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Arguing the World
In his last book, the late intellectual Tony Judt is sharp as ever—offering biting comments about American Jews, Israel, and his ex-wives
It was an English mind in that he had an English education and loved the English language. This was one of the ways in which he was conservative. He was the product of a very conservative educational system—almost reactionary I would say—all the way through. And that was one of the reasons why he was so confident with language, not only personally, but also confident about what the language could do, the purposes it could serve, how far you could take it. Like Churchill, he had faith in the transformative capacity of language. It was worth making arguments correctly and well because it might actually make a difference.
It was a French mind in that it was dialectical. He believed in argument. He believed in sacrificing friendships for ideas. It was a polemical mind, but only because he believed that ideas really were the world and that argument could bring us closer to understanding.
It was an Eastern European mind in a 1989 sort of way, a pluralist way. He accepted that no matter what the historical suffering in your life was (Jewish mind), no matter how precise formulations were (English mind), no matter how powerful your ideas were (French mind), there was in fact no one right answer to everything. That if you are going to be decent and responsible and fundamentally correct, you have to be a pluralist.
And finally, it was an American mind at the end in that he understood that optimism [is] our default mode of thinking; “it’ll work itself out, the market will take care of it, history will take care of it, our good faith will take care of it.” Understanding that national tendency, he knew what he was working with and against, and was critical and clear in a way that resonated here, whether or not people agreed with him.
Tony came to think of himself as a public intellectual. What’s the job description?
It’s something he kind of backed into, and he wouldn’t have embraced the term so comfortably. Normally when we talk about intellectuals we talk about a common formation, common experiences, and so on. He did a pretty good job of not sticking with experiences of everyone else. You can’t say there was the Tony Judt school or the Tony Judt agenda. He was a loner, and he was often criticizing the people with whom you might think he would have shared the solidarity of a milieu.
The classic example of that is the Iraq War, when a lot of people, also of Jewish origin, also of the left, also of the generation of 1968, were making one kind of argument and he was making exactly the other sort of argument with all sorts of political and personal results. So, he was definitely an intellectual, but he was an intellectual by not being with other intellectuals—just as that vocation itself was tumbling toward collapse.
He wasn’t afraid of what other people thought. He puts his points very sharply. He tried very hard to be his own man, which is a lot harder than it sounds.
Judt was especially withering about pundits in the press, famously calling David Brooks’ work “garbage,” and he stressed the importance of having an expertise. But why does his deep knowledge of French intellectual history give him any greater authority than Brooks to speak about the wisdom of the Iraq War? Judt was also a talking head when he played the role of polemicist.
Well, one of them was dead wrong and one of them was dead right.
The question is: What do you want to have inside that head in that 99.9 percent of the time when that head is not talking in front of the camera? I don’t think that Tony would say you have to be a historian. I think Tony would have said there has to be some way that you exercise your mind such that what you say can be at cross-purposes with dominant reality.
I think his problem with David Brooks—just taking that as a general example—is that too much of what he said was simply an articulation of what was already happening anyway. And articulating what’s already happening anyway is fundamentally of no use, and indeed damaging. Just going along with what’s happening anyway as is determined by greater forces than yourself is not knowledge. It’s not the right kind of life.
Tony could be extremely critical of the blind spots and failures of other public intellectuals. He made his public name initially with Past Imperfect, his 1994 book that excoriated the French left for their refusal to see Stalinism for what it was. Yet when it comes to his own views, he remained sympathetic toward Marxism.
No matter how self-critical we are, the story we tell about ourselves can rarely withstand any serious kind of interrogation. In this book, I was seriously interested in a question that Tony exemplifies, but which transcends Tony, which is: How is it that experience affects ideas? The way that appears in the book, I think, reveals him in a good light because he was responsive to my repeated and sometimes critical inquiries. Even if you are not suffering from horrible illness, it’s not necessarily that pleasant to have someone to your apartment who constantly questions what you’ve said about your past life, which is what I did, hopefully respectfully, but also hopefully revealingly.
But I think you’re right that Tony is biographically much more capable of understanding British left-wing historians of an older generation like E.P. Thompson and Eric Hobsbawn, with whom he had a very critical, but nevertheless mutually admiring, relationship than he is with people on the right. That remains the case even as his Marxism fades away in the 1980s. I think that has to do with the fact that his Marxism was never the kind of commitment which would mean that he would join the party, as Eric did. He could neither fall in love with it, nor could he fall out of love with it. It was always just there.
The idea that communism was a “God That Failed” doesn’t seem to resonate with him.
Communism as a God that failed is something he observes and chronicles, especially in this book, but it is not something that he experiences. Marxism for him was more a way of seeing the world; it wasn’t a way of being the world. The only way that he had of being the world was Zionism. And that, I think, explains why he doesn’t think total identifications with national communities is intellectually helpful.
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