MAN ON THE MOON
245
decimal system-a way, among others for organizing knowledge, cata–
loguing books. Then it seemed to be the province of space-outer
.space. One could not imagine it. No, one could only calculate. The
moon is so-and-so big, a star is so-and-so far, and the Milky Way is–
well, the Milky Way is inconceivable. Under the dark hood of the
planetarium does the human mind feel wonder or terror? Perhaps both.
From the loudspeaker drone the relevant facts, the statistics. The word
from outer space--if we want it-we already have. It is
data.
One
cannot imagine it. One can only calculate.
In human terms this dilemma is embodied in the trial of Adolph
Eichmann, accused of the murder of six million Jews. We say the
enormity of the crime staggers the imagination. But it does more. It
stupefies. We feel little more than the blow on our own head. Adolph
Eichmann is the first man to be put on trial for the murder of statistics.
I hope he is the last. Statistics will twist our minds, but never wring our
hearts. The murder of one man is still enough to
tax
our sense of mercy,
and overpower our sense of justice. It would seem to be idle, however
well intended, to try a man or a crime we cannot comprehend. Six
million human beings. We do not grasp it.
If
we did, we would be
monsters. The war criminal, the crimes of war, shrink rather than ex–
pand our concepts of justice. Statistics, calculable in advance, make it
impossible to deal with murder on our highways. A death toll-like a
bridge toll-is something one accepts and pays.
It is not a loss of nerve that confronts man, but a failure of the
human imagination. The mind is not scaled to the facts it is obliged to
face. It is why machines have been devised to deal with such details.
Few Americans, if any, can speak from experience of atomic war-but
even
if
we could we could speak only of statistics, of data. The number
dead or wounded, the number calculated to survive. We cannot speak
effectively of a ruin we cannot imaginatively grasp.
If
we are dealing with facts we cannot comprehend, it is no wonder
we deal with them so badly, or speak, as we do, one moment as if
sane, another as if mad. Between poetry and paranoia it is often dif–
ficult to distinguish. Our most comprehensive grasp of the
facts
is re–
flected in the paradox of our unpreparedness. We were told-and we
sensibly believed-there was no defense. There was nothing for man
to do but abolish war itself. Unhappily, since that has never been done
there is no precedent for man to follow. Quite simply, we do not know
how to take the first step. Disarmament, unfortunately, is the last, and
it will remain a pipedream so long as we think we must take the last
step first.
