BEAT ME, DADDY
187
"sentimental," by which he apparently means that I refuse to give up
the ideals of socialism because they are at the moment defeated. How
I can be thought a "dilettante," especially by Burham, is not so clear,
since I
am
a specialist in politics and devote
all
my time to editing a
trade journal in that field.) Values to him are idle fancies, pleasant
to mull over before the fire, but with no connection with the "real"
world. His own tastes are humane and cultivated, but he would not
dream of being so unsophisticated as to relate them to his behavior
in the "real" world. This latter is a dismal universe, shaped neither by
historical-materialist forces nor by the conscious will and choice of
men but by some kind of idealistic (in the philosophical sense) and
ultimately otherworldly Plan. This Plan manifests itself in the actual
course of events, which could not be otherwise, and which, in Burn–
ham's circular-logical fashion, becomes the proof of the existence of
the Plan. In such a universe, values (which are what one
wants
to
happen) have no relevance to what actually does happen. They are,
as Molotov once remarked of fascism, "a matter of taste," of personal
and minor interest only, like whether one prefers pipes or cigarettes,
or doesn't smoke at
all.
Burnham, personally, doesn't smoke, but if
Stalin says, "Do you mind?" he replies, "Not at all."
If
Hitler, Stalin or some native fuhrer could choose what moral
and psychological attitude, they would most want to inculcate into our
intelligentsia, I think it would be the one described above. The intel–
lectual who becomes really enthusiasistic and morally convinced about
totalitarianism
is
likely to be troublesome and awkward because of
his very fervor; what the fuhrers want is submission, obedience and a
philosophy which leads intellectuals (always a troublesome lot in a
totalitarian system) to adopt a humble, masochistic attitude. Beat
me, daddy . . . I detected the same note in Arthur Koestler's "The
Intelligentsia" in the Summer, 1944, PARTISAN REVIEW, expressed
in somewhat more coherent and less morally offensive terms, but
essentially the same. In that article, Koestler- to show what a lot of
footling neurotics the revolutionary intelligentsia have been-writes
contemptuously that Trotsky "at a certain period spent all his after–
noons and evenings playing chess at the Cafe Centrale in Vienna."
This reminds me of the comment of the Viennese Chief of Police in
1917 when some one warned him that a revolution was likely to break
out in Russia. "A revolution! And who will. lead it? I suppose Mr.
Trotsky of the Centrale!"
The Burnhams, the Koestlers, and the police chiefs of this world
have never, never been able to understand how Mr. Trotsky of the
Centrale came to lead a revolution.
