Endless Grievances
Rebecca West: Even the most innocuous subjects result in rage.
Split, Croatia 2016
Leaving Zagreb for the countryside and a castle turned sanatorium, Rebecca West, in her remarkable Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, finds a medical facility at odds with her English mind.
As we passed along a corridor overlooking the courtyard, there trembled, in one of the deep recesses each window made in the thickness of the wall, a shadow that was almost certainly two shadows, fused by a strong preference. ‘Yes,’ said the superintendent, ‘they sometimes fall in love, and it is a very good thing. It sometimes makes all the difference, they get a new appetite for living, and then they do so well.’ That was the answer to all our Western scruples. The patients were doing so well.
Later, during a feast of suckling pig and chopped steak—remember, we’re in a hospital—with sides of mushrooms and chicken liver, along with a “river of white wine,” there’s a disturbance.
The superintendent spoke to one of the younger doctors, who took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and ran from the room at the double. ‘Two of the patients have been talking politics,’ explained the superintendent; ‘it is not allowed, but sometimes they do it. However it is not really serious, they have no weapons.’
West is in Yugoslavia, the year is 1937, and she wants to somehow track and comprehend the endless disputes. What she discovers, however, is that even innocuous subjects result in rage. Every issue has its faction; every point of principle thrusts forward a list of grievances. And the factions, of course, overlap in ways perplexing to West’s eye.
Is the border in the correct spot? Who truly saved Vienna? The discussions are loud, and quickly lost in grudges from earlier centuries. Where are the best food markets? Who cultivates the best wine? How should a meal be cooked? These questions usher in reactions just as fierce. Eventually, West recognizes that, in Yugoslavia, the subject is never the subject.
This week I was reminded of West’s position in 1937—how she felt perplexed by the undulating terms of debate, by the zeal used for points best considered minor. As I scrolled through what’s considered the news, and when I overheard a political argument, I couldn’t help but notice an unstated assumption: the peculiar belief that every political opponent is missing information. Implicit to nearly every political dispute—then and now—is the certainty that political opponents don’t quite know the facts, haven’t heard the best evidence, will surely be convinced by one last vital detail. This seems, at best, mistaken.
My sense is that most people envision themselves as a junior aide on a military base, and they have critical, breakthrough evidence. A missile launch is imminent, so they charge into the room, breathless, ready to save the day. But that’s where the vision stops. A more likely next step, however, is that the political opponent ready to push the button already has the evidence. Nobody is shocked. There’s no outrage. The evidence is reviewed, dismissed, and the missile is launched.
Shouting one more frantic, gasping point doesn’t open eyes and reveal hidden truths. If you want to persuade a political opponent—which, alas, you might not—you have to work a bit harder. For just a moment, temper the hubris and condescension and snobbery of assuming that you hold the missing key. Almost certainly, your political opponent knows your facts and has heard even better versions of your argument, yet they still disagree. Once you accept that, you can begin the actual work of persuasion.
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