Understanding Evil Through the Western Lens
Many ages ago, I took a class about evil. I apparently had my own biases on the topic, and if one pays attention, there will be perhaps a shift in tone as I begin to glean the concept through each stage of man’s evolution through history (Again, this is through the Western, Judeo-Christian lens, so it is approached as thus). Often our present biases shape our perceptions, and to judge the past through the same lens is to welcome an error in judgement at best, for perspective must be gleaned not only culturally, but historically as well. We begin with the Book of Job, as this serves best to illustrate the concept of Evil through the metaphysical lens. What was Evil in a world wrought with suffering and survival? Make all the commandments you want, man still has trouble figuring it out. Job seeks to make the case plain: Evil is not for man to decide…
From the onset, we first find that "(Job) was blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil," (NIV, Job 1;1). Then in verse 8, God gets super meta and doubles down on his omniscience, asking Satan if he's considered Job who is, "blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil," (NIV, Job 1:8), practically verbatim with the narration (as if he knew we were going to be reading this). Unlike David, Job isn't writing poems of unrequited love for God (interestingly enough, we follow this tale with Psalms). He fears God, not evil. There couldn't be any greater foreshadowing to the outcome of these events. Visit upon him all the evil you want, he will shun it. He fears only God.
Satan visits upon Job, many horrors (in a very passive aggressive move by God, letting Satan get his hands dirty). Instead of cursing God outright, Job curses the day he was born, and laments the basic pain of existence. "What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me. I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil,” (NIV, Job, 3:25-26). Job's anguish is great and his lamentations are long. He finally asks God,"What is mankind that you make so much of them, that you give them so much attention, that you examine them every morning and test them every moment?" (NIV, Job, 7:17-18). Here, Job wrestles with the Problem of Evil, for not only does the omni-benevolent allow evil to exist, but seems to enjoy a voyeuristic sadism in mankind's suffering. If life is a test and a system of rewards and punishments, Job only sees its futility; he maintains that "It is all the same; that is why I say, ‘He destroys both the blameless and the wicked,’" (NIV, Job, 9:22). This could also be addressing the problem with natural evil: the tsunami, or child cancers of which no discernible lesson can be ferreted.
At this point, Job doesn't remain God's faithful servant out of duty or love; like an abused animal, he remains dutiful out of fear. Job can't even approach this supernatural entity on equal grounds for discussion. He prays for a mediary to protect him from the wrath of God: "Then I would speak up without fear of him, but as it now stands with me, I cannot," (NIV, Job, 9:35). At this point, Zophar rebuts with the classic Judeo-Christian, The Lord works in mysterious ways defense. Eliphaz piggybacks on this notion and reminds Job of his place in the slave-master relationship he has with The Almighty: "Your sin prompts your mouth; you adopt the tongue of the crafty. Your own mouth condemns you, not mine; your own lips testify against you," (NIV, Job, 15:5-6). Here, the dogma is clear: the servant does not question the master's authority; the sin of doubt is the opposite of faith.
After much more prolonged debate, Job again questions the nature of secular rewards and punishments. The wicked always seem spared of God's judgements: their houses are successful and their children are prosperous without prayer or servitude. Here God's benevolence is lost on Job, for he has no evidence of justice served for the righteous or the wicked. Though his eyes are blind to it, one would have him believe that he is lucky to have all this evil visited upon him, such a kindness to have all this special attention and instruction from God. In this case, is the evil really evil at all, or does it eschew that description because it is necessary as a tool of instruction?
Elihu says to Job, "He does not keep the wicked alive, but gives the afflicted their rights," (NIV, Job 36:6). This simple statement says everything about God's relationship to evil. Though omnipotent, God stays his hand in the course of human events. Even in the case of Job, he doesn't visit evil upon Job, he lets Satan do it. If God is omnipotent and omniscient, he knows when suffering will be inflicted, and chooses not to stop it. Furthermore, he creates the agents of evil who perpetuate the suffering, knowing when and how they will be providing it. It's like Elon Musk designing a human-killing robot, and then after people are killed saying, "it wasn't me who killed these people, it was the robot!"
God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent, but few know that he's also omniverbose. The Lord bursts in with a catalogue of his collected works to slap his metaphoric phallus table side. Just when Job begins to get the idea, the Lord doubles down and then triples down with more examples. One gets the idea that God is intent on belaboring the point by naming individually all manner of beasts on earth and in the constellations, but Job finally makes it curt and repents. God blesses him with double his wealth and new sons and daughters (prettier than the first). I guess Job took comfort that his first offspring died quickly?
The problem with evil has been debated by many great minds over the ages about the benevolence (or lack thereof) of God. Some have even speculated at an evil God. Perhaps God really is a bored god, a popcorn god. He constructed the entirety of reality like reality TV (with voyeuristic intention). Where's the entertainment if one can affect the outcome? In creative writing we are told that a story about a perfectly successful family with no problems is the most boring story in the world. Stories need drama, conflict, resolutions (of which we get none with Job, what happened to Satan? Sure, Job doesn't curse God, but doesn't cursing the day you were born send out a pretty strong message to your creator?). The Book of Job spends the majority of it marveling at God's power and works, and our insignificance and inability to understand His plans. The world is a stage for an audience of one. Know your place (and your markers, people!). For all intents and purposes, the audience analogy is poor, because God is less audience, and is more writer/director. He's the author of the tale watching the actors makes their "choices," (but who makes any choices in this deterministic universe?). What great delight it must bring Him to see the automatons wax philosophic about the Problem of Evil, (designed of course for the grand test of free will) when free will is illusory at best.
We next transition into the post-metaphysical. Here we contrast Job with Dracula…
"Representations of Evil from Metaphysical and Post-Metaphysical Worldviews"
The term “evil” provides us with a loose construct that is not only slippery to define, but also highly relative both epistemologically, ontologically, and linguistically. If we derive meaning linguistically from words in their juxtaposition or context in relation to other words, so too can the term “evil” garner meaning in relation to the zeitgeist of the current human condition. Our greatest markers for this paradigm shift in our conceptualization of “evil” occur during man’s shift from a theological worldview to a secular one. Here, we will contrast the literary representations of evil from the metaphysical and post-metaphysical worldviews to better understand ontologically how the dichotomy of good and evil (or perceptions thereof) shape the human experience.
If we first examine evil through the Judeo-Christian lens, then we can assume that “evil” lies in direct opposition of God’s will, plan, or edicts. Another way to possibly view “evil” in a more generalized way is through the term “sin.” These transgressions made by man occur whenever man defies the laws set before him by God. Originally, God kept his law simple: do not eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. The same way that we cannot fault an animal for acting instinctually, not knowing the consequences of its actions, this early naïve state of man couldn’t transgress from God, because it didn’t knowingly break any commandments. Knowledge of the true nature of things, (good versus evil) could only be attained by consuming the fruit of the tree. Unlike modern law, ignorance of the law erred on the side of forgiveness; we hear this sentiment echoed in Christ’s plaintiff pleas on the cross, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing,” (NIV, Luke. 23:24).
We may view this initial transgression in the garden as one of disobedience. Law is set forth and breaking of the law is “evil.” One could argue that all sin is an act of transgression of His laws. However, this first act of disobedience comes from another sin that factors in most of the biblical canon, that of giving in to temptation. From our modern viewpoint of “evil” acts, these sins originally committed by Adam and Eve might seem trivial or like imperceptible microaggressions towards God, but they provide the impetus of all “evil” or sin. The temptation is the drive or motivator of the action, and the action breaks the commandment of God. Conceptually, man originally viewed “evil” through this metaphysical lens, as acts not in keeping with His law. This is the nature of metaphysical evil, tangential in its relation to The Lawmaker and in keeping with His jurisprudence.
The Problem of Evil is a secular criticism on the nature and necessity of “evil” from a theological perspective. We will eschew attempts to define “evil” per se, but for this purpose of conversation, we will limit our notions to Marcus Singer’s contentions that “evil” be relegated to unnecessary suffering. “Evil” also takes on qualitative connotations, so other criticisms on “evil” being allowed by an omnibenevolent God come in the form of asking, “if evil exists in opposition for purposes of choice, (i.e., the parameters by which one is judged ultimately by the creator) then why soevil.” Another critique in the Problem of Evil is that of natural evil, of which the byproduct of suffering due to nature offers no moral guidance or act of free will. Both the logical and evidential problem of evil surmise that rationally given the evidence, that an omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent God cannot exist while “evil” endures. Critics proffer far too many cases of “unnecessary evil” that exists in the face of a benevolent father.
The Book of Job pedagogically attempts to wrestle with the Problem of Evil from a central thesis: it is not man’s duty to understand the nature of evil or God’s plans, his duty first and foremost is subservience. Job belabors his woes to his friends, not directly cursing God, but cursing the day he was born, for he sees nothing but futility in his torment. He is continuously rebuked for his insolence, for his transgression is that of piety: Job has positioned himself as knowing better than the Creator of both physical and metaphysical reality. God spends almost an equal fervor educating Job on his omnipotence, as Job spent lamenting his ills. The Problem of Evil addressed in Job simplifies any long-winded rational critiques of benevolence versus “allowing evil to exist.” The Lord acts in mysterious ways; who are we to even attempt to fathom his designs?
The theological construct of evil doesn’t hinge upon definition or qualitative assessment. Humans can be forever mired in the details (for the devil is there). Thus, we see 2 times in which God sets forth simple guidelines for man to follow. First, God sets one rule: do not eat from the tree. Second, his Son sets forth the Golden Rule: “do to others what you would have them do to you,” (NIV, Matthew. 7:12). The second clearly addresses notions of evil through an empathetic lens, but it’s in the first and Job in which we find our simplest and most reliable definition of “evil”: that which goes against God’s plan, desire, and will. This answers the question of the problem of evil: it doesn’t matter what is considered by man to be objectifiable as necessary, for the entirety of design exists outside his purview. Man can simply not comprehend the will of God; therefore he can make no compunction what is or is not necessary. Furthermore, it is not man’s job to understand the mind of God, his only task is to obey his commands.
This line of reasoning is the benchmark for what will be contrasted with the post-metaphysical representations of evil. If “evil” ceases to be described as what is necessary to a supernatural being, if reality fails to hinge upon the creation of a mysterious benefactor, then what role does “evil” play in the modern mind? Morality can be fleeting and fashionable, relying heavily on cultural precepts and societal constructs. “Evil” in the post-metaphysical worldview puts man at the center of the universe, not God. Man, then becomes the center of how “evil” is to be perceived. We shift the focus back onto necessity and scale, the qualitative qualities of truly dark evil, scary dark evils. Whereas temptation (pride, hubris) was the motivator to act outside the will of the Creator, fear is the motivator to act within conventional morality. Mankind is then policed not by his fear of God (like Job); he is kept in line by fear of transgressing against popular opinion. These opinions define the cultures that adopt them.
Conceptually, difference and other begin to define the nature of evil in the post-metaphysical world. This can be most readily observed in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. If one is to examine Dracula as a narrative through the lens of upholding Victorian values, then one must first consider othering as the means by which societies regulate behavior through the monster tale. If we consider Mandeville's Travels, orientalism and exoticism created boundaries, the same way monsters on a sea faring map sought to control trade routes. This heightened sense of othering not only creates the “evil” from the opposition, but also makes for the values upheld by the foreigner to be part of said “evil.”
As Victorian England approached the dawn of modernity, an existential crisis accompanied industrialization and this new post-metaphysical world in which they found themselves. Shelley's Frankenstein launches a completely new realm of science fiction for audiences, for science begins to replace God in the cultural eye in terms of reason and explanation for reality. It should seem no coincidence that in the first tale of Sci-Fi, we find man playing God. As an age of mechanization approaches, man begins to dissect reality piecemeal to try and understand its workings through logic and reasoning. Through man’s circumvention of theological underpinnings, he becomes the god in his own universe. Man’s edicts and designs are now to be followed.
Perhaps the format of Dracula is most telling here. We ingest the entire narrative through Victorian media. Letters and journals recall the tale given us, but most notedly what we would consider "professional" or "scholarly" journals kept by Dr. John Seward and Dr. Abraham Van Helsing. This style of narration uses an authority of tone and calculation of these learned men to sell us the pseudo-science of the supernatural, much in the way the modern comic book tentpole does. As we encounter the old world of the fantastic, we approach it through the cynicism and inquisition of the scientific method.
We also witness with the abandonment of God an upsurge in the Victorian need to cling to a newfound morality that would live outside of the realm of the New Testament. These echoes are parroted today with a zealot claim to "follow the science," our new modern manta to avail us against the woes of misinformation. Victorian values adhere to strong character, integrity, duty, and conviction. We see this throughout the tale even with the many proposals of Lucy Westenra (one can't help to also notice how similar the surname is to Western and wonders if the character is to represent the attack on Western society and thought on the whole). Every correspondence through letter or telegraph highlights the extreme fibers of morality shared by all these characters in earnest for one another, a compelling sense of duty in crisis. By difference, Dracula takes the eponymous character and makes him an other in all respects: he’s Eastern, of a soon dying aristocracy, supernatural, (existing outside the confines of rational observation) and an unfathomable sadist. The latter may closely mirror man’s subconscious contempt for the chains held by a previous master. Could not the same observations be made about the whims an unfathomable creator? Is this just a further extension of man’s conflict with impersonal deities?
Is the Western Experiment itself in crisis? The tale begins with Harker's travels from West to East. Even if science created a theological identity crisis in the western mind, one wasn't bound to abandon the Christian god for a perceived eastern Muslim god. In the second paragraph, we are immediately reminded of the Ottoman and "Turkish Rule." Count Dracula and the people on Harker's journey to Transylvania are representative of this decent into the foreign and eastern, a transgression into darkness symbolically from the light of civilization. "It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?" (Stoker, 4). With wards of the evil eye, and signs of the cross, it seems almost comical how Hawker shrugs off the superstitious foreshadowing. Stoker's tale pits the modern hubris of Harker against eastern magical thinking, only to find the real horror is not heeding the warnings of the metaphysical world we outgrew. All the attention to details of this decent into the East highlight the need to police the westerner against these physical but also cultural boundaries.
The character of Count Dracula establishes and preserves cultural identity through demonization. In Dracula, his “evil” is an unsatiated sadism that tortures his victims and robs them of life. Perhaps the most "evil" thing about his nature was that his consumption isn't about survival, it's about excess. Another sinister component is that unlike other predators, (save for members of the cat family) he enjoys playing with his meals. The way he slowly stalks his prey on the Demeter is perhaps one of the most terrifying parts of the novel. Stalking in the shadows, nowhere to run. He leaves no evidence of his crimes, making the unimaginable that much more terrifying, for it is fear of the unknown that terrorizes best. Our minds are terrific at filling in the gaps. By choosing deliberately to make his presence known to the last crew member, he's not killing for pleasure or even sport at this point. He drives the man mad to the point of succumbing to the sea. He's taking pleasure from the power of striking fear and does so by also revealing himself creepily to the captain after. It's the same reason why he doesn't take Lucy outright, but slowly stalks her through the course of several evenings, making all their efforts seem futile, stealing what little hope they have of protecting her.
Even if the western world moves past theology and Judeo-Christian values, it still observes Christ as a template for morality, and his edict of the Golden Rule a valuable wisdom. Dracula represents an antithesis to Christ, which is why he is to be combatted with holy water and crucifixes. Dracula ignores the precepts of the Golden Rule, creating a wake of destruction that follows him wherever he goes. His station as an aristocrat affords him the luxury to roam wherever he sees fit. He is policed by no boundaries, only the consecrated earth of his homeland. It's this direct tie to the East of which Dracula draws his strength. Dracula’s “evil” is personified by everything about his character which draws him in opposition of Western thought.
This post-metaphysical evil can only be battled with rational, Western thought. We see the male characters strengthening their positions against Count Dracula by sharing their findings of scientific inquiry. Fighting "evil" is characterized by fighting the "darkness" that is lying in opposition to enlightenment or knowledge. It turns the precepts of Judaism on its head. Our salvation is to be found in what was once our demise. It is this crossroads of where the natural meets with the preternatural, the old world with the new, that we find Dracula both challenging and upholding Victorian values. It reflects our cultural angst in which colonization and commerce broadens the empire on the way to globalization. While eschewing the "unnatural," (lordship and dominion of an eternal caste aristocracy) we still seek to favor the traditional institutions of the church with powerful symbols of the crucifix warding against the supernatural, as well as the institutions of marriage that Harker fights his captor to return to. His stake in the Count represents his stake in that institution, and the conscious choice to uphold it. Our cultural anxiety has us clinging to sacred, superstitious, and traditional values, all while trying to ascertain his newfound position in the power vacuum created by abandoning God.
With the rise of Hitler and the Nazi Party, we saw a new form of Evil arise, one without a direct intent, but more of a banality of complicity. The next segment addresses The Painted Bird and Eichmann in Jerusalem…
Existential Representations of Evil
Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing. -John Stuart Mill (Inaugural Address at St. Andrews, 1867).
We’ve all heard some variation of the above quote by John Stuart Mill. Attitudes towards conceptual “evil” performed by mankind usually arrive at some sentiment regarding how easily “evil” can be achieved. In the above instance, a rallying cry for heroism comes from simply engaging the listener to excite themselves out of complacency, to rise up and take action. Another view is that this call to arms also beckons the reader to ultimately take a side. What the quote really is all about can be summed up in one word: complicity. For existential evil to exist, one only needs to be complicit to the series of steps necessary that promote suffering. Often times we structure our views around “evil” behavior as an inherent pathology or attraction to vice that allows one to make decisions that enable “evil” consequences, but in cases like The Painted Bird or Eichmann in Jerusalem, we learn that inaction or by neglecting the proactive choice to fight for civility or humanity can be the complicity required for these representations of “evil” to occur.
If we view post-metaphysical “evil” through an existential lens, then we are categorizing this concept through the individual’s free agency and responsibility for the consequences of their own actions/inactions. We must adopt this outlook on free will and agency for the representations of “evil” in literature, not only to make sense of their meaning within the work, but also because any deterministic view of man within the confines of the story makes him a mere automaton acting according to programming, lacking any culpability for his role in the outcomes. The participant must be just that, one playing a part with his/her own motivations, desires, fears, and other impulses or thoughts that guide one’s actions. If man is simply powerless and destined to react according to the preordained, then there is little point in observing his role, for he holds no authorship. If we are to examine the why of these representations of existential evil, then to reduce the man from a deterministic view limits him to a mere pawn or worse: a force of nature capable of causing “evil” without sentience, remorse or reflection.
In the case of Eichmann, one actually might wonder if that sentiment would possibly describe the former S.S. Lieutenant Colonel or Obersturmbannführer. From Hannah Arendt’s description of the former Nazi officer, we get very little remorse from Eichmann, though at times he gladly offers his neck as recompense for his role in The Final Solution of the Jewish Problem. This is less of a reflection for any wrongdoings, for Eichmann spends most of the trial defending his actions or his own ideologies. In terms of sentience, Adolf Eichmann almost poses as a caricature of a man. Though capable of expressing a rationale and ideology behind his motivations, through most of the presiding, Eichmann speaks in stock phrases or idioms. Arendt points out that Eichmann’s relating in clichés was almost comical. It’s like the alien or robot in a film that assimilates through these rote familiarizing communication strategies. It’s a masquerade of sentience or more to the point, a masquerade of relation. Eichmann attempts to build rapport in his proceedings with other humans by saying something, all the while saying nothing. “The longer one listened to him, the more obvious it became that his inability to speak was closely connected with an inability to think, namely, to think from the standpoint of somebody else,” (Arendt, 24). In this insane attempt by Eichmann to relate, to distinguish himself from the “other,” he actually telegraphs his incapacity for human empathy. In fact, this apparent lack of empathy from both Eichmann and the agents of suffering in The Painted Bird represents the very impetus of the existential representations of evil.
As Eichmann attempted to distance himself from being perceived as an “other,” The Painted Bird revolves around the stark reality that the human condition and self-preservation maintain safe distance from “the other.” From the onset, we learn that to harbor the boy is to invite trouble. Part of the irony in The Painted Bird stems from what the boy’s “otherness” represents: a mystical or supernaturally cursed existence. Be he Romani or Jew, the boy acts as an antithesis to Christian doctrine, (also ironically becoming somewhat Christlike in his suffering for others’ sins) yet the peasants often are performing some sort of pagan mysticism in their beliefs in his gypsy powers or their warding off his curses.
Horror is easily imagined if we take the protagonist at its most vulnerable and pit it against the world at its worst. The bildungsroman of The Painted Bird examines the boy's coming of age and his conceptualization of good and evil through a trajectory perhaps similar to the European’s historical wrestling with similar concepts. Man first starts backwards and pagan, superstitious, and following a line of reasoning deduced by illusory correlation. The boy too attempts to discern the world of man in hopes to glean the riddle of causation, particularly in the case Garbos' indiscernible cruelty. The boy cannot glean the why's of this behavior, though he attempts to methodically with the experiential data afforded by his young age. Like the trajectory of the European, he then finds organized religion and tries to utilize its teachings to improve his chances of survival. Finally, he is offered somewhat of a new hope for survival from what he learns from the Red Army, in particular, how meting out revenge is the most assured prospect in the protection of the self. This return to the secular and self-actualization is perhaps most in keeping with the post-metaphysical and redefining the self as the center of the universe:
Every one of us stood alone, and the sooner a man realized that all Gavrilas, Mitkas, and Silent Ones were expendable, the better for him. It mattered little if one was mute; people did not understand one another anyway. They collided with or charmed one another, hugged or trampled one another, but everyone knew only himself. His emotions, memory, and senses divided him from others as effectively as thick reeds screen the mainstream from the muddy bank. Like the mountain peaks around us, we looked at one another, separated by valleys, too high to stay unnoticed, too low to touch the heavens - (Kosiński, 258).
From here we learn from Kosiński that the individual is alone in the world and can only count on themselves. For Eichmann, this prospect was his greatest personal fear as one who lived to join and created a personal identity and self-worth centered around garnering the respect of others. This very devotion to seeking the approval of his in-group enabled his ability to self-delude in his participation in The Final Solution. In fact, Arendt proposes that it was his time in Argentina spent directionless without belonging that lead to Eichmann’s subsequent capture. The prospect of hanging for his crimes was preferable to that solitary existence of exile in hiding. Eichmann, like most of us, was a herd animal. He quickly adopted the principles of the herd in which he found himself. Far from being an intellectual, Eichmann did not possess the necessary faculties to make executive moral decisions, rather he fell back on prescriptions of the in-group (a short-cut to thinking) unless personal motivations like career advancement or massaging his emotional and sexual needs (taking a Jewish mistress) circumvented the party’s directives.
As herd mammals, we all seek acceptance from the crowd. The Painted Bird follows the travels of a solitary boy seeking refuge from the most inhospitable. Most of the boy's experiences aren't stemming from a fear-motivated lack of hospitality, rather more of a cruel reality where the perversion of hospitality signifies a deepening sickness within the psyche of the different peasants and villagers he encounters. Most of those who enact atrocities upon the boy do so out of an ire in them created by a world falling apart. Each sadistic act enacted is an attempt at control, to be the master instead of the servant. The pragmatism of demonization for the peasants isolates the boy from the rest through obvious superficial features. Often demonization works for purposes of identity not only by contrast, but to usually support whatever “evil” is necessary in support of the “greater good” (see also: utilitarianism). Like Eichmann, we can justify horrible cruelties if we truly believe they are in service of a grand principle (like Eichmann’s professed ideologies or the rigid binary of “us vs. them” proposed by the Nazis as integral to the survival of the German people). Subsequently, the identity is preserved by erasing the humanity in the demon. The boy stands as the painted bird in the metaphor, but easily is substituted as the scapegoat or sacrificial lamb. It's the "othering" of the boy that makes him the painted bird, but it's also the need of these backwards folk to exercise power over their domain of which they currently have little. This too infects the boy through his trajectory. He seeks the same power of domain when he breaks the arm of his adopted brother or drops bricks on the theater attendant who wronged him. This shift in perspective for the boy occurs as he seeks his own power is seen when he dismisses the raping of the girl in the end as "reckless enough to venture out alone." He doesn't identify with her innocence. His survivalist ways shape his worldview and identity from the harsh realities he experienced. The boy from his bildungsroman is cast in hard steel, unflinching at the cruelty that surrounds him.
In the end, the boy recalls the hare broken into submission by Makar, and that eventually the hare was so submissive that he carried the cage inside him. The boy's voice is submissive to its owner like the hare as he regains his speech. In this moment, the boy surrenders to rejoining the collective, for the need for belonging was too powerful to ignore. The fact that someone wants to speak to him is the invitation to belong and the hospitality he desires, enabling him to communicate once again.
While the boy yearned for hospitality, Eichmann’s only example of hospitality was to show his guests the door. He makes much ado about the various ways he was willing to commit to the diaspora of the Jews from Europe, to aid the Zionists in their expulsion into a new homeland (one can’t help but notice a continuing narrative throughout history of a displaced people in constant search of their home). Eichmann’s lack of introspection creates the trajectory of a great irony: a man so committed to belonging is responsible for others remaining on the fringe, leading to their dispersal and extermination.
The banality of evil isn't present as much in The Painted Bird as it is in Eichmann in Jerusalem. The peasants can't be viewed as much as one just "doing their job." Each act of "evil" propagated towards the boy is a primal attack on the outsider. Other acts of hedonism not in keeping with societal laws speak to not only an ignorance, but also a perverse desire for pleasure arrived at any cost. This more expresses the breakdown of society and the laws used to govern the simplest societies, such as our simplest laws against bestiality and incest. This is a far cry from bureaucratic banalities, or rather an antithesis, whereas bureaucracy represents a blind allegiance to guidelines no matter how "evil" or obsolete. If we consider “banality” as unoriginal, look no further than Eichmann who lacked any original thought, easily assumed by his many uses of cliches and stock phrases (side note: borrowing from Henry Ford, Eichmann originally sought to clean up bureaucracy with his deportation of the Jews by creating an assembly line to hurry the process and concentrate all of the necessary agencies under one roof; we of course see this as the birth of the concentration camp and following genocide). Arendt shows us how easily “evil” can manifest through conventional or unimaginative means. Part of conforming to a system depends on devotion sans suspicion. Eichmann’s most banal idea: ripping off the assembly line, lead to the diaspora and annihilation of over six million Jews. If originality stands in direct opposition to banality, then it’s rather curious that kosher also stands as a synonym for original. Perhaps they really are God’s chosen people.
Ultimately, both Eichmann and Bird serve as cautionary tales, particularly because they represent an elusive, shadowy path to “evil” more obscured than the obvious sociopathy one easily imagines. Whereas the psychopath takes an active role in the contribution of “evil,” these other agents of suffering play more of a passive part. To contrast, their actions are often more indirect, (blacksmith versus swordsman) but the suffering could not manifest itself otherwise without their direct participation. This is perhaps why these particular representations of evil are so insidious, because one need not be at heart a villain to become a grand agent of agony. In fact, these two representations democratize the capacity or propensity for “evil” within us all.
Finally, we transition from the Existential to the Post-Modern with a look at how man shifts once again his interpretation of Evil. In the Post-Modern, man begins to glean Evil through another perceptive filter, and seeks to understand its impetus. We’ll examine this by looking at the works: American Psycho and Blue Velvet…
Representations of Postmodern Evil
When we begin to consider the Postmodern worldview in its representations of “evil,” we do so with the benefit of psychoanalysis and sociology compounding on philosophical works of modernist and postmodernist alike. In our metaphysical worldview, “evil” was contingent upon God’s will, any acts committed outside his sanction viewed as transgression. Indeed, most of these laws came to be the same that have governed civilizations since. When man enters the post-metaphysical era, God ceases to be the center of the universe with Nietzsche and man replaces him in his stead. “Evil” then becomes gleaned through a lens of transgression against man and his stewardship and dominion over this world. With Postmodernism, we again see another shift, where man is forced to reconcile with his place in this universe. A certain hubris is understood in the futility to reign supreme or the ability to do so. Man questions his reality and begins to understand that not only is reality a subjective experience, but also one perhaps experienced only sleepily at the wheel. Perhaps we’ve been piloting this ship through a hazy automation all along.
To further complicate this predicament, through simulation and simulacrum, man’s experiential living becomes further muddied by an inauthentic feedback loop, where outside influences of commercialism begin to subtly guide the course of thinking and history. Of course, man has always been influenced by his fellow man, but now his values and morality shifts to achieving status or judging it subconsciously based on societal cues. We see these values parodied to great effect in Blue Velvet with their offhand comments about beer and how each brand itself becomes a shorthand for class distinction. If we get into simulation and representation, we are afforded a certain shorthand in the hyper-real for status though product placement. Jeffrey likes Heineken, indicative of his education status. He wistfully recognizes Budweiser as The King of Beers. Frank is working class, evidenced by his excitement for Pabst Blue Ribbon! In American Psycho, we get seemingly banal descriptions of popular music, sold to us as merited through critical analysis and depiction, yet are devoid of true artistic consideration. It’s reflective of the excess of the 80’s, and how values shift from substance to packaging. As wealth was masquerading as being more democratized, the manufactured realities helped extend the drives for success, material excess, and ultimately drove the engine of consumerism and accumulation.
With Blue Velvet and American Psycho we get into the loss of conscience in relation to psychopathy, Machiavellianism, and narcissism, or more commonly referred to as the dark triad. With Frank Booth and Patrick Bateman, we witness a fractured psyche, endemic of the worlds they inhabit. This postmodern view that tries to understand the contingency upon where “evil” is birthed seeks not to assign blame on nature nor nurture, but instead reconciles a combination of both. In this postmodern worldview, acts are evil, humans are broken. Furthermore, humans possess the ability to infect each other with this “evil,” as impressionable Jeffrey or sympathetic Dorothy are infected by Frank entering his world. We all hold within us this penchant for the self-serving, the attraction to the dark, especially when impressionable (which could be argued a lifelong condition). The characters of The Secret History perhaps display this best. Their narrative could best be seen as a trade of conventional morality for the preservation of the immediate group. Since everything can be judged based on perspective, values and morals shift simply from an importance of one group over another. One could view Adolf Eichmann as an extension of this ethos. The utilitarianism metaphor of train switch operator becomes immediately more palatable if you include othering in your optimization of “serving the greater good.”
If we are to understand these representations of postmodern evil in The Secret History, we must view morality on this sliding scale of perspective. When we are born, we are taught the rules of society of which we are to participate, and consequently like all societies, this period ends when we achieve adulthood. From there, we take all the rules we have acquired for conducting oneself, and slowly we begin to learn which rules are hard and fast, which ones are guidelines, and which we should ignore altogether. We’ve all been at that abandoned traffic light, red, at four in the morning. Who blindly adheres to rules that beg to be compromised? Who are we saving in that moment? The ritual is empty except for an unimaginative, blind obedience to authority. As adults, we learn which rules to obey in public, and which to break in private. The wealthy have always known that certain rules do not apply to them, and are freer to explore these taboos in private, daring never to flaunt their perversions among the peasants. Homosexuality, (in the late 80’s/early 90’s context) group sex, incest, these are topics broached most delicately. If morality is the rubric by which we judge evil, what is morality when we wear our virtue on our sleeves (modernity… on social media for all to peruse). Virtue then becomes a commodity, like everything else; it’s surface and superficial, of no tangible quality and worthless. We glean this through the townspeople behavior once they find out Bunny is dead, with not much concern past the monetary when he’s found to be missing. It also serves as a cathartic release, this play acting. It’s a participation that solidifies the ritual.
Rules. It’s a system of rules by which one adheres, but ever so mindful are the wealthy. Rules are the morality by which their peers judge them (hence Bunny’s mother being ostracized for her son’s drunkenness at the time of his departure). Here we have a group of misfits (smart enough based on pedigree) but lacking any purpose or usefulness, studying the academically archaic. Destined to be the end of their extension of class and faux aristocracy. Rites, routines, rules and rituals. The bacchanal represents an abandonment of all that, of order, of control, inviting in the chaotic (later we learn that it is in this surrender that Henry finds his confidence, breaking from his analysis paralysis). Bunny, for all his predilection for guidance through routine, (much like the unimaginative Eichmann) adheres to rule and ritual because he himself is chaotic. It is this unpredictable nature (as well as his personal sadism and antagonism towards the group) that makes him unreliable and a threat to everyone’s survival.
It is almost certainly of note the deterministic and fatalistic tone of the novel paired with the tragedy of the Greek. So, we also get a case of simulation of art imitating art or previous literature. Bunny becomes a character in his own tragedy through death. He becomes sympathetic to all that knew him previously as unpleasant, much in the way the deaths in Heathers conjure a sympathetic stance from those who knew better. Having no real experience, Richard interprets his reality through the simulation of reality found on television, of justice being served, the bad guy always getting caught. He conjures memories of Quincy solving crimes through medical pathology, much in the way Seth Rogan in Pineapple Express confesses to once believing crime scenes to be covered in semen. Truth be told, people get away with murder all the time. The societal narrative tells us that we will always get caught as a deterrent for crime. It’s a rule masquerading as a truth.
Morality is a system of guidelines designed to live one’s life within the confines of society. It’s always with others in mind (no cop, no stop). Mind you, our narrator often feels hurt and betrayed by the group, he’s just as self-serving and opportunistic as the rest of them. He uses Judy whenever it suits him. It’s similar with our other bildungsroman protagonist Jeffrey in Blue Velvet. We are kind of along for the ride with Jeffrey as the "do-gooder," because he represents youth, but he knowingly beds a woman who is married and distraught, being repeatedly raped to keep her husband and child alive. So, we construct our own narrative, that he's "consoling" her. And he's not "with" Sandy, because she has a boyfriend. He continues to play boy detective, but it's not until Dorothy shows up naked on the front lawn, that he's quick to distance himself from her. Frank at one-point issues that Jeffrey is like him. We see he has caved to his own brutality when he hits Dorothy. It's almost as if there's this seedy, underground world in which those who've experienced are instantly opened to seeing "the really real," or similar to eating the fruit in the garden. It acts as a contagion. Jeffrey is diseased from this the moment he finds the ear and touches it. He's now part of that world. This is evidenced by Dorothy's repeated, "he put his disease in me." Sandy also says to Jeffrey, " I can't tell if you are a detective or a pervert," to which he responds, "that's for me to know, and you to find out." This acts in two-fold: he chirps off a childish trope (simulation) and responds like a total creep (tainted). Jeffrey adheres to the societal values best when he’s in society’s immediate view.
Bizarrely, as the postmodern seeks to examine representations of “evil,” it casts its “heroes” or protagonists (even the antagonists) in a very forgiving light. The focus seems to be more on the “whys” of human behavior, immediately shelving any judgments of personal accountability. We see humans as participants in the play of life, barely in control of their destinies, fumbling through their lines. Their participation it would seem is perfunctory, like the aforementioned sleepy automaton. It seems rather poetic then to harken back to the original automaton bildungsroman, Pinocchio.
Pinocchio offers humanity probably the best enduring allegory for not only coming of age, but the actual assimilation of the simulacrum to reality or humanity. When Pinocchio is deceived by the charlatans into skipping school to pursue the craft, we feel for the protagonist for his obvious naivety. Once he has his scrapes with Stromboli, he emerges a little the wiser. When he again is suckered into truancy to enjoy the hedonistic bacchanalia of Pleasure Island, we lose our sympathy for the character. Now that Pinocchio has seen the darker nature of the world, we are less forgiving. He now must face accountability for his actions. We hold the puppet to a higher standard than the Ivy League.
For all our deterministic (causality) views of the human condition, it’s impossible for our egos to wrestle with the image of losing total control of our free will. The bacchanalia offers an allegory of this symbolic loss of control, for if we aren’t in control, then who are we to blame? These sentiments are probably why there exists such a strong push for anti-intellectualism. Theoretically, we are probing so ineffectually that conventional wisdom prevails befuddled. I was once asked if in light of this postmodern lens if “evil” actually exists. Theoretically, I will assert the previously asserted: acts are evil, humans are broken. However, (and this is an adamant however) all the pontificating in the world won’t stop you from seeing evil in the person who rapes or murders your child. Humans are not automatons; we are guided by emotions: those nasty prehensile tails of evolution leftover keeping us from rational bliss. No amount of rationalizing however pulchritudinous will erase our ethos. Even if morality is superfluous and perspective, it will forever be shaped by emotion. Our inherent biases cannot be rationed out of us no matter how many critical theories we study. Our perspectives will always be unique to ourselves individually, and “evil” will lie in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps beauty and terror areinterchangeable here.
Why is Evil More Interesting than Goodness?
It’s more interesting to talk about evil, because we love taboos. Being “good” and following the rules is what is expected of us (it’s perhaps of interest to draw a distinction between lawfulness and goodness. As a child, I couldn’t fully understand the distinction, so I was extremely puzzled by the classifications presented in character alignment found in Dungeons & Dragons). We all live to do the unexpected. We spend a lifetime learning so many rules that we don’t necessarily agree with, those arbitrary dictums created by bureaucrats. So, we wrestle with which rules are ok to violate and under what circumstances. These aren’t just civic laws governing society, but all the imperceptible societal rules we observe based on learned behavior and social cues. Some of the cultural norms only can be rationed with the illogical pretense of tradition.
There’s a story going around about a daughter who asks her mother why they always cut off the ends of the ham before putting it in the oven, a tradition in their family. The mother is perplexed and suggests she asks her mother, the daughter’s grandmother. “Grandma, do you know why we cut off the ends of the ham before placing it in the oven?”
“I honestly don’t know, that’s how my mother always did it.”
Frustrated, the daughter seeks council from the last reliable witness in this procession, the great-grandmother. We’ll paint a sunnier picture of this encounter with the spry octogenarian happily toiling away in her garden.
“Great grandma, why do you cut the ends off the ham before placing it in the oven?”
“Why, dear. My pan was never big enough to fit a whole ham on.”
It’s interesting to me that there was such a focus on Eichmann not being of a particularly creative nature. It really shouldn’t be to me anymore. We humans prize creativity perhaps more than any other ability. It’s the skill that made us skillful, to be pattern seekers and tool creators. We also know that all creativity stems from breaking the rules and thinking outside the box. We value creativity so much that independently, through many cultures we have gods of creation. These are gods that do not follow the rules. It’s no coincidence that these trickster gods like Loki, Coyote, Raven, and Prometheus helped create by breaking with tradition.
When I initially began my voyage back into academia, my first persuasive paper in composition was all about these tricksters and biological con artists like the cuttlefish. I used their deceptive practices and creative influence to proffer a varying viewpoint on cheating (both academically and professionally). This was many moons ago but seems almost prescient if one views the most popular shows currently on streaming services: The Tinder Swindler, Bad Vegan, and Inventing Anna. We are fascinated by those with the gall to break the rules. These stories of confidence schemes serve as cautionary tales, but we secretly champion these hucksters. Why? It all goes back this prized creativity. Furthermore, we understand the daring it takes to shun society and its rules, to risk getting caught, and the possible grand benefits that could reward those who dare. With Prometheus, we get fire. The narrative has us all believing he has an eagle eating his Wolverine liver for an eternity for his cunning, but in reality, it wasn’t so serious. Depending on authors, Heracles would eventually free Prometheus for this offence. It feels nice to bookend this concept with my last major academic paper.
It's cute that we used to selectively characterize tales as “morality plays,” but in the drama of life, is there really anything else? We just find new perspectives and vantage points of which to view our morality, to constantly reaffirm what values we hold true. It’s why we tell stories. We examine the human condition and share our knowledge allegorically. It’s what we’ve been doing after the hunt for time immemorial, ever since Prometheus saw fit to give us the loan that would dance and delight in our imaginations for forever more. It’s that very light contrasted with darkness that illuminates our path stronger than the blinding brilliance of the sun. We need the dark to appreciate the light all the more.
