May 16, 2007

Dear Colleague:  

   Who would think of putting Hitler and Confucius side by side? Answer: Elias Canetti, author of Crowds and Power, which won him the Nobel Prize for Literature. Power is to be vertical (that is, standing), while all around it are the horizontals—the enslaved and the dead. That was the sort of power Hitler aspired to. In his heydays of power, he wanted to be surrounded by submissive crowds: first the Germans, whom he seduced, then the non-Germans, whom he enslaved, and, finally, when Germany itself was falling into ruin, the dead—the Jews—as many as possible. Power, to Hitler, was also the construction of massive monuments of stone. He loved stone and detested glass: he loved enclosure and permanence (stone), and detested openness and transparency (glass). The special wonder of European civilization is that it was founded on a material that is transparent, that allows one to see through. Hitler would have none of that. He preferred the Egyptian civilization of total opacity. Hitler adored architecture. He yearned to build, but even more he loved to destroy. Part of the attraction of building, to Hitler, was the destruction that necessarily preceded it. When Hitler took a triumphal tour of Paris, he proclaimed that he was at the gate of Heaven. His second thought was, Berlin—his Berlin—would be far greater. He toyed with the idea of destroying Paris so that Berlin would have no rival. Then he came up with an even more satisfying idea: leave Paris as it is, a pale shadow of his Berlin. Power, for Hitler, meant centralization. All power was to be vested in him. He alone was the free agent. All others, even his generals, were pawns to his will. On April 12, 1945, eighteen days before his death in the Bunker, Hitler jumped with joy. Why? Because he had just received news that his arch-enemy, Franklin D. Roosevelt, was dead. He assumed that Roosevelt, like him, had garnered all power into his own hands. Roosevelt's death would have meant the immediate and total collapse of America.

    Confucius wanted power—the power to serve the people. He tried to persuade the princes of his time to hire him as a minister. Repeatedly he failed. Why? Even though he wanted power to serve the people, he didn't want it at the expense of his own integrity. Confucius was a learned man. He had a way with words. Nonetheless, he refused oratory of any kind as an instrument of persuasion. For him, obviously, the end did not justify the means. His disciples must have thought otherwise, for they did not hesitate to "sell" themselves for what they considered the greater good: they became ministers of state. But did they really serve the people, improve society, or did their lack of integrity stain everything they tried to achieve? That's a question we must still confront. Confucius, once again in striking contrast to the personality of Hitler, didn't care for crowds. He rejoiced in being alone—to study, or singing in the rain, oblivious of what others might think. He seemed most happy when he was with small groups of young people. With them, he was not the all-wise and all-knowing Guru, Indian style. Rather he thought of himself as a fellow student, a questioner. He didn't hesitate to admit ignorance. In many ways, Confucius was a modern man. Hitler, for all his knowledge of Wagner and architecture, was a superstitious primitive (Canetti, The Conscience of Words, 1979). So, guys, don't be a temporal snob: later doesn't necessarily mean better.

Best wishes,

Yi-Fu