Table of Contents
PREFACE
In 1967, I became a founding member of an anarchist street gang called Up Against the Wall Motherfuckers, an unexpected career move for a nice Jewish boy with an MA in history from Yale.
We called ourselves the Motherfuckers. We saw ourselves as urban guerrillas swimming in the countercultural sea of freaks and dropouts (we didnt like the media term hippies) who had swarmed to the cheap-rent tenements of the Lower East Side of New York. Those young dropouts were our base, and we attempted to organize them for total revolution through rallies, free feasts, raucous community meetings, and a steady stream of mimeographed flyers. Against the vapid spaciness of flower power we proclaimed the need for Armed Love. Our rhetoric was inflammatory and often violent.
We gave speeches and wrote manifestos, but above all we believed in propaganda of the deed. We engaged in constant confrontations with the police. We would start riots, get arrested, start another one to protest our arrests, and get arrested again. After one of my arrests I appeared before a judge who called me a cross between Rap Brown and Hitler. I greeted his summation of my character with a mixture of pride and shame. I felt like a kid whose scary Halloween costume has been more successful than he intended.
As a child Id imagined I was destined to become a professor and write books. My parents were German Jewish refugees from the Nazis. My father was Franz Neumann, the author of Behemoth, a seminal study of fascist Germany. His best friend was Herbert Marcuse. Herberts most famous books, Eros and Civilization and One-Dimensional Man, are philosophical critiques of civilization and its discontents that rejected the rigid analytic framework of dogmatic Marxism. His writing and speeches provided theoretical legitimization to the unorthodox countercultural movements of the Sixties and made him something of a father figure to a generation that generally distrusted anyone over thirty.
Herbert moved into our house after his wife Sophie died of cancer in 1951. While living with us he continued a secret affair with my mother that had begun sometime earlier. Inge, my mother, was a brilliant woman, who sacrificed her own ambitions in order to do what was expected at the time of a mother and faculty wife. Her marriage to Franz was not a happy one. I suspect that in her unhappiness, she vented her frustration on me. We fought endlessly.
I grew up in a Manichean world. Fascism was the expression of the irrational; reason was its opposite. The distinction was clear and unambiguous. By the time I reached junior high school I had already reached the conclusion that our home was the clean well-lighted citadel of reason and I was an irrational foul-smelling insect befouling it. I became obsessive and introverted.
In becoming a Motherfucker I renounced my commitment to ordered discourse, the traffic in abstractions, respect for explanations, the demand for coherence, and the subordination of impulse and emotionall of which I thought of as characteristic of a life committed to reason. I grew fierce in my scorn for theory. I felt most alive when running in the streets with no thoughts in my head but where the cops were and how to avoid them. But my apostasy was never complete. As the Mafia don longs for respectability, as the dealer in prostitutes and drugs can be the staunchest proponent of family values, so I, the rebellious child of reason, longed for the respectable cloak of rationality and pledged allegiance to reason even as I plunged headlong into the irrational.
Im no longer a Motherfucker and childhood is a distant memory, but I still think of reason somewhat vaguely as a universally applicable method for determining truth and validating judgments. I have never been really sure what it is, but I appeal to it anyway.
Reason or revelation. How else do we decide whats right and wrong? Some of us appeal to the one, some of us to the other. But both have their problems. God has too many spokespeople, each certain hes the chosen mouthpiece, none making a credible argument in the age of cell phones, black holes, concentration camps, weapons of mass destruction, mad cow disease, and reality television. Reason has got some of the same problems God has: too many people appealing to it for too many different purposes. Far too often the powers that be who ask us to be reasonable and not rock the boat act as if they were stark raving mad, hell bent on incinerating their enemies, polluting nature, promoting inequality, and grabbing as much loot for themselves as possible. What they call progress is destruction. What they call democracy is subjugation. The tools for the alleviation of want are turned into the means for its perpetuation.
Reason has always existed, but not always in a rational form, wrote a twenty-year-old Karl Marx. I would like to think that the Motherfuckers represented reason but not in a rational form. Although I have written the confession of a Motherfucker, I am the least motherfuckery of Motherfuckers. I have been quite tamed by time, and to tell the truth I was probably not much of a motherfucker even back then, though I put on a pretty good show. What I have to confess are mainly bad thoughts and crimes of the imagination.
Long gone are the Sixties, in whose rollicking tumult I found for a while meaning and purpose. We were children then and now we are grown, though there are those of us who remain, even today, somewhat puzzled by the process. Some of us have not wanted to look back, and some of us have looked back compulsively. I have been more in the former camp than the latter. But forgetting is neither an option nor desirable. In 1973, Elinor Langer wrote a reflection on her experiences in the Sixties called Notes for Next Time. Its a good title, clearly implying the intent to sight a firm pragmatic course towards the future based on a charting of past coordinates. But its now been over thirty years since she wrote her notes and next time hasnt happened. Rather than experiencing another out-pouring of revolutionary enthusiasm, we are locked in a dogged fight against reaction. Things are going from bad to worse. The world is not a better place for all our efforts.
What went wrong? Why now this regression? Why do the most atavistic forms of consciousness flourish in the midst of modernity? Why does reason appear powerless in the face of unreason? What should we have done differently? What is to be done now? In the Thirties, my parents fled the Nazis and spent much of their subsequent lives thinking about these questions. In the Sixties I fled my parents, plunged into Motherfuckering, and emerged from the aborted revolution of the Sixties with the same questions still unanswered. They remain unanswered today. And they remain just as urgent.
Memory is a leaky vessel. Cargo falls overboard, and sinks into the sea of forgetfulness. What remains is contaminated. The bilge water of false memories seeps through the packaging. Rats gnaw through the ropes that bind together moments of time. Ordered sequences of events, neatly packaged at the onset of the journey, break open and scatter helter-skelter about the hold of the ship. Disparate moments of our public and private lives are jumbled together. The original bill of lading is lost. Salvage is incomplete at best.
