Einstein's Monsters Read Free

peace—or “peace”—is wearily introduced. “Immediately the peace industry begins its predictable uproar … a coalition of misguided idealists, with a sprinkling of useful idiots and Soviet agents (conscious and unconscious).” Annoyed by references to the war “industry,” he nonetheless accords industrial status to the peace movement. Why? Where are the factory townships of peace? Where are its trillion-dollar budgets? At one point Chalfont discusses American plans
for the deployment of enhanced radiation warheads in Europe … there is, at once, an uproar against the “neutron bomb”—described by the mentally enfeebled as a capitalist weapon, designed to kill people but preserve property.
    Chalfont isn’t happy with the phrase “capitalist weapon,” and one concurs. But how happy is he with “enhanced radiation warheads”? How happy is he with “enhanced”?
    E. P. Thompson is unfortunately not much nearer to finding the voice of appropriate and reliable suasion. He has made great sacrifices for the cause he leads; he is brilliant, he is charismatic, he is inspiring; but he is not reliable. In Star Wars , as elsewhere, Professor Thompson shows himself to be the fit exponent of the nuclear High Style. He is witty and grand, writing with the best kind of regulated hatred. How devastating he is, for example, on the SDI public-relations effort. From the confidential literature:
Innumberable opportunities for highly visible “cause” activism could be opened up … interest to Catholics also.… Such a ratification effort would permit the White House to look good in confronting powerful anti-BMD domestic critics … addresses “Eurostrategic” issues, which are big today … play freely on high-road ethical themes (by far the best mobilizational approach) …
    Thompson is devastating about SDI; his case is well-nigh complete. But he will devastate nobody—indeed, he may even subvert the converted—because he has no respect for tone.
    His tone is lax, impatient, often desperately uncertain; it is excitedly alarmist; it takes pleasure in stupidity. His anti-Americanism (“the US of A is inherently moral,” “President of Planet Earth,” “I want you Commies to come out with your hands up”) is as dated and grueling, and as much a matter of stock response, as the counterprejudices of Lord Chalfont. Thompson also makes jokes. He likes this joke so well that he cracks it twice:
Already, the soon-to-be President warned, the window [of vulnerability] might be so wide open that “the Russians could just take us with a phone call.” “Hallo! Mr. Reagan, is zat you? Tovarich Brezhnev here. Come on out with your hands up, or I put zis Bomb through the window!”
    Everything in you recoils from this. You sit back and rub your eyes, wondering how much damage it has done. For in the nuclear debate, as in no other, the penalty for such lapses is incalculable. Human beings are unanimous about nuclear weapons; human institutions are not. Our hopes lie in a gradual symbiosis. We must find the language of unanimity.
    I argue with my father about nuclear weapons. In this debate, we are all arguing with our fathers. They emplaced or maintained the status quo. They got it hugely wrong. They failed to see the nature of what they were dealing with—the nature of the weapons—and now they are trapped in the new reality, trapped in the great mistake. Perhaps there will be no hope until they are gone. Out on the fringes there are people who believe that we ought to start killing certain of our fathers, before they kill us. This reminds me of the noble syllogism (adduced by Schell) of Failed Deterrence: “He, thinking I was about to kill him in self-defense, was about to kill me in self-defense. So I killed him in self-defense.” Yes, and then he killed me in retaliation, from the grave. Our inherited reality is infinitely humiliating. We must try to do a little better.
    My father regards nuclear weapons as