Chapter 11: In Which I Feel Overwhelmed and Impotent, and Wonder at the Falsity of Glory

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Our fascination with war is downright exhausting.  

I’ve now read roughly half of all the books on the list of Pulitzer fiction awardees and the number that deal with war—whether directly or indirectly—betrays our fascination. Just recently I’ve read Tales of the South Pacific (WWII), The Caine Mutiny (WWII), The Killer Angels (Civil), The Confessions of Nat Turner (Pre-Civil, but clearly connected), A Bell for Adano (WWII), A Fable (WWI, though I thought it was WWII until I checked Wikipedia), and the half-million-word Gone With the Wind (Civil). Still to come is the equally lengthy Andersonville (Civil), along with probably a few others which hide their subject matter behind more cryptic titles. 

A thread that runs through them all, a thread that tapestries a mythical history, is the one that weaves the idea that there is glory in war, that there is always a cause, The Cause, worth fighting for. In the stories of the Civil War there are endless numbers of characters that act as the Tarletons, Stuart and Brent, did, childishly eager to don the grey in the hopes of participating in the adrenalin-filled adventures of fife and drum, bayonet and rifle. Never once did they think that flesh bleeds, that horses scream. 

Neither came home: that was the result of their quests for glory. 

There has always been this myth: it crosses religious, geo-political, cultural, and racial boundaries. There is always someone, somewhere who trots out the Idea of glory, the idea that this time it’s different, that this time there is a greater, more glorious, purpose. It is a devil’s whisper in the ear of those easily persuaded, those whose egoism and nationalistic tendencies need only the slightest push. 

But don’t misunderstand me: there are reasons for war, true justifications. There is genocide. Self-defense. Truly evil individuals creating truly evil states. But never—never—is there glory in it. And never—never—is glory a reason. 

And yet it is. Look to the ancient Greeks and Spartans, the Visigoths, the Mongols, the Crusaders, the Samurai. Look to the English and the Scottish and the Welsh. Look to the French and the Germans and the Russians. 

Look to the Iranians and the Israelis and the Iraqis and the Syrians. Look to Al-Qaeda and to ISIS.

Everywhere you look: the myth of glory. And we write about it and propel the myth ever forward; even within those corners of art where the horrors of war are so well displayed—Guernica, Catch—22, Platoon—still there is that misguided, subtle sense that somewhere, beneath the blood and the limbs and the hunger and the agony there is, just a bit, just a touch, of heroism, of righteousness, of glory. 

Reality begets fiction begets belief begets a new reality, and as long as war parades this myth of glory, there will be an ample supply of soldiers willing to be blown to bits. 

But who are these storytellers? Who convinces the thousands upon thousands upon thousands that the myth is true? It isn’t just history unwinding, self-propelled, that takes so many there—it is a technique, a strategy—of those who benefit (and there are always those who benefit) from war.

They are those who long not for glory, but for other, more material goods. For control. For wealth. Look to those who promise and see what they do, where they are. Look to the recent leaders of theocratic states (including, it often seems these days, our own). Look to the military-industrial complex. It’s not hard to find…. 

And why is it so easy? Why are so many led so fervently down such suicidal paths in that eternal quest for glory? The answer to this question, sadly, remains more stubbornly elusive. Perhaps it’s because we avoid hard truths and swallow easy lies. Perhaps it’s because we behave commonly and consistently without thought to the unintended consequences that come from the ways we treat the conquered—think Treaty of Versailles and Reconstruction. And perhaps it’s because we think in the short-term, about ourselves and (maybe) our children, but never their children, or their children’s children.

And we are fragile souls; glory feeds both our sense of self-worth and our need to connect. When we are faced with the ails of our world—with poverty and anomie and a vision of others that are superficially different than we are—our sense of self becomes supremely important (as does our need to connect with others who share that same sense), a way for us to value our time on earth. And so we are led to a place where that can happen, a place of seeming nobility where we can partake in fellowship and perhaps rise heroically or, if not, at least attempt our own place in history by creating a reason for remembrance. And we are led by those who don’t partake of any of that, who use others for those baser purposes: money, or power, or money and power. 

The calls now are as loud as ever. The Ukraine, Gaza, Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan and more all require new (or renewed) intervention (according to some), and the call for such intervention relies on the need for pride, the call for glory, the myth of the American Savior. There are voices enough shouting that message. And they will continue to do so until we stop believing what they tell us, stop needing so aggressively, until we take just a moment to look at them and ask: Why? 

This is no conspiracy theory, no poorly plotted warning against an ethereal them. This is a request that we question, ponder, analyze—and then question again—anyone who propels the myth forward, who rides it, steed-like, across our apocryphal plain of emotional resonance. Because as long as we don’t, they will. 

Read since last post: 

• Gilead, Marilynne Robinson (2005)
• Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell (1937)
• Years of Grace, Margaret Ayer Barnes (1931)

 

Currently reading: 

• Dragon’s Teeth, Upton Sinclair (1943)
• Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter, Katherine Anne Porter (1966)
• The Stories of John Cheever, John Cheever (1979)
• Honey in the Horn, Harold L. Davis (1936)

Count: 46 read, 41 to go.