BREAD AND WINE: The Reconstitution of Faith as Individual Resistance to the “Collective Stupefaction” of Fascism

Bread and Wine (1936) by Ignazio Silone

 

silone bread cover good


“Do you remember the fantastic plans we used to make?”

“To me you seem to be recalling prehistory,” Nunzio said.

“When we went out into the world,” Pietro went on, “we found ourselves in a society that was totally unforeseen, and each one of us had to make his choice — to submit or to put his life in jeopardy. Once upon a time there may have been middle ways, but for our generation after the war they were closed. How many years have passed since then? Barely fifteen, and anyone who saw the two of us here now would never imagine that up to the age of twenty our lives ran parallel and we nursed the same dreams for the future.”

Nunzio seemed nervous and upset. “It’s true that we now belong to two different parties,” he said.

“Two different humanities,” Pietro corrected him.

— Ignazio Silone


          Bread and Wine is Ignazio Silone’s moving 1936 novel of the Italian socialist resistance to fascism in the early twentieth century. After only recently adapting to the industrial age of the long 19th century, the agrarian proletariat found themselves confronting the challenges of an emerging global age in the years leading up to World War II. It was an era ushered in by disasters: from the natural (including devastating earthquakes in the teens and twenties that killed tens of thousands of Italians and a flu pandemic that ravaged Europe) to the man-made (most notably the mechanized horrors of the Great War and a global depression in the 1930s). In the face of a rapidly advancing mechanized (and weaponized) society and the advent of mass communication, the former institutions of authority — from a myriad of local and regional assemblies to the all-encompassing Catholic Church — were shaken to their core. Suddenly, the methods of power to subjugate the masses (consolidation of wealth, control of the means of production, allegiance to rigid social/economic hierarchies, vilification of individuality, restrictions on public spaces/speech, adoption of a ritualized/mystical folk mythos, and the exploitation of cultural in-group/out-group dynamics) were harnessed by nationalists in Italy towards a new political force: fascism.

          Cast against this backdrop of a bleak modern age were the cafoni — poor, rural Italian peasants who, like their fellow working class brethren throughout Europe, were trapped by the threefold masters of fascism, communism, and capitalism. The hero of Silone’s novel, Pietro Spina, emerges from the peasantry to become a revolutionary, trying to balance the theory of Marxist intellectualism with the gritty reality of the day-to-day lives of the cafoni as they gradually succumb to the nationalist indoctrination of their new fascist masters. On the run from authorities and finding himself at odds with his communist comrades who are too rigidly adopting a similar type of authoritarian dogma, the atheist Spina must take the disguise of a Catholic priest and become Don Paolo Spada. Under this name, he lives among the cafoni, attempting to keep a low profile while simultaneously continuing his resistance to the Blackshirts. As the Catholic Church looks the other way when the political climate shifts to fascism (or, at worst, becomes complicit in its rise), “Don Paolo Spada,” ironically, becomes a saint-like hero to the cafoni as he tells them direct, honest truths that neither parrot the empty platitudes of religious doctrine nor placate the burgeoning fascists. In an age of “alternative facts” and magical thinking, the resistance fighter’s words become a source of comfort. In short, the atheistic revolutionary becomes the one who “keeps Christian honor alive in these parts” through acts of individual resistance to the authoritarian dogmas (political and theological) that had been crushing the spirit of the people. Through his resistance, Spina/Spada acts as the living embodiment of the most Christian virtue: individual sacrifice for the love of the oppressed.


Our love, our disposition for sacrifice and self-abnegation are fruitful only if they are carried into relations with our fellows. Morality can live and flourish only in practical life. We are responsible also for others.

If we apply our moral feelings to the evil that prevails all round us, we cannot remain inactive and console ourselves with the expectation of an ultra-terrestrial life. The evil to be combated is not the sad abstraction that is called the devil: the evil is everything that prevents millions of people from becoming human. We too are directly responsible for all this…

I believe that nowadays there is no other way of saving one’s soul. He is saved who overcomes his individual, family, class selfishness and frees himself of the idea of the resignation to the existing evil.

— Ignazio Silone


          Spina/Spada comes to understand that it is not enough to be passive when confronting evil on earth while maintaining faith in some later mystical “better world” in the afterlife. That type of thinking has led to the hypocrisy of religious institutions buttressing the political regimes and economic policies that represent true evil precisely because they cause widespread harm. In this new century, a person’s faith must be placed in (and derive from) the people. If the prevailing social structure perpetuates evil, then the only moral action is to actively resist those institutions. Instead of symbolically celebrating the mythical sacrifice of past religious figures (the “bread and wine” of passive religious ritual), one must be willing to sacrifice oneself in the here-and-now to create that better world on earth by ensuring the safety of the masses against such overwhelming evil (in other words, breaking bread and sharing wine with those who depend upon it for their survival). 


The men around the table ate and drank.

“Bread is made of many grains of corn,” said Pietro, “so it means unity. Wine is made of many grapes, so it means unity too. Unity of similar, equal, useful things. Hence truth and fraternity are also things that go well together.”

“The bread and wine of Holy Communion,” an older man said. “The wheat and grapes that are trampled on. The body and the blood.”

“It takes nine months to make bread,” old Murica said.

“Nine months?” exclaimed the mother.

— Ignazio Silone


          One of the main themes of Silone’s novel — that which Spina/Spada must grapple with in his personal writing and interactions with the cafoni — is reconciliation: between theory and practical living, between faith in institutions (including the party) and faith in people, between spiritual renewal and bodily security, and between individual sacrifice and communal strength. Perhaps the most important of those is faith, an issue tackled by many post-Marxist philosophers during and after World War II, and one which Silone offers as the primary metaphor of his novel (the bread and wine of the title). For Silone, the Kierkegaardian leap of faith still constitutes belief as the acceptance of the unreasonable; however, the perception of rationality (and reality) has been inverted, so that the choice to make that “leap” is no longer confined to the spiritual realm. In a world where ordinary discourse has moved beyond reason — where “alternative facts” and magical thinking are not the harbingers of personal leaps of faith, but the concrete norms of public rhetoric — then the power of belief must necessarily shift from (private) acceptance to (public) resistance. When irrationality becomes the norm, its acceptance becomes expected — and is quite often demanded! — by the masses who support those in power. The leap of faith made by Spina/Spada is one that must be made by all critical thinking people during times of widespread authoritarian rule where the public and private spheres are equally regulated, and represents a “faith” in reason, facts, truth, and virtue. It is the “unreasonable belief” that rationality (in the form of individual, public resistance) will prevail in the face of mass irrationality, what Silone terms the “collective stupefaction” of fascism.

silone

Ignazio Silone

          Silone’s novel is a defining text of the emerging democratic socialism of the mid-twentieth century, but also a fictional counterpart to the post-Marxist engagement with Kierkegaard’s philosophy and religious thought. If we, like the atheist Spina/Spada, accept the former but not the latter, then we must also heed what those post-Marxist thinkers — from Lukács to Adorno and beyond — have concluded about faith: that the political and theological crises of the twentieth century have dislodged faith as the cornerstone of any spiritual doctrine. Indeed, for Adorno, faith was an illustration of so-called negative dialectics. Both are born of suffering, but for Adorno (if not so much, perhaps, for Silone) the twentieth century response to fascism and Stalism had disintegrated or fractured faith from theology and reconstituted it as that which (paradoxically) must be both utilized and overcome through engagement with the historical, which Kierkegaard’s “leap of faith” rejects, according to Adorno, who positions Kierkegaard’s faith as “leaping” outside or beyond the historical. In a sense, faith is suffering — an existential truth certainly shared by writers and thinkers across a spectrum of centuries and ideologies, including Silone, Adorno, Kierkegaard, Dostoyevsky, and Camus. Even if Silone’s ultimate message in 1936 is not as bleak as Adorno’s post-war perspective, both writers chronicle the same point at which truth borne out of suffering “leaps” away from spirituality and toward “the denunciation of illusion” (to quote from The Dialectic of Enlightenment).

          For Silone, that denunciation is symbolized in bread and wine, reconstituted symbols of Christian religious faith that now represent a more earthly communion: the peasants who are trampled upon — like wheat, like grapes — and who are redeemed in their suffering through a unifying, life-sustaining collective force: the socialist resistance to fascist ideology. Like individual grains of corn or grapes, they combine to form a new united corpus — let us call them the Corpus Cafoni — whose bonds represent a faith in human unity when humanity is at its bleakest and most divisive.

          In Bread and Wine we see the same set-pieces that have been constructed in our own century around a uniquely American backdrop, even if their ultimate arrangement and performative function have been refashioned to suit the dramaturgy of Trumpism. We might look to Silone’s novel as a text of both comfort and moral orientation as the institutions meant to safeguard our rights are continually placed under siege. Through the testament of Spina/Spada, we come to see that “thoughts and prayers” are meaningless unless we are willing to take action. Our faith must be placed in present realities rather than in spiritual myths, dogmatic institutions, or divisive nationalistic rhetoric. Personal sacrifice in the form of public resistance is required to ensure the safety of the most vulnerable citizens, fostering unity against the divisive forces of power that would rather hope for passive acceptance of their ideology. Only in this active resistance can a renewed faith in a unified humanity fight the violence and lies inherent in the “collective stupefaction” of fascism.

CANCER WARD: “Either Tyrant or Traitor or Prisoner”

Cancer Ward (1968) by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

cancer-ward

          At certain moments in a nation’s history, the body politic can become irrevocably sick. They catch a fever that spreads across the country by invading the moral fiber of the populace, turning individuals against each other, and then multiplying and dividing like so many cancerous cells. At some point, treatment cannot stop the spread, and the body necessarily breaks down.

          Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s Cancer Ward is an allegory of the disastrous impact of Stalinism on the Russian people, and the lasting damage of the “tumorous” labor camps, which might no longer exist, but have nonetheless left a lasting scar on the Soviet Union. Solzhenitsyn’s observation is one that we are well advised to heed: even if a nation survives the cancer of totalitarian rule, the body politic remains forever damaged.

solz

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn gulag mugshot, 1953

          The novel’s protagonist, Oleg Kostoglotov, is a labor camp exile (much like Solzhenitsyn was beginning in the late-40s) who is hospitalized with stomach cancer. His fellow patients are in varying emotional states, from denial to resigned acceptance. The primary atmosphere of the ward is overwhelming helplessness — not only from the perspective of the patients, but also from the staff. Both try to distract themselves from the painful reality that the men on the ward will likely die no matter what treatment is offered. Recognizing the symptoms and the nature of the disease do nothing to curb its spread or even provide comfort. As a result, the staff finds itself suffering as much as the patients. In one case, the head doctor becomes ill herself from the very type of cancer she treats. As another doctor tells her, “It’s the truest of all tests for a doctor to suffer from the disease he specializes in.” It’s a test insofar as the doctor in question must acknowledge the limitations of her own expertise, for even the experts can’t cure the disease. It strikes all equally.


“But can there really be a whole nation of fools? No, you’ll have to forgive me. The people are intelligent enough, it’s simply that they wanted to live. There’s a law big nations have — to endure and so to survive. When each of us dies and History stands over his grave and asks ‘What was he?’ there’ll only be one possible answer, Puskin’s:

‘In our vile times

…Man was, whatever his element

Either tyrant or traitor or prisoner!'”

Oleg started. He didn’t know the lines, but there was a penetrating accuracy about them. Poet and truth became almost physically tangible.

–Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn


          Those rare few who survive are neither stronger nor well ever again. The sickness of Stalinism lingers as a lifelong scar for the survivors, who must grapple with their own place in the historical context of the times. Did they stand up and fight against the illness, or did they put their heads down and ignore it? Or, even worse, did they take part in the denunciations and purges, enabling the illness to spread unchecked?

          Solzhenitsyn’s novel forces us to question where we stand when our social and political position appears to be helpless, even while acknowledging that our response might very well be in vain. If, by chance, the body politic survives the cancer, then the sickness still hasn’t ended, but has only just begun. Even so, do we still stand up and fight? Which role do we choose for ourselves: tyrant, prisoner, or traitor?

THE GRAVEYARD: Searching for Facts in a “Post-Truth” World

The Graveyard (1958) by Marek Hlasko

graveyard

          There are some political ideologies that are so twisted and wrapped up in skeins of illusion that the very concept of “fact” is called into question or even ceases to exist in the minds of adherents. Even when those of us on the outside peel back the layers of lies in search of that inner truth, we are often left with an emptiness surrounded by the cast-off rinds of fabrication. Oxford Dictionaries has chosen “post-truth” as the Word of the Year, signaling a new shift toward that type of ideological self-blindness throughout the Western world. Perhaps we should call this shift “post-fact,” since “truth” still exists, but only relative to how one accepts or willfully rejects facts.

          We see it in stark relief in the United States with the election of Donald Trump, whose words are so empty that fact and fiction become inconsequential to his followers — as long as the words are spoken by Trump, then those words are Truth, because Trump only speaks Truth. All else is a Lie. And so the tautology of totalitarianism begins its long, twisted warping of reality, spinning delusions so chaotically as to make the concept of “fact” disappear altogether in the haze. “Truth” still exists, but it is the Truth of Trump. Only the facts have become meaningless. (Social workers in the last couple decades have termed a similar manipulative warping of perception “gaslighting.”)

          Rebellious Polish writer Marek Hlasko would understand this phenomenon explicitly. His novel The Graveyard, written in 1958 and recently published after long being suppressed, is a sharp critique of the Communist ideology in Poland that rigidly defined the lives of its acolytes to the point where the illusion masking their reality ran so deep that the Party’s truth became the only truth they knew. The protagonist, a working man and loyal party member named Franciszek Kowalski, is dragged into custody one night for speaking a vulgarity to a policeman — a minor offense that is spun by the arresting officers as an insult against the Party — that sets in motion the unravelling of everything he understands to be the Truth about the party and its followers.

hlasko

Marek Hlasko

          As he is forced to confront the circular logic and injustice of the police officers, party leaders, and fellow workers who condemn him based only on what they “know” to be true, Kowalski soon comes to understand that tyranny and oppression have replaced political ideals and unity, and that service and social cohesion have transformed into a pattern of conformity, surveillance, and denouncement. When this happens, he realizes, all men are living in the graveyard of ideology, but they just don’t realize it. Kowalski only recognizes this after it’s too late. His mind has been so warped by the Party’s narrative that he even begins to question his own memory and believe the trumped-up charges (pardon the pun). Ironically, this event removes his ideological blinders, so that by the end of the novel he genuinely insults the Party in front of the same officer as his first open act of defiance against the Party he now rejects.


If I go on living, it means that I accept all this, and I have no right to squawk. A man can live through any hell, survive any tyranny, get out of any swamp and any oppression, if he has at least a crumb of certainty, or at least hope, that there is somewhere another man who walks and breathes like him; who suffers, seeks, or fights like him, preserving his purity. Among us, none can have this hope. Here, among us, the heart of the world has died. Here the great myth of the poor gave up the ghost. Not somewhere else, but here; in this place, toward which the eyes of all unfortunate and oppressed are turned. Here died the world’s faith. All the words. All the ideas. All the dreams of man’s emancipation. You are right: this is a graveyard. This is the worst. Where can we find strength?

–Marek Hlasko


 

          Not surprisingly, the novel was refused publication by the Communist regime in Poland. In the 21st century, Hlasko’s novel stands as a warning for anyone who might cast aside critical thinking and willingly (if unwittingly) accept the status quo. We must resist the gaslighting of reality and the obfuscation of fact that dangerous political rhetoric generates. Through the character of Kowalski, Hlasko suggests that the ones most capable of resistance are the outcasts, the misfits, and the marginalized. And even then, their only choice is to break away from the dominant ideology and go into exile — a traumatic experience that will not be easy or without pain (physical, mental, and emotional).

          There is no happy ending in the graveyard (or in The Graveyard). There is only the epiphany of self-knowledge and a sharper understanding of the Repressive and Ideological State Apparatuses whose coercive power we might resist, but can never escape.

MEPHISTO: Every Regime Needs the Theater

Mephisto (1936) by Klaus Mann

mephisto

“I am absolutely indispensable!” yelled the director into the dark garden. “The theater needs me! Every regime needs the theater! No regime can get along without me!”


          These words spoken by Hendrik Höfgen, the protagonist of Klaus Mann’s 1936 novel Mephisto, echo across the decades as we in the 21st century confront political regimes that rely heavily on the manipulation of the populace through theatrical devices of mass media, from the confrontational tone of reality television — which has become so ingrained in politics in the United States as to make political rhetoric almost indistinguishable from popular entertainment — to the art of fake news reporting as propaganda par excellence, whether it be in the form of State controlled television broadcasts, Tweets, unsubstantiated memes, viral Internet “news articles” that circulate in social media, or actual fake news programs (The Daily ShowThe Colbert ReportThe Onion) that often double as legitimate information sources. Klaus Mann’s novel seems prophetic not only in its prediction of the violent atrocities of the Nazis in the years after the novel’s publication in 1936, but also in its foresight to position theatrics as the essential means by which political regimes in the 20th century and beyond would disseminate their messages as a form of ritualistic entertainment.

          Höfgen is a talented young performer and director who initially fears the Nazis due to his earlier flirtation with Communism. He has moderate success in the first stage of his career in Hamburg and eventually moves to Berlin to conquer the “system” and achieve stardom. It is here where he faces a choice: does he stay true to himself and to his art by rejecting the accolades of the Nazi regime, or does he make a pact with the “devil” by joining their ranks to seek fortune and lasting greatness? He does the latter with a performance of Mephisto in Goethe’s Faust (the symbolism here is not subtle!), becoming the darling of the regime and the public artistic face of the Nazis. However, his success is won, in the prophetic words of Mann, “over the bodies of corpses,” as he soon discovers that his pact with the devil will “poison the air of European cities” as readily as gas attacks. The power of propaganda will transform his art into lies, stunt the growth of his craft, and finally destroy his soul.

          By the end of the novel, Höfgen is humbled and defeated. The Nazis use him as much as he uses them; he is, after all, only a man–an actor. But as Klaus Mann makes clear, the greatest atrocities and cruelties in the world are perpetrated by mere simple men. They are the foundation upon which fascist regimes are built.


With an expansive gesture Höfgen threw wide his arms under his cloak, making it seem that he had grown black wings. The man of power slapped him on the back. A respectful murmur went around the orchestra. Then, like the music at a circus before the most dangerous act, it fell silent in deference to the extraordinary happening that followed.

The prime minister had risen. There he stood in all his magnitude, his shining bulk, and stretched out his hand to the actor. Was he congratulating him on his magnificent performance? It looked more like the sealing of a pact between the potentate and the actor.

–Klaus Mann


          In a sense, all fascists are actors. They perform with a specific stagecraft that combines communal ritual with bombastic rhetoric, very often in a way that twists lies into truth. Every regime needs theater, but not every theater needs to be a cog in the machine. And not every actor or artist must take part in the performance. Indeed, Mann is arguing strongly in favor of an art that can do the opposite of fascist theatrics — the power of fiction (as a type of “lie”) to unravel the twisted rhetoric of fascism and reveal the truth that their political stagecraft veils. To drive home this point, Mann includes actual members of the Nazi regime in his novel as characters — including Hermann Göring, named only as “the Fat One,” but described in such detail that it is obvious to whom Mann is referring — which adds a sense of immediacy and realism to his novel, not to mention a touch of personal risk for Mann!

klaus-mann

Klaus Mann

          Ultimately, Höfgen is unable to follow up his success as Mephisto with a performance as Hamlet, leading him to realize that selling out for success and fame doesn’t translate to an elevation in his craft. If anything, the price for his new fame is an artistic void that sinks him deeper into despair.  Whereas Mephisto is a character of action — exaggerated, flamboyant, over-the-top — Hamlet is subtle, brooding, and an “intellectual,” in the words of the Nazi propagandist critic quoted in the novel. In the eyes of the Nazis, Hamlet is the type of character that the Führer must help the German people to overcome. While Höfgen excels at embodying Mephisto, a character condemned to repeat his same performance in servitude to a larger force of darkness, he is unable to muster the emotional honesty and vulnerability of Hamlet, who must struggle openly with questions of moral relativism. Höfgen comes to realize that he is more Hamlet than Mephisto, but that he has deluded himself (and his fascist audience) into thinking otherwise. He plays Hamlet as a dashing Romantic hero, to the acclaim of the Nazis, but the performance rings empty and false to Höfgen. He cannot remain true to his art and to the twisted sensibilities of the regime at the same time. Whereas art is the creation of fictions to reveal honest insights (Hamlet), propaganda at the behest of the regime is the manipulation of fictions to conceal truth (Mephisto). In both his personal and artistic life, Höfgen has traded Hamlet for Mephisto, the fiction of revelation for the fiction of concealment.

          The question Mann leaves with his readers is, “Which fiction will you embrace?”