Hitler as internet a-hole

Eichmann on trial in Israel

In an earlier post, I talked about how Hitler appealed to the sense that some groups are entitled to dominate others—a sense shared by a lot of the major figures of his time, who were, therefore, willing to see him as someone with whom they could work. I mentioned that Hitler also relied heavily on deflection, especially whaddaboutism, that enabled him to normalize Nazi violence and persecution and to deflect his own personal responsibility, and I was using a despatch written by Horace Rumbold (British Ambassador to Germany) of a meeting May 11, 1933.

This is the second post about that meeting.

Rumbold reports

The Chancellor then went on to talk about the recent revolution in Germany, which, he said, had probably been unique, inasmuch as it had been accompanied with the minimum of violence and bloodshed. He maintained that not even a pane of glass had been broken in Berlin. Two printing-presses belonging to the Communist party had been destroyed, and perhaps some twenty people in all killed throughout the country. He seemed to remember that matters had been very different in Ireland in 1921, when the law courts had been burnt down and there had been much loss of life. He added very bitterly that between the years 1923 and 1932, 360 of his supporters had been treacherously murdered and some 40,000 injured.

Hitler insisted that the SS and SA “were in no sense military formations, and that he had forbidden them to indulge in military exercises of any kind.

I’ve spent a lot of time arguing with jerks, and I find this kind of jerk the most frustrating. They’re frustrating because what they’re saying looks like an argument—it has claims, and it has data that are linguistically related to the claims. The data and claims are, however, not logically related to one another. Some of the data is true, or true enough, but not relevant, and the relevant data is false—a deliberate lie, in fact. And then we have claims that might be hyperbole, or they be lies (the idea that their revolution was unique, only two printing presses destroyed, the number of his supporters murdered or injured). The data looks precise (360 deaths, two printing presses) but the important terms are so vague that he actually has a lot of room for equivocation (why only mention Berlin, what does “much loss of life” mean, what exactly is “the revolution”). Hitler doesn’t care that his claims and data are false, and his overall argument illogical. He has no sense of being responsible for what he’s saying or doing. Arguing with him is like trying to play chess with someone who openly pockets pieces and refuses to admit to it. Violating the rules of argument is part of the pleasure.

So, what do you do?

It might be worth engaging with him simply for purposes of trying to undermine his rhetorical effectiveness with third parties—at Rumbold’s May 11 meeting, the only other person in the room is Hitler’s third-rate toady, Baron von Neurath, and Rumbold chooses not to argue. But, what if there are observers to whom you want to expose Hitler’s irrationality and dishonesty?

The rhetorical advantage of being a liar like Hitler is that he has nothing to lose by continuing to lie. If he gets caught in a lie, he can simply claim it was hyperbole—or what is called a “blue lie,” and so it will cost him nothing with his base. The whole point of the charismatic leadership relationship is that it is an irrational commitment to an irrational genius. It is a profoundly religious relationship, in which the leader is worshipped, and so the leader benefits from the kind of thinking common in religions—about claims not needing to be literally true, or empirical facts; they are “true” to the extent that they are consistent with the central beliefs of the religion.[1] The religion of which Hitler is the high priest is the religion of Nazism, and one of the central tenets of Nazism is that Germans are the victims of liberalism, socialism, alien races, and the Versailles Treaty. Because they are the real victims, they are justified in any action they take against the people who have tried to exterminate them. Or who criticize them.

When Rumbold said that there was discrimination against Jews (which Hitler had both denied and bragged about—that’s the next post) and “instanced the names of Professor Einstein and Herr Bruno Watler.” Hitler replied that “Professor Einstein had attacked his Government violently from American soil” and that any English scientist who did the same “would risk molestation in England.” In the first place, no. In the second place, Hitler is equating verbal criticism with attacking, and using that Einstein criticized Nazi Germany as evidence that their prior abuse of him was justified. When arguing with someone like Hitler, this weird warping of time is common—the question was whether Germany was discriminating against Jews, and Hitler said expelling Einstein was justified because Einstein criticized Nazi Germany after being expelled.

So, Hitler’s argument is: there isn’t discrimination against Jews; there is discrimination against Jews, but it’s justified; and, besides, England would do the same (so whaddaboutism based on a hypothetical). Rumbold takes the bait of disagreeing about the last point, making Hitler’s deflection rhetorically effective. They’re now on the issue of whether Britain persecutes people who criticize the government—a point that has nothing to do with whether Nazis do.

This shift is one of the major functions of whaddaboutism—to shift the burden of proof from the weaker case to the other. It’s more or less an admission that a position is indefensible.

Hitler’s earlier whaddaboutism is even more interesting rhetorically. Usually, the whaddaboutism is the kind he engages in about Einstein—it enables the rhetor with a weak case to go on the attack. So, it’s tu quoque—you do it too. He does some of that (the reminder of violence in Ireland in 1921), but his argument about the non-violence of the revolution ends up in whaddaboutism with anti-fascists.

It has the same structure as the argument about Einstein, but without Rumbold saying anything to dispute him:

Hitler makes a false claim (it was unique because it was accomplished with a minimum of bloodshed; there is no discrimination against Jews) that he then contradicts (there were at least 20 people killed; they expelled Einstein); and he justifies this new claim by saying that other people did just as much or worse and therefore this violence was justified. In this case, the violence was the number of Nazis killed and injured during the violence instigated by Nazi groups.

Just as Hitler isn’t responsible for anything he says, so Nazis aren’t responsible for anything bad. It’s never their fault because it is never purely their actions. When it comes to anything bad, then Hitler has a monocausal narrative, and any actors other than Nazis are responsible for the Nazi behavior. Even if deflecting responsibility this way requires some fairly strange time travelling responsibility.

It struck me as very strange when I was reading proslavery rhetors how much they deflected responsibility. They were patient, but about to lose control, and if they did, it would be the fault of abolitionists (or slaves) that they lost control. They genuinely seemed to see themselves as continually exerting heroic self-control that they were about to lose. And nothing was their fault—not slavery, not the conditions of slavery, not the slave codes, not slave rebellions, not even their losing their own tempers and beating slaves. It’s the rhetoric of an abuser.

It makes sense, in its own weird way, that the person who amounts to the idol of an ideology of irrational commitment to the will, violence, and domination would be incapable of making a rational argument. And I think internet a-holes who are similarly incapable of defending their beliefs rationally are similarly commitment to a kind of moral nihilism—there is no morality other than domination. The reason that it strikes me as weird is: why do people who admire domination so much, and who see an irrational argument that silences interlocutors because of how incoherently stupid it is as a victorious domination, whine so fucking much about being victims?







[1] This isn’t a criticism of religion. I consider myself a religious person, and I have beliefs that are not falsifiable or rationally defensible. But, when we start to use that kind of thinking for a political leader, we have created a second God. And I’m not a polytheist.


The political power of the irrational rhetor

There are, loosely, two ways to think about what disagreement means in a democracy (or, really, any other group). For some people disagreement is productive because, in fact, we really do disagree, and disagreement means that those different ways of thinking about a problem are being openly discussed. These people view disagreement in a democracy as a necessary condition because no individual can have enough information to know the right solution—in fact, there is no right solution because people really and legitimately disagree. There is no plan that is perfect for anyone, let alone for everyone.

But other people believe that disagreement is unnecessary because, not only is there a plan that is perfect for real Americans (or Germans, Venezuelans, Austinites, Christians), but it’s perfectly obvious to everyone of good will and even moderate intelligence what that plan is. We end up with imperfect plans because there are people involved in the process who are dumb, selfish, misled by evil people. People like this believe that those dumb and selfish people should be ignored, disenfranchised, or expelled—they shouldn’t be able to participate in deliberation.

People who believe in this democracy without disagreement see themselves as supporting democracy, but it’s democracy of the “real” people (Jan-Wenner Muller explains this all beautifully). In what they think of as a “good” democracy, there wouldn’t be disagreement; there would just be quick and efficient enacting of the perfect plans.

It’s well-documented that people faced with a loss (or even uncertainty) tend to demand greater in-group purity (much of this research is summarized here). And, consistently, in the train wrecks in public deliberation that I study, people respond to clear evidence that their plan is bad by deciding that they just need to recommit to that plan with greater will (e.g., how Hitler and his generals spent mid-1943 on).

I am oriented toward solving problems, believing that our political situation is usefully complicated by our being a pluralist society with people who have genuinely different points of view, different short- and long-term interests, and fundamental disagreements about values. I also believe that the right answer to all political questions is not obvious to anyone (the false model of the “universal genius”—a different post). I am a “liberal” in the old sense of the word—a person who believes that we shouldn’t be striving to enact policies that are obviously true to us, but that we should have a world in which we consider a lot of arguments “good enough.” That is, we can say something is a good argument even if we think it’s wrong—it’s good enough.

A “good enough” argument is one that is fair to its opposition(s), is internally consistent logically, and is grounded in sources that are also fair to the opposition(s) and internally consistent. A good enough argument might still be wrong, but it’s good enough to be taken seriously in public deliberation.

My appreciation of “good enough” arguments came from teaching argumentation, in which it was important that students who disagreed with me could get good grades, and that students with whom I agreed might not, but more importantly from my awareness that very smart people often disagreed, and that I was often wrong—being right and agreeing with me (or being a member of my in-group) were not the same.

Our goal in political deliberation shouldn’t be to have a sphere of public discourse that is only people who agree with us, or policies only informed by people who think like we do. Democracy requires good enough arguments.

It also requires that people compromise, listen to one another, and  don’t expect always to get what we want. If we accept the premise that people really disagree, and that people really have different interests, then we have to accept that no policy will be the one we want.[1] Or, as Jan-Werner Muller argues, democracy is about pluralism, and accepting that we are in a pluralistic society means that we accept “a commitment to try to find fair terms of sharing the same political space with others whom we respect as free and equal but also as irreducibly different in their identities and interests” (What is Populism 82).

But, a lot of people don’t think democracy is about people with different interests and legitimately different points of view trying to find ways to live together. In a course on how to teach argumentation—entirely for people getting their PhD at a prestigious institution–, I asked the teachers to identify arguments with which they disagreed but that they thought were good arguments. A non-trivial number of teachers said there was no such thing.

In other words, the irrational insistence that only arguments with which you agree are “good” arguments is not a question of how educated you are.

It’s just a bad way to think about democracy. And a bad way to think about decision-making, but that’s a different post. People who think that only their political ideology merits consideration are all over the political spectrum, all over levels of education, and all over areas of expertise.

I’ve been at Faculty Council meetings where world-famous scholars stood up and argued against a policy because it didn’t fit how they teach, or who argued in favor of it because it would force everyone to teach as they did. (In the first group was a scholar of rhetoric, and in the second a scholar of democracy.) The irony was not lost on me, but I think my snorting on the back row did not win me friends.

Unhappily, far too many Americans have that model of democracy, and it is really not democracy—it’s inevitably authoritarian. That notion of good democracy not requiring compromise, and deliberation not benefitting from agreements means that our public discourse creates a kind of tragedy of the rhetorical commons in which it is in the short-term benefit of far too many political figures and pundits to advocate irrational policies.

Here’s why:

Sarah Binder and Frances Lee, in a chapter called “Making Deals in Congress,” describe the problems faced by members of Congress. One of them is the problem presented by “’intense demanders,’ who are critical to politicians’ fundraising and activism base” (243). These people feel passionately about an issue, but

“often have little understanding of what is and is not possible in Congress. Constituents will not be happy to hear that they must settle for less than what they wanted or that they must make unpalatable concessions to achieve desired goals….Rather than accept disappointment, they may prefer to listen to other voices—such as those of activist group leaders or congressional hardliners—who tell them that a better deal was possible. As a consequence, lawmakers must continually cope with constituencies, activists, and supporters who push them to take a tougher line and refuse compromise.” (243)

Bind and Lee quote Congressional rep Barney Frank, “On both sides, the task is dealing with all the people who believe that insufficient purity is why their party hasn’t won more elections” (qtd. 243-4).

And it isn’t even new.

I read an entire year of Congressional debates (long, complicated story)—if memory serves it was 1835-36, but that might be wrong—and I wish I had kept track of the number of Senators or Reps who stood up and called for war against other countries (I do remember Spain, England, and France, being among them, but I think there were others).

The rhetor who stood up and did an impassioned speech for war with England didn’t really want the US to declare war on England—I think he knew that would be a disaster. He was like the jerk in a bar who threatens to get into a fight, and yells to his friends, “HOLD ME BACK!” because he does, really, want them to do exactly that. The Senate or Rep who called for war on England wanted to look like someone willing to die on that hill, but he really wanted other people to hold him back. He was trying to garner support among the folks back home by looking  irrationally committed to a policy they liked. But, he really knew was a terrible idea and hoped he wouldn’t persuade the House or Senate to adopt his stance.

This particular performance of in-group loyalty requires that other people hold him back. Someone else has to stand up and explain why that’s a bad idea. But we can get into a kind of rhetorical tragedy of the commons, in which rhetors get short-term gains by rabidly advocating policies they don’t really want enacted, and no one will take on the unpopular position of saying that the situation is complicated, the solution isn’t obvious, and the immediately satisfying “Let’s show THEM! We’ll declare war!” position is actually unwise.

The term “tragedy of the commons” comes from the observation that, if you have a common area in which people in the community can pasture their cattle, people will make short-term benefit decisions that hurt everyone—including them—in the long run. Here’s how it works.

Imagine that the common area can support ten cattle easily—if there are ten cows, then each cow gains ten pounds. If there are eleven, then each cow gains nine pounds. If you’re the person to put that additional cow on the commons, then you’ve now got two cows and a gain of eighteen pounds. It sucks for everyone else, though (since they’ve all lost a pound per cow). If there are twelve cows, then each cow gains eight pounds—again, bad for the community as a whole, but good for the person who put on an additional cow on. At this point, any sensible person would put as many cows on as possible, to the point that the commons is destroyed, and no longer providing food for any cows. This is called the “tragedy of the commons.” [2] The short-term best interest of any individual is not in the long-term best interest of any individual. But, because people believe that others in the community will only think in terms of their immediate best interest, then everyone is racing to destroy the commons on which they all depend.

It is tragic because it is always in the short-term best interest of someone to screw over the community as a whole—if everyone behaves that way, then everyone loses. (This is related to what is sometimes called the “free rider problem”).[3]

The economy of attention, a world in which there are always too many things demanding our attention, means that a pundit or political figure who makes hyperbolic and fear-mongering claims will get more attention than one who says the situation is complicated. That is the tragedy of the rhetorical commons—that irresponsible rhetors will benefit, in the short term, even if their short-term benefit means the destruction of the our common rhetorical and political space.

Our rhetorical world is a tragedy of the commons. We have a public that, on the whole, only rewards demagogic media (through viewing, clicks, sharing), and that has far too many voters who, having only paid attention to media that says “This is a battle of good v. evil, and we should only vote for people who refuse to compromise,” only wants politicians or pundits who will die on this hill. And that hill. Every hill in fact. And the politicians are pundits who decide they want the short-term benefits of pandering to that irrationality about politics are the people putting the extra cow on the commons—it gets them the short-term benefit of getting votes, but it trashes our ability to make good decisions.

We are in a world in which there is considerable political power to being openly an irrational rhetor who refuses to compromise, refuses to acknowledge legitimate disagreement, and dies on every hill. This destruction of our common world will only stop when voters and consumers stop voting for political figures and consuming media who say, “It’s all very simple, and we just need to refuse to compromise.”

We need to stop rewarding the irrational rhetor. As long as we reward the irrational rhetor, we can’t complain when the commons can’t sustain any cows, that our rhetorical commons is an argumentative desert, and we have a lot of dead people on hills. We made the short-term choices that got us a long-term outcome we don’t like. We have only ourselves to blame.

[1] I’m not saying that all compromises are good, nor that we should never refuse to compromise, but simply that, as Muller says, “democracy is a system where you know you can lose, but you also know you will not always lose” (79).
[2] Unhappily, some people have this concept to make an internally contradictory argument about immigration. That’s a different post.
[3] 3] That is why there are no magnificent natural features preserved in private ownership in the US—because it’s never in the short-term best interest of someone to preserve the natural features. (This is also why “the market” should not be allowed to determine everything, since it is not actually rational in the long-term.)