he could fire him (perhaps - who knows) and get someone else in who would put Jackson back on.

But how do you know who else was involved in this decision? Are you sure it was just Lew? There are 86,000 people working at the Treasury. You're certain it was just the top guy, on his own, who came up with the plan? Let's be honest, that seems pretty damn unlikely. If every decision is made singlehandedly from the top, what on earth are those 86,000 people doing each day?

If you fire Lew, it's possible the plan gets reversed. It's also possible that you've just fired the guy who's the spokesman, or the frontman for the operation. He'll just be replaced by someone else, and the show will merrily go on.

But even the 'treasury employees make the decision' model seems a little too neat. Indeed, the Washington Post article lists a number of groups and people that seem wholly alien to how this process is meant to work, including:
-Kari Winter, a professor who studies slavery at the University of Buffalo
-A viral campaign by a group "Women on $20s"
-Ben Bernanke
-A musical about Alexander Hamilton by Lin-Manuel Miranda, who apparently was personally contacted by Lew in the leadup to this decision (when it was decided that Hamilton wasn't getting ditched from the $10)
-Liz Maatz, vice president of government relations for the American Association of University Women

One of two things seems true. Either these people are part of the actual decision-making process. Or the Washington Post is just asking random nobodies to give their opinion

Which do you suppose is more likely? Who do you suppose knows more about how government operates, you or the Washington Post?

Because, dear average interlocutor, let us get to the heart of the matter.

You still believe the notional org chart, because this is all you know. This decision must come from the Secretary of Treasury, which comes from the President, which comes from us, the voters. Ergo, we can reverse this by voting for Trump in November, who certainly wouldn't put up with this nonsense.

Perhaps.

But didn't they tell you this when you voted for George W. Bush twice? Looking back, what exactly did that get you?

You would do better to start by admitting some basic truths.

You have no idea who made this decision.

You have no idea how, or if, it could be reversed.

You have no idea who is actually governing you.

And if you've gotten that far, why are you so sure that voting will fix it?

"Hamilton" as American Propaganda

I recently saw the musical 'Hamilton', which was an enjoyable depiction of American nostalgia for its own myths. That much isn't new. What's new is that this is being successfully marketed to the current generation of narcissistic millennials. Getting them to take any interest in history beyond their own short life span, let alone past the 20th century, is quite a feat, even if what they end up learning ends up having a healthy dose of nonsense.

As both a foreigner and a reactionary, it's interesting to see the American founding myths in all their peculiar detail. Identifying the nonsense stories other people accept uncritically about their own history is much easier than identifying one's own. The US ones are particularly interesting to me - I have a strong fondness for this country, but I still view it as as an outsider, as a) I came across this stuff much later in life, and b) my summary of the American Revolution in one sentence is "the bad guys won". Incidentally, this would make a great tagline for a future reactionary version of the play, 'Hutchinson: The Musical".

Of course, if you want to get the record set straight, Moldbug is of course the best source. And with a little of the alternative perspective on the matter, the most interesting thing about the play is what gets left out.

The second most neglected perspective in the history of American Revolution is the Loyalists. For the most part, they simply don't exist. "America" was fighting King George. The fact that there were substantial numbers of native-born Americans who were philosophically and practically opposed to the War of Independence gets mostly elided. How many, exactly? Hard to say. I've seen numbers floated around as being 20%, but this doesn't mean that 80% were Patriots, as a large number were on the fence. I'd take all these numbers with a grain of salt.

The musical actually does better than I expected - there's one scene where a Loyalist is giving a speech in opposition to the Congress (unpersuasively, of course) , and he then gets mocked by Hamilton. That they don't present a good case for the opposition is not surprising - that they acknowledge the opposition existed, and was American, was frankly a pleasant surprise.

So the Loyalists, uncharacteristically, weren't the Elephant in the Room being ignored here. What was, then? What is the faction you almost never hear about in the re-telling of the American Revolution?

The answer is simple: British Parliament.

Britain in the musical, like in nearly all popular retellings, is represented by King George III. He is depicted as being in charge of the whole affair, pulling all the strings from across the sea. It's like the whole musical, like the country itself, lives in a bizarre alternative universe where the Cavaliers somehow won the English Civil War. In reality, the issue had been decided twice, first with King Charles being separated from his head, and then in case the message hadn't been received, again with the Glorious Revolution chasing King James II out of England, all the way to France in fact. By the time of the American Revolution, the verdict had been in for over a century - when push came to shove, Parliament was in charge.

But you can see clearly why this very quickly becomes awkward for the standard narrative. The American revolution was about establishing democracy (praise be upon it) for the first time ever! Except that the government being overthrown was in fact democratic, in various different forms, from at least 1215 onwards. Quite a pickle, no?

Aha, the apologists respond, but there was no democratic representation among the Americans. No taxation without representation, and all that. What an injustice! I'll let Mr Hutchinson field this one:

The Assembly of Massachusetts Bay, therefore, was the first that took any publick of the Act, and the first which ever took exception to the right of Parliament to impose Duties or Taxes on the Colonies, whilst they had no representatives in the House of Commons. This they did in a letter to their Agent in the summer of 1764, which they took care to print and publish before it was possible for him to receive it. And in this letter they recommend to him a pamphlet, wrote by one of their [6] members, in which there are proposals for admitting representatives from the Colonies to fit in the House of Commons.

I have this special reason, my Lord, for taking notice of this Act of the Massachusetts Assembly; that though an American representation is thrown out as an expedient which might obviate the objections to Taxes upon the Colonies, yet it was only intended to amuse the authority in England; and as soon as it was known to have its advocates here, it was renounced by the colonies, and even by the Assembly of the Colony which first proposed it, as utterly impracticable. 

In other words:

Massachusetts: No Taxation without Representation!

Britain: Hmm. Would you like some representation then?

Massachusetts: No, absolutely not, it would never work!

Comedy gold.

So if the big injustice that Alexander Hamilton was fighting against wasn't really a lack of democratic representation, what exactly was it?

Beats me. Beats Hutchinson too.

And this is the odd sense that comes after all the great songs are over. It's the same feeling I had years ago watching Michael Moore documentaries. In the moment, the strange web of narrative seems oddly compelling, until you leave the theatre and try to distill it into a sentence. And lo and behold, the main thesis is that Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris shot up a school because Lockheed Martin had a factory somewhere nearby making parts for satellites. Phrased thus, you realise that this is an insane argument, and you can't believe you fell for it in the first place.

That's where I get to on Hamilton. Once you leave the theatre, odd reactionary thoughts come back in. You mean he was a hardworking immigrant who loved his newfound country so much that he... immediately worked to overthrow its government? Hmm, that doesn't sound so good. Wait, no, he was a poor penniless orphan who wanted to rise up the ranks, and so he realised that helping foment a war and rising up the command would be a great way to do this? Wait, that even worse. Much worse, actually.

The final thought, however, that the honest foreigner must admit to himself, is this: I wonder what equivalent stupidity I've believed about my own history?

Truthfully, I don't quite know. But if I figure it out, I'll let you know.

For Mormonism

The attitude of non-Mormons to Mormonism usually tells you quite a lot about what else they value.

And the critiques are well-rehearsed.

Militant atheists like to mock Mormonism’s odd beliefs about the universe, amply documented (in otherwise quite fair and sympathetic portrayals) in Southpark and The Book of Mormon. The beliefs themselves, including disappearing golden tablets and the like, are not really much more absurd than many other religions. But they are claimed to have happened more recently, which seems to make an unusually large difference. Partly this makes certain events easier to disprove, but I don’t think that’s really it. I think actually most of the difference in perception is psychological. To the rationalist, it is no more plausible that Jesus turned water into wine two thousand years ago than that I turned water into wine yesterday. To the common person, however, the latter seems to require a larger suspension of disbelief – the rest of the scene is suddenly palpable and gets compared with what we know about the modern world. For some reason, with old religions, part of the brain thinks ‘well, who knows what things were like back then’.

Social Justice types tend to berate Mormons for their socially conservative views. They dislike abortion, they dislike gay marriage, they tend to hold to quite traditional views of gender roles. Add in desired talking points to taste on whatever side you like here and this writes itself. I do note, however, that the volume of the criticism they receive seems better explained by the fact that they’re a soft target in social terms and won’t fight back. After Proposition 8 passed in California, lefties angrily protested against the Mormons (who supported it on average), but not against Blacks and Hispanics who also supported it on average (the same is probably true of Muslims too). Interpret how you will.

Myself, I’ve always been far more struck by something much simpler. Nearly all the Mormons I’ve ever met have been really friendly, nice people. And that matters to me, a lot. We’re talking maybe n=20 or 30 by this point. How many groups of people, in any category, can you honestly say that about?

If I were to choose a religion based purely on the personal qualities and behavior of its average adherent, I’m pretty sure that I’d pick Mormonism.

This hypothetical is less absurd than it sounds. It actually corresponds fairly closely to the thought process that atheist parents might have if they’d just had a child, and saw social value in religion even though they doubted its metaphysical truth. I’ve known people who were in this exact position.

I was in Provo, Utah, a little while ago. It seemed like a movie scene depicting what America was like in the 1950s. Everyone was white. Everyone was clean cut, and friendly, and tastefully dressed. Everyone was polite, and nobody swore when talking. Brigham Young University, near where I was staying, has student policies against long hair and beards. I had both, but nobody I spoke to mentioned it, let alone displayed any hostility on that account.

Apparently everyone gets married quite young. I went skiing at a nearby mountain, and in the line on the chairlift, I stood behind two young men (for some reason, the term boys doesn’t seem appropriate) who couldn’t be more than 23 or so, perhaps younger. One was telling the other about the importance of making sure you got along well with the family of the girl you wanted to marry, given how much time you would be spending with them (although sometimes you love someone who doesn’t fall in that category). He offered the insight, which I thought quite perceptive, that mothers tended to like girlfriends who were somewhat like themselves, if for no other reason than that they feel they understand the girl better.

I cannot imagine such a conversation among 23 year old boys in most parts of this country. To most of them, the whole concept would be literally inconceivable. That I would not have wanted to get married by 23 does not detract at all from the fact that I think society is better off if more people married by 25 and had three or four kids, rather than getting married at 35 (if at all ) and having one or none.

But what I remember most vividly was when I was walking back from a restaurant in Provo. I walked past a young 20-something couple (probably married) who were about to walk into the restaurant. They were approached by a slightly older grizzled white guy with a long beard carrying a duffle bag. The beard guy asked the young man which way the bus station was. The young man told him it was a few blocks away, and gave him directions.

The older man thanked him, and started walking. He had gotten perhaps 10 metres when the young man came running up. ‘Look’, he said, ‘it’s a bit of a walk. Why don’t I just drive you there?’. ‘Are you sure?’ asked the old man. ‘Yeah, it’s no problem at all.’, the young man replied.

Reader, can you imagine this conversation playing out that way in the city or town where you live? In the context of Provo, the whole affair didn’t seem out of place at all.

What that young man believed about the afterlife troubles me not one jot. As Mr Jefferson put it, it does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods or no God. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg. But how that man acts to his fellow man is a subject that interests me considerably.

People like that young man are what’s great about America, actually. I would want them as my neighbors. All I know is that Mormonism seems to regularly produce people like that, and this is something that warms my heart. If a metaphysical belief in magic undergarments is the necessary price to pay to make this happen, I would pay it enthusiastically.

Brazil as the Racial Bizarro-verse

Gary Brecher once pointed out, in a podcast I think, that American exceptionalism dominates the American mindset. As he noted, this actually takes two forms. The more remarked-on form is from the right, whereby America is the last, best hope for everything good in the world. But there’s a left-wing version too – that America is the source of everything bad, and that the world would all be right except for the uniquely bad influence and history of America.

And while both are silly, the latter version seems somehow less studied. Which is a pity, because a broader view about how America compares with the rest of the world is actually quite illuminating.

The largest of the American Original Sins is of course racism. America is, so the story goes, not only the most racist country on the planet, but uniquely cursed because of its long legacy of slavery. This has forever poisoned the relations between the races, leading to the never-ending garment-rending and hysteria that characterises any discussion of race in the US.

The USA had slavery, it’s true. Over 300,000 slaves were imported from Africa. This creates a difficult legacy, it’s true. But just how uniquely difficult is the US experience with slavery? How much, in other words, could this actually explain?

Well, fortunately history has furnished us with another much larger slave power in the Americas. Brazil over its history had over 4.9 million slaves arrive. If the USA's slavery history is responsible for the stupidity of modern day race relations, surely Brazil must be many times worse!

In fact, race relations in Brazil are much, much better. Brazil actually manages to achieve what most of US claims to want to achieve – a mixed race country that is largely harmonious in terms of race relations. When you walk around here, it's striking how many genuine mixed-race groups of people there are - not only couples, but larger groups of men chatting away, covering all complexions from white to olivey to Hispanic-looking to black. In America, the vast majority of genuinely mixed race groupings you see are in commercials. When was the last time you saw a black guy, a Hispanic guy and white guy all hanging out together in real life?

And if you ask Brazilians, they'll mostly tell you that they don't have a race problem. Does this mean that every outcome is distributed identically across every possible combination of ancestry? No, but then again, neither is geography. The north is poor and black, the south richer and whiter, but with plenty of variation in both cases. More importantly, if “identical distributions” is your definition of 'no racism', I'll thank you for providing me a single socioeconomic variable of any importance that's so distributed, in any country on earth, in any period in history. No hurry, I'll wait for you to come back.

One of the things that's hardest to explain to Americans is just how stifling is the atmosphere of debate about race in the US, poisoning honest discussion of such a large range of topics and fueling antagonism and resentment at every turn. I suspect it's hard for Americans to see just how striking this phenomenon is, because it's just what you've grown up with. It's only us foreigners that tend to notice.

If there's one thing that Brazil teaches, it's that you cannot simply attribute this to slavery. Race paranoia, notwithstanding the observations at the start of this essay, actually is a very American pathology. It is also one that it is eagerly exporting to the rest of the world, with wholly deleterious consequences.

So if it's not slavery, what is it?

Well, here's one thought. Maybe the way to get people less pissed off about race is, ooh I dunno, stop encouraging them through the media, schools, and universities to view every single issue through the prism of a race war.

Maybe the solution to hypersensitivity is not actually encouraging ever more sensitivity. Maybe the solution is for everybody to chill the hell out. At the moment, the fact that people have resentments along racial lines is consider the most important reason for permanently fretting over racism. But what if this is actually the source of the problem? What if the permanent hypersensitivity is actually a significant source of the antagonism in the first place?

Perhaps this sounds too simplistic. Perhaps it is. There is a certain ‘don’t think of an elephant’ aspect to it, I’ll admit. But at a minimum, perhaps dial down the permanent ELEPHANT WATCH RED ALERT ELEPHANTS ON THE NEWS 24/7 if you want people to do so.

Or if you dislike my answer, come down here and figure out your explanation of why things seem to work so much better. Because ‘America has a uniquely racist past’ simply won’t cut it.

Portrait of a Nation

I love National Portrait Galleries (plural). I had previously written about the British version here - it's a wonderful example of the impressiveness of Victorian England, as personified in its great and famous men.

So it was with considerable interest that I finally went to the US National Portrait Gallery recently, when I was in DC.

My hunch going in was that the 19th century would be mostly a wasteland, but the 20th would be fascinating. National Portrait Galleries chart the fortunes of nations, and America's century of greatness was the 20th, in much the same way that Britain's century of greatness (or at least its last century of greatness) was the 19th. My presumption was that most of the famous 19th Century Americans are figures from the Civil War, which is fine as far as it goes, but ideally you'd like to see something of greater civilisational achievement. On the other hand, America dominated the world so thoroughly in the 20th that the category of great men in general over that period is largely a catalogue of famous Americans.

Thus were my predictions going in. As it turns out, both parts were wrong.

Firstly, the 19th Century was actually a lot more interesting than I thought it would be. I was expecting to see only Twain and Melville - the latter was oddly missing, but included were also Poe, and Sir Walter Scott, and others I'd forgotten - Longfellow, Hawthorne, Emerson. The late 19th century industrialists (Carnegie, Rockefeller) were interesting, as were some of the inventors I didn't know, like Samuel Morse and Isaac Singer. In other words, the 19th century, especially the later part, had more going on than I'd given it credit for.

But you could already see creeping in the sheer embarrassment of the curators at the whiteness and maleness of the rooms, strengthened by the fact that the 18th and 19th century parts were clearly the sections everyone had come to see. In the middle of the 19th century section, there was an oddly placed entire room dedicated to a Hispanic woman who was a labor activist in the 1960s. It's the same urge that saw them include in the 'Presidents of the US' section portraits (small, admittedly) of noted non-presidents Eleanor Roosevelt and Martha Washington.

How hard it must be to viscerally hate the composition of the collection you're tasked with curating! To know that the people streaming in every day stubbornly want to see famous dead white males - rubes educated enough to appreciate history, not educated enough to be ashamed at the lack of diversity that the real-life history of the US presents.

But the curators got their own back when it comes to the 20th century. It's basically Women and Minorities' R' Us. It's also included in a poky afterthought section on the top floor - apparently my enthusiasm for the US 20th century is not widely shared.

And how they relish their ability to finally shape the narrative. They do so even to the point of farce and absurdity. For instance, there was almost an entire wall devoted to a gaudy painting of LL Cool J, of all people. He shared this room with other prominent Americans such as Chuck D from Public Enemy, Henry Louis Gates (famous for getting arrested while trying to forcibly enter his own home, and presumably something else before that), some black female opera singer I hand't heard of, some black scientist I hadn't heard of who invented something or other in World War 2. Nobodies, in other words, but nobodies from the right demographics.

You may think I'm just being mean-spirited here, but the far more damning criticism was the list of people whose pictures weren't displayed in order to make room for the above-mentioned notables. Some of the absent included:

-Neil Armstrong
-T. S. Eliot
-Ernest Hemingway
-Robert Frost
-Milton Friedman
-James Watson
-Elvis Presley

et cetera, et depressing cetera.

As it turns out, they have paintings of these people - you can check this for yourself using their search function. They just aren't on display. Presumably, they rotate people in and out of the sections, but always with an eye to keeping the demographic representation in the right proportions. So they'll put in F Scott Fitzgerald, for the moment, but he fills the white author quota, so bad luck for the rest.

There is one ameliorating circumstance, however, that partially lessens the shame. It is this - the sheer scope of the US 20th Century achievement makes it extraordinarily hard to do full justice to it in terms of selecting the most worthy citizens in any reasonably-sized museum.

For instance, the US list of Nobel Prize winners alone comprises 356 names. That is a large museum just on its own, without even starting on the other categories of achievement. Realistically, one will be forced to cull from among the set of Nobel Prize winners. Think about that for a while - you won a Nobel Prize, huh? Join the crowd, buddy - that doesn't get you a painting.

So the scope of the task is daunting. And yet it's hard not to feel that the current attempt falls amazingly short of what could have been. Modern society is simply not willing to celebrate greatness. It celebrates diversity instead. Greatness, indeed, is a slap in the face to the lazy egalitarianism of our age. Hence heroism must be devalued to include doing a fun run to support a cancer charity.

A National Portrait Gallery that includes LL Cool J but not Neil Armstrong is a joke and a disgrace.