Category Archives: sentimentality

George Floyd was no black Jesus

Dalrymple writes:

When I first saw the mural of George Floyd with angel wings, I assumed that it was a satire — effective, perhaps, but not in the best of taste. Shortly afterwards, however, I realised that the mural was in earnest. The picture in the newspaper included a man genuflecting before it, and the caption said that he was making a ‘pilgrimage’.

Floyd

was not a saint; he was a bad man, and being killed by a brutal policeman does not change a man’s life from bad to good.

At least one of Floyd’s crimes, Dalrymple notes,

was of deep-dyed malignity. Along with five others, he broke into a pregnant woman’s house and held her at gunpoint while his associates ransacked the house for drugs and money. This is not the kind of crime that results from a sudden surrender to temptation. It was premeditated and planned.

Floyd

had several convictions for possession and supply of drugs, yet when he moved to Minneapolis, allegedly to turn over a new leaf, he still took drugs, and a video showed him discarding what was probably a packet of drugs when he was first arrested.

Dalrymple points out that of course

none of this exculpates the policeman, Derek Chauvin, and no decent person would suggest that it did.

But

the ludicrous sanctification of Floyd naturally conduces to an examination of his character, and is moreover a sign of our modern tendency to make martyrs or saints of victims. But victims do not have to be martyrs or saints in order to be victims, and  Floyd certainly did not die for any cause.

Sentimentality

is a short step away from brutality.

The sanctification of Floyd implies, says Dalrymple,

that the character of a victim of murder is in some way a measure of the seriousness of the murder, when what is wrong with murder is that it is murder. Even the murder of a very bad man is murder, such that if Chauvin were killed in prison by other inmates, it would still be murder. We may in our hearts regret the murder of a good man more than we regret that of a bad, but the law can take no notice of such a distinction. Any other attitude would be to justify or excuse murder.

👏🏻Clap for the NHS👏🏻 is to gestures what Jeff Koons is to art

Every Thursday at 8pm, Britishers are required to come to their windows and hail 🙏🏻the NHS bureaucracy🙏🏻. Applause must be long, loud, and accompanied, Dalrymple notes,

with ululations.

He dislikes such actions,

which seem to me empty and shallow. They are supposed to be gestures of gratitude and encouragement, but all that I have seen suggests that doctors and nurses are more irritated than pleased by them. Often they have to work in poor conditions, with essential equipment lacking despite the vast expenditure on the health service.

He points out that thus to genuflect is cheap.

It costs nothing, financially or in any other way.

The Danube of Thought: cheer him to the rafters

There is also

something unpleasant about it. When lots of people make a gesture collectively, there is often the implication that if you refrain from making it—and even worse if you actively refuse to make it—you are in some sense an enemy, in this case, of the people. Whatever your inner conviction, it is safest to join in. By doing so you avoid drawing attention to yourself and you are assumed to think and feel like everyone else, which is always safest.

It reminds Dalrymple, in its tendency to get longer and louder and almost more hysterical,

of the applause after a speech by Nicolae Ceaușescu or any other communist despot, in which everyone in the audience had to show himself to be as enthusiastic as the most enthusiastic applauder, and to continue applauding as long as someone else was applauding, for to be the first to stop might be taken as a sign of disloyalty and dissent from the official line.

His objection is also æsthetic:

I find it to be emotionally kitsch.

The sort of ‘art’ excreted by Jeff Koons: Play-Doh (five versions, 1994-2014)

The long march of sentimentality

Screenshot 2020-02-11 at 08.28.46

Sudesh Amman

The absurdity of British criminal-justice policy over several decades at the behest of penological liberals

The British criminal-justice system, writes Dalrymple, is one of

elaborate and ceremonious frivolity.

The frivolity

is serious in its effects, not only for its immediate consequences on Britain’s crime rate but also because it undermines the legitimacy of the State, whose first and inescapable duty is to maintain enough order to secure the safety of citizens as they go about their lawful business.

Remission of prison sentences is automatic,

turning all judges into liars. When a judge says, ‘I sentence you to three years’ imprisonment,’ what he means is: ‘I sentence you to 18 months’ imprisonment.’

Appalling as terrorist violence is, the average person in Britain is many times more likely to be the victim of violent common crime than of terrorism, so that Boris Johnson’s announcement that the laws governing the sentencing of terrorists will be made more severe,

by fixing attention on what remains an uncommon problem and ignoring a far more prevalent one, may be doing a disservice.

Dalrymple says that good sense on criminal justice in Britain

will be difficult to put into practice, for a long march of sentimentality has occurred through the minds of the intelligentsia and élites in general. The father of the last man to be murdered by a terrorist recently released from prison said that he hoped his son’s death would not be used as an argument for more drastic sentencing of terrorists.

Screenshot 2020-02-11 at 08.34.03

Does one laugh or cry?

The perpetual temptation not to see

Dalrymple writes that in Max Frisch’s 1953 play Biedermann und die Brandstifter (The Firebugs or The Fire Raisers), a town is subject to a rash of arson attacks. Everyone is terrified by the prospect of more. The action takes place in the home of Herr Biedermann,

a rich bourgeois who makes his money from the manufacture and sale of fake hair restorative. Two dubious characters, Schmitz and Eisenring, take up residence in Herr Biedermann’s attic. He does not want them there, but is too cowardly and pusillanimous to evict them.

Gradually,

they make it clear to Herr Biedermann that they are the arsonists of whom the town is afraid. They move drums of petrol into the attic; they ask Herr Biedermann for help with the fuse with which they are going to light the fire; they even ask him, successfully, for the matches with which to start it. Throughout the preparation of the fire, Herr Biedermann—though he hates, fears and despises Schmitz and Eisenring, and again through cowardice and pusillanimity—refuses to accept the evidence before his eyes.

Eisenring explains Schmitz’s uncouth behaviour

by his unhappy childhood, and Herr Biedermann, through sentimentality rather than from real sympathy, feels unable to answer.

The compromise with evil

He invites the two interlopers to

a dinner of goose stuffed with chestnuts (before accepting the invitation, Eisenring makes sure there is to be red cabbage also), and though the two are complete ruffians, they insist that the best silver, including finger-bowls, be laid on a damask tablecloth.

After dinner,

they burn the house down, and the final scene takes place in Hell, where Herr Biedermann and his wife protest their innocence.

Frisch

lived through the Nazi takeover of Germany, but saw it from the German-speaking fringe. He is writing not just about the Nazi era: his play is about the perpetual temptation not to see, and then to compromise with evil.

Eisenring tells Herr Biedermann the secret of his success (but still Herr Biedermann disguises the truth from himself):

  • Joking is the third best method of hoodwinking people.
  • The second best is sentimentality. The kind of stuff [Schmitz] goes in for—an orphanage, and so on.
  • But the best and safest method—in my opinion—is to tell the plain unvarnished truth. Oddly enough. No one believes it.

Noble savagery

The late Henry Vincent: protest against injustice

Moral grandiosity and exhibitionism are the occupational hazards of intellectuals

The attitude of many intellectuals towards crime (which almost never affects them personally) is distinguished, writes Dalrymple, by

a mixture of sentimentality and intellectual pride.

On the one hand, there is

reluctance to believe that ordinary people can behave very badly.

On the other, there is the belief that

it is the function of the intellectual to uncover the underlying ‘reality’ of phenomena. (If he is not for that, what is he for?) It represents a loss of caste to express the man-in-the-street’s horror at, or revulsion against, crime.

Crime

has to become not really crime, but something altogether more noble, which it takes nobility and intelligence or acuity on the part of the intellectual to recognise. People don’t steal or rob because they want something and think it is the easiest way to get it; they are uttering a protest against injustice.

Godless people in the grip of sentimentality hold up their ikon

Dalrymple writes:

In a country in which sentimentality has so powerful a grip, no one could criticise the late Jo Cox’s ‘commission on loneliness’ without appearing heartless.

Cox

was already a secular saint: she had spent much of her career in a senior position in Oxfam, the antipoverty ‘charity’ whose largest contributor by far is the British government and which derives by far the greater part of its funds from public bodies. Her husband worked in another such ‘charity’ whose largest donor by far was also the British government.

Glib and oily art

Dalrymple notes that the increasing tendency in the West to express emotion in public

undermines the ability to distinguish genuine from bogus feeling.

He describes the modern age as one of

reverberating hollowness. We no longer accept the implicit.

It makes people

exhibitionistic. It sets up an arms race in which people have to express themselves more and more extravagantly in order to persuade others, and perhaps themselves, that they feel anything.

King Lear, Dalrymple reminds us,

is about the difference between real and bogus emotion. The two wicked daughters are able easily to deceive the king with extravagant expressions of love that they do not feel, but Cordelia refuses to ‘use that glib and oily art’.

Lear learns too late that

words and emotion are not necessarily connected in simple fashion.

No wonder Dr Johnson is not in fashion

Engraving from James Barry’s portrait (1778-80)

An incomparably greater psychologist than Freud, having no axe to grind and no sect to found

Samuel Johnson, writes Dalrymple,

  • contrived to be a moralist without moralising
  • was humane and charitable without sentimentality

This is a contrast to today, Dalrymple points out, for

we prefer mental contortions, self-justifications, evasions, rationalisations, and all the other methods of avoiding the truth about ourselves, to Dr Johnson’s discomfiting clarity of mind.

Johnson had a gift, Dalrymple notes, for saying things that were

both startling and obvious. As he himself put it, we have more often to be reminded than informed.

Johnson’s prose style

would no doubt strike many people (if they read it) as formal—we prefer expletives and the demotic now.

The cultural triumph of psychobabble

Theresa May: the little ones shall experience distress no more

The British prime minister, Dalrymple reports, has

spotted an opportunity to demonstrate to her sentimental electorate how much she cares for even the least of them by announcing that she wants to put a mental health professional, i.e. form-filler, in every school.

There is, says Dalrymple, a new social contract:

I will listen to your shallow clichés about yourself if you will listen to mine.

Her

compassion by proxy, at taxpayers’ expense, is typical of the behaviour of modern politicians, who need to show their electorates that they are not the heartless or ruthless ambitious nonentities that they might otherwise appear to be. An uncritically sentimental population is a perfect flock to be fleeced in this way, sheep for the shearing.

May’s project, Dalrymple points out,

is also typical of the process of simultaneous work creation and work avoidance that marks the modern state, a process that turns it into a trough from which many may feed.

Cómo el culto a la emoción pública está corroyendo nuestra sociedad

Screen Shot 2016-08-18 at 08.44.01Dalrymple escribe:

El sentimentalismo es una de esas cualidades que son más fáciles de identificar que de definir. Obviamente todos los diccionarios emplean las mismas características definitorias: un exceso de emociones falsas, sensibleras y sobrevaloradas si se las compara con la razón. Los grandes diccionarios, por ejemplo, el Oxford English Dictionary, son etimológicamente, aunque no psicológicamente, más exhaustivos que los pequeños. El OED señala que originalmente la palabra sentimental tenía connotaciones positivas: al hombre considerado sentimental desde mediados hasta finales del siglo XVIII, hoy en día se le hubiera llamado sensible y compasivo, lo contrario de un hombre bruto e insensible. El cambio de la connotación se inicia a comienzos del siglo siguiente, con los escritos de un poeta romántico y revolucionario, posteriormente convertido en conservador, llamado Robert Southey, en los que se pronunciaba despectivamente sobre Rousseau, y se completa a comienzos del siglo XX.

La definición anterior

omite una característica importante de la clase de sentimentalismo sobre la que quiero llamar la atención, a saber, su carácter público. Ya no basta con derramar una furtiva lágrima en privado por la muerte de la pequeña Nell; ahora es necesario hacerlo (eso o su equivalente moderno) a la vista del público. Sospecho, aunque no puedo demostrarlo, que en parte es consecuencia de vivir en un mundo, incluyendo el mundo mental, completamente saturado por productos de los medios de comunicación de masas. En un mundo así, todo lo que se hace o sucede en privado, en realidad no sucede, al menos en el sentido más completo. No es real en el sentido en que lo son los reality de la televisión.

La expresión pública de los sentimientos

tiene importantes consecuencias. En primer lugar exige una respuesta por parte de los que lo están presenciando. Esta respuesta debe ser de simpatía y apoyo, a menos que el testigo esté dispuesto a correr el riesgo de una confrontación con la persona sentimental y ser techado de insensible o incluso cruel. Por eso hay algo coercitivo o intimidatorio en la expresión pública del sentimentalismo. Debes unirte a él, al menos, abstenerte de criticarlo. Se ha creado una presión inflacionaria sobre este tipo de exhibiciones. No tiene mucho sentido hacer algo en público si nadie lo nota. Eso implica que se requieren unas demostraciones de sentimientos cada vez más extravagantes y se pretende competir con los demás y no pasar desapercibido. Las ofrendas florales son cada vez más grandes, la profundidad de los sentimientos se mide por el tamaño del ramo. Lo que cuenta es la vehemencia y la sonoridad de la demostración.

Las demostraciones públicas de sentimentalismo

no sólo coaccionan a los observadores casuales arrastrándolos a un fétido pantano emocional, sino que, cuando son suficientemente fuertes o generalizadas, empiezan a a afectar a las políticas públicas. Como veremos, el sentimentalismo permite a los gobiernos hacer concesiones al público en vez de afrontar los problemas de una manera racional aunque impopular o controvertida.