Hannah Arendt’s Original Articles on “the Banality of Evil” in the New Yorker Archive

We’ve all heard the phrase “the banal­i­ty of evil.” Some of us even know which polit­i­cal the­o­rist to attribute it to, and among those, a few have even read it in con­text. Han­nah Arendt most mem­o­rably employed it in both the sub­ti­tle and clos­ing words of Eich­mann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banal­i­ty of Evil, her book on the tri­al of Nazi lieu­tenant-colonel Adolf Eich­mann. To Arendt’s mind, Eich­mann will­ing­ly did his part to orga­nize the Holo­caust — and an instru­men­tal part it was — out of nei­ther anti-semi­tism nor pure mal­ice, but out of a non-ide­o­log­i­cal, entire­ly more pro­sa­ic com­bi­na­tion of careerism and obe­di­ence. Read­ers have argued ever since its pub­li­ca­tion about this char­ac­ter­i­za­tion, and those with a spe­cial inter­est in how Arendt arrived there can find in the New York­er’s online archives the orig­i­nal series of “Eich­mann in Jerusalem” arti­cles out of which the book grew: part one, part two, part three, part four, and part five. (Click on the images at the bot­tom of each page to see Arendt’s writ­ing up close. Then click on them again and maneu­ver your mouse around to peruse the pages.) Giv­en that Han­nah Arendt, a new biopic star­ring Bar­bara Sukowa, just gained dis­tri­b­u­tion, you may want to read these arti­cles to stay ahead of the next wave of inter­est in the thinker and her writ­ings.

In today’s mag­a­zines, one reads rather few­er five-part inter­sec­tions of tri­al reportage and moral inquiry by fig­ures like Arendt. But the New York­er has­n’t entire­ly lost its will­ing­ness to con­front these mat­ters. Short­ly after last year’s mas­sacre in Auro­ra, Col­orado, the mag­a­zine ran on its site a piece by Rol­lo Romig in touch with con­cerns, broad­ly speak­ing, sim­i­lar to Arendt’s. Romig, too, looks at the nature of evil, but in a reflec­tion suit­ed to our time — brief, star­tling­ly time­ly, and specif­i­cal­ly for the web — rather than Eich­mann in Jerusalem’s. “The dan­ger of a word like ‘evil’ is that it is absolute,” he writes. “ ‘Evil’ has become the word we apply to per­pe­tra­tors who we’re both unable and unwill­ing to do any­thing to repair, and for whom all of our mech­a­nisms of jus­tice seem unequal: it describes the lim­its of what malev­o­lence we’re able to bear. In the end, it’s a word that says more about the help­less­ness of the accuser than it does the trans­gres­sor.”

H/T to Chris­t­ian F. for flag­ging the New York­er arti­cles for us.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Tri­al of Adolf Eich­mann at 50

55 Free Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

Down­load Free Cours­es from Famous Philoso­phers: From Bertrand Rus­sell to Michel Fou­cault

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Master Curator Paul Holdengräber Interviews Hitchens, Herzog, Gourevitch & Other Leading Thinkers

Paul Hold­en­gräber is the kind of cul­tur­al gad­about that makes New York one of the great­est cities to live in, since New York­ers like him are for­ev­er track­ing down the world’s best writ­ers, thinkers, and artists and rop­ing them into inti­mate, unscript­ed pub­lic inter­views, dis­cus­sions, and per­for­mances. He belongs in the com­pa­ny of such lumi­nary inter­view­ers as James Lip­ton or Char­lie Rose, but Hold­en­gräber does some­thing so many cura­tors of cul­ture don’t—he pulls things from his sub­jects that you’ve nev­er heard them say before, and he does it because he’s seem­ing­ly fear­less and a con­sum­mate ama­teur in the best sense of the word: he’s a lover—of lit­er­a­ture, the arts, music, phi­los­o­phy, and most of all, con­ver­sa­tion. A recent Wall Street Jour­nal pro­file described Hold­en­graber as the “only one man in New York who pos­sess­es the com­ple­ment of skills—charm, eru­di­tion, curios­i­ty and per­haps most of all chutz­pah” to pull off what appear to be casu­al chats–but which Hold­en­gräber care­ful­ly prepares–with peo­ple like Pete Town­shend, Colum McCann, Umber­to Eco, and just about any­one else you could think of.

Hold­en­gräber works as cura­tor of LIVE from the NYPL, a reg­u­lar event described as “Cog­ni­tive The­ater” that has fea­tured pre­vi­ous guests like Harold Bloom, Pat­ti Smith, Jay‑Z, and Colm Toib­in. It’s some­thing of a vari­ety show. Some events put two com­ple­men­tary fig­ures in con­ver­sa­tion with each oth­er, such as this past November’s con­ver­sa­tion between the par­doned West Mem­phis Three sus­pect Damien Echols and for­mer Black Flag singer Hen­ry Rollins; some fea­ture sur­pris­ing, out-of-char­ac­ter per­for­mances, such as a read­ing of the mod­ern clas­sic kid’s book for adults, Go the F*ck to Sleep, as dead­panned by the voice of exis­ten­tial despair, Wern­er Her­zog; and some­times LIVE takes place in tra­di­tion­al inter­view for­mat, with Hold­en­gräber doing what he does best, get­ting fas­ci­nat­ing peo­ple to tell sto­ries about them­selves. For exam­ple, Hold­en­gräber sat down in June, 2010 for a lengthy talk with Christo­pher Hitchens, who had just pub­lished his mem­oir, Hitch 22. Lit­tle did either of them know that Hitchens would be gone in less than two years. In the short clip above, Hitchens and Hold­en­gräber talk about mor­tal­i­ty, both onstage and dur­ing an inti­mate back­stage smoke break. Watch the full video of their talk below, and find the sched­ule for upcom­ing talks here.

As if his cura­to­r­i­al work for the NYPL were not enough, Hold­en­gräber also hosts The Paul Hold­en­gräber Show, which pre­miered last year on YouTube’s Intel­li­gent Chan­nel. Here he gets the chance to flex his inter­view mus­cles away from the audi­ences in a small stu­dio set­ting. Now nine episodes in, the show has fea­tured an unpre­dictable line­up of guests such as mas­ter chef David Chang, Eat, Pray, Love author Eliz­a­beth Gilbert, Robin Hood Foun­da­tion man­ag­ing direc­tor Eric Wein­gart­ner, and this past July, New York­er writer Philip Goure­vitch. In their con­ver­sa­tion below, Hold­en­gräber and Goure­vitch have a con­ver­sa­tion that swings effort­less­ly from report­ing on inter­na­tion­al tragedy and war to writ­ing a piece on James Brown to Gourevitch’s love for the Bib­li­cal sto­ry of Jon­ah and the whale. Goure­vitch retells the sto­ry with the inten­si­ty and vivid­ness of an eye­wit­ness and the inci­sive com­men­tary of a Tal­mu­dic schol­ar. It’s a moment only Paul Hold­en­gräber could set up.

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian. He recent­ly com­plet­ed a dis­ser­ta­tion on land, lit­er­a­ture, and labor.

“The Value of Culture” Revealed in a New BBC Radio Series by Melvyn Bragg

value of cultureYour pres­ence here indi­cates that you have an inter­est in cul­ture. But what, exact­ly is cul­ture? I’ve long addressed that per­haps too-broad ques­tion with a sim­ple work­ing def­i­n­i­tion: if Melvyn Bragg broad­casts about it, it’s prob­a­bly cul­ture. You may remem­ber the Eng­lish writer, pre­sen­ter, and House of Lords mem­ber from our posts on his doc­u­men­taries on Jack­son Pol­lock and Fran­cis Bacon, or from the men­tion of his long-run­ning BBC Radio 4 pro­gram In Our Time. But while that show cer­tain­ly has cov­ered sci­en­tif­ic top­ics — evo­lu­tion­ary psy­chol­o­gy, genet­ic muta­tion, the neu­tri­no — Bragg and his pan­els of experts spend even more air­time dis­cussing sub­jects claimed by the human­i­ties. Some of its most inter­est­ing moments hap­pen at the crossover, with sci­en­tif­ic angles on the human­is­tic and vice ver­sa; “Goethe and the Sci­ence of the Enlight­en­ment” comes to mind, to name but one exam­ple. Where con­ver­sa­tions like those can arise, I dare­say we have cul­ture at its most robust.

But I mere­ly cir­cle around the issue. Brag­g’s five-part Radio 4 series The Val­ue of the Cul­ture deals with the ques­tion of cul­ture’s nature head-on. Need we call cul­ture any­thing more spe­cif­ic than the body of things that mankind makes? Does cul­ture work as a force for good? What does cul­ture look like from an anthro­po­log­i­cal per­spec­tive? Must works reach a cer­tain stan­dard, or dis­play cer­tain qual­i­ties, to count as cul­ture? What does the gap between the sci­ences and the human­i­ties mean for cul­ture? How did “mass cul­ture” come about, as opposed to “high cul­ture”? And what does all this say about the cul­ture we have today? Assem­bling his typ­i­cal­ly impres­sive range of lumi­nar­ies from across the British intel­lec­tu­al land­scape, Bragg asks these ques­tions and many more besides, using as a point of depar­ture ninetheenth-cen­tu­ry poet, crit­ic, and school inspec­tor Matthew Arnold’s descrip­tion of cul­ture as “the best which has been thought and said” which pro­vides life its “sweet­ness and light.” But much has changed in how we regard cul­ture since the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, and here we have just the pro­gram to get us think­ing hard­er than ever about it.

All episodes of The Val­ue of Cul­ture: Cul­ture and Anar­chy (above), Cul­ture and the Anthro­pol­o­gists, Two Cul­tures, Mass Cul­ture, What’s the Val­ue of Cul­ture Today?

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Por­trait of an Artist: Jack­son Pol­lock, the 1987 Doc­u­men­tary Nar­rat­ed by Melvyn Bragg

Fran­cis Bacon on the South Bank Show: A Sin­gu­lar Pro­file of the Sin­gu­lar Painter

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

British Actors Read Poignant Poetry from World War I

The First World War (1914–1918) changed Britain to a degree that was unthink­able in 1914. Pre-war cer­tain­ties and val­ues such as hon­or, father­land and progress dis­in­te­grat­ed on the bat­tle­fields and trench­es in France and Bel­gium. New tech­nol­o­gy such as tanks, machine guns, grenades, flame throw­ers and poi­son gas were used to destroy the ene­my; con­stant fire for days on end was intend­ed to break the sol­diers in the trench­es. Unspeak­able hor­rors led to psy­cho­log­i­cal prob­lems of unknown pro­por­tions.

Cop­ing with these hor­rors dur­ing and after The Great War (as it’s still called in Britain today) seemed like a Her­culean task to poets — how do you put the unspeak­able into words? Some poets, e.g. Rupert Brooke, still cel­e­brat­ed the hero­ism of the Eng­lish sol­diers (e.g., 1914 II. Safe­ty), where­as oth­ers, such as Wil­fred Owen, tried to describe the hor­rors of this war (e.g., Dulce et Deco­rum Est).

Every year on the Sun­day clos­est to Novem­ber 11, Britain remem­bers the dead of the First World War. For Remem­brance Day 2012, famous British actors were asked to recite First World War poet­ry. The fin­ished clips were to be shown on TV that day. The video above shows three actors recit­ing four poems by Rupert Brooke and Wil­fred Owen (click the names of the actors for infor­ma­tion about them and the titles of the poems for the full text):

  1. Sean Bean reads Wil­fred Owen’s “Anthem for Doomed Youth”
  2. Gem­ma Arter­ton reads Wil­fred Owen’s “Arms and the Boy”
  3. Sophie Okone­do reads Rupert Brooke’s “The Sol­dier”
  4. Sean Bean reads Wil­fred Owen’s “The Last Laugh”

Bonus mate­r­i­al:

By pro­fes­sion, Matthias Rasch­er teach­es Eng­lish and His­to­ry at a High School in north­ern Bavaria, Ger­many. In his free time he scours the web for good links and posts the best finds on Twit­ter.

Google Digitizes Ancient Copies of the Ten Commandments and Genesis

If dig­i­tal tech­nol­o­gy pos­es any threat to the mar­ket for words print­ed on real paper—and the jury is still out on that one—then it must also be cred­it­ed for expos­ing us to texts from the ancient world.

Last fall we post­ed about how the Israel Muse­um dig­i­tized the Dead Sea Scrolls, near­ly 1,000 texts found on the north­west shore of the Dead Sea in 1946. They are the ear­li­est known sur­viv­ing man­u­scripts from what is called the Hebrew Bible. Dig­i­tiz­ing the texts—most were on parch­ment but some were writ­ten on bronze or papyrus—allows view­ers to zoom in to exam­ine the writ­ing and even the paper fibers of hun­dreds of frag­ments.

Now the Israel Antiq­ui­ties Author­i­ty has expand­ed upon the col­lec­tion. Housed in the Leon Levy Dead Sea Scrolls Dig­i­tal Library are the ear­li­est known copies of the Book of Deuteron­o­my (which includes the Ten Com­mand­ments) and Chap­ter One of the Book of Gen­e­sis.

Each scroll frag­ment was scanned using spec­tral imag­ing tech­nol­o­gy that allows for the recov­ery of writ­ing that had fad­ed to near invis­i­bil­i­ty over the years. The boon for schol­ars is clear, but for reg­u­lar folks this archive is bet­ter than a muse­um vis­it. The Leon Levy site is search­able by dis­cov­ery site, con­tent and ancient lan­guage.

Google is mak­ing its mark as a major facil­i­ta­tor of cul­tur­al preser­va­tion. Anoth­er recent project with ties to ancient texts and his­to­ry is Caminos de Sefarad, a col­lab­o­ra­tion with Red de Jud­erías de España to cre­ate a dig­i­tal map of Spain’s Jew­ish her­itage.

More than 500 land­marks from the Sefarad—the Sephardic Jews before they were expelled from Spain and Por­tu­gal in 1492—are ful­ly anno­tat­ed with cur­rent pho­tos, text and spe­cial details. Vis­it Rib­a­davia, a once-pros­per­ous city in Spain’s north­west moun­tains, and learn about Jew­ish wed­ding tra­di­tions from the Mid­dle Ages. The Jew­ish Quar­ter of Léon is called the Bar­rio Húme­do (Wet Dis­trict) and is known today for its fine wine and food. Use the time­line to keep your­self ori­ent­ed in chrono­log­i­cal his­to­ry and click Street View to see this vibrant dis­trict as it is today.

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Read more of her work at and thenifty.blogspot.com.

Donald Duck’s Bad Nazi Dream and Four Other Disney Propaganda Cartoons from World War II

Dur­ing World War II, all hands were on deck, even in Hol­ly­wood. Many of Amer­i­ca and Britain’s finest film­mak­ers, from Hitch­cock to Frank Capra, were recruit­ed to cre­ate pro­pa­gan­da films to sup­port the war effort. And the same went for Walt Dis­ney, who turned his lov­able car­toon char­ac­ters into good patri­ots.

In 1942, Dis­ney released “Der Fuehrer’s Face,” an anti-Nazi pro­pa­gan­da movie that bol­stered sup­port for the war, and even­tu­al­ly won the Acad­e­my Award for Best Ani­mat­ed Short Film. Then, a year lat­er, came The Spir­it of ’43, which fea­tures Don­ald Duck help­ing Amer­i­cans to under­stand why they need to pay their tax­es. Oth­er wartime Dis­ney shorts include Don­ald Gets Draft­ed (1942), The Old Army Game (1943), and Com­man­do Duck (1944). They all appear below.

The Spir­it of ’43

Don­ald Gets Draft­ed

The Old Army Game

Com­man­do Duck

Note: Der Fuehrer’s Face and The Spir­it of ’43 appear in the Ani­ma­tion sec­tion of our col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry Of Men­stru­a­tion: Walt Disney’s Sex Ed Film from 1946

How Dis­ney Car­toons Are Made

Disney’s Oscar-Win­ning Adven­tures in Music

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 8 ) |

Chowda!: Three Centuries of Recipes Reveal the Rise of New England’s Finest Culinary Export

Say chow­der out loud: chow­der. The word sounds like food. Not an appe­tiz­er either. An entree in a small crock topped with bro­ken crack­ers.

As with so many things relat­ed to food, chow­der is a sto­ried dish. It hails from New Eng­land and north­east­ern Cana­da, its first writ­ten ref­er­ence dat­ing back to 1732 when a jour­nal­ist recalls din­ing on a “fine chow­dered cod.”

There are as many types of chow­der as there are soup, though a true chow­der is more like a stew than a soup. Some purists would rather eat slugs than a chow­der with toma­toes in it or whose name ref­er­ences New York. But all chow­ders must fea­ture the fol­low­ing: broth, salt pork, bis­cuit and seafood.

Aside from that, all bets are off. Chow down.

Of course a region­al dish with this long a his­to­ry and which leaves this much room for inter­pre­ta­tion deserves a his­to­ry of its own, and so the good peo­ple at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Mass­a­chu­setts, Amherst cre­at­ed the New Eng­land Chow­der Com­pendi­um, a col­lec­tion of recipes and ephemera explor­ing how chow­der rose to become a sta­ple of New Eng­land cook­ery.

Culled from cook­books held by the university’s Beat­rice McIn­tosh Cook­ery Col­lec­tion, the com­pendi­um chron­i­cles chow­der recipes from the 1700s to the 1970s, through lean times and fat, through recipes heavy with cream and with­out.

And so, as read­ers click through fea­tured chow­der recipes from the 1920s on through to the 1940s, they’re sure to notice the ways ingre­di­ents vary. Use evap­o­rat­ed milk and a lit­tle water, if cream is not avail­able. House­wives were wise in the 1940s to be thrifty while mak­ing fresh stock from knuck­les: Save that fat that rose to the top and sell it to your meat deal­er.

Chow­der may be one of the poster food for peo­ple who are mak­ing do. Don’t have fresh seafood? Canned tuna will do. Lima beans soaked overnight can sub­sti­tute for clams.

As with most hand­writ­ten recipes, the hand­writ­ing and illus­tra­tions are part of the fun. One rad­i­cal sug­gests adding a dash of papri­ka. This recipe, for the Kingston Yacht Club, may have fed the entire mem­ber­ship (three gal­lons of clams?!)

The archivists include a nice primer, trac­ing the devel­op­ment of chow­der (the word comes from French for “caul­dron”).

One recipe that doesn’t sound so good: diet chow­der from the 1970s.

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Read more of her work at and at thenifty.blogspot.com.

Ghosts of History: Dutch Artist Eerily Superimposes Modern Street Scenes on World War II Photos

We all have our fas­ci­na­tions. Some of us are enam­ored of a par­tic­u­lar his­tor­i­cal era. If I had to pick a time peri­od I’d want to vis­it, I’d say the 1930s—after the Depres­sion, before World War II—a “tween­er” decade if there ever was one.

Jo Hed­wig Teeuwisse takes her inter­est in the 1930s to extra­or­di­nary lengths. She wears vin­tage cloth­ing and attends 1930s-theme par­ties. She is also a his­tor­i­cal con­sul­tant and expert on dai­ly life from 1930–1945.

Teeuwisse lives in The Hague but once, while vis­it­ing Ams­ter­dam, she stum­bled upon a trea­sure on the street. It was a box filled with old pho­to­graph­ic neg­a­tives. Some had iden­ti­fy­ing notes but most did not. A his­to­ry nut, Teeuwisse went to work imme­di­ate­ly try­ing to sort out where the shots were tak­en and, if pos­si­ble, the iden­ti­ties of peo­ple in the retro pho­tos.

The results are an impres­sive and amaz­ing archive Teeuwisse calls Ghosts of His­to­ry. More than sim­ply fig­ur­ing out which build­ing is fea­tured in a pic­ture, Teeuwisse cre­at­ed pho­to mash-ups by com­bin­ing ele­ments of a vin­tage image with an image of her own tak­en in the same place today.

We see mem­bers of the under­ground press march­ing down a main Ams­ter­dam thor­ough­fare in June, 1945 along­side shop­pers and tourists strolling down the same street today.

In a pow­er­ful jux­ta­po­si­tion of then and now, three Dutch scouts risk their lives cross­ing Amsterdam’s Dam Square in the after­math of a Nazi attack just two days after Ger­many sur­ren­dered. Note the hats left behind by peo­ple who had fled for their lives, and the con­tem­po­rary stu­dents walk­ing non­cha­lant­ly on.

This image shows the same scene, but with the Nazi recruit­ment office sign promi­nent in the back­ground.

What is so potent about Teeuwisse’s work is that it is so qui­et. She doesn’t have to point out irony because it is so imme­di­ate­ly evi­dent: Those same cob­bles that so many have trod on the way to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Muse­um are scuffed by the boots of sol­diers, fam­ished vic­tims of war aus­ter­i­ty and ordi­nary work­ing peo­ple on their way to the fac­to­ry.

Some make it more plain than oth­ers that his­to­ry is all around us all the time.

There are still many World War II images from that box that remain uniden­ti­fied. Teeuwisse loaded them all up to her flickr site. Take a look. Maybe you’ll find a famil­iar face from your own past.

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Read more of her work at and thenifty.blogspot.com.

« Go Back — More in this category... »
Quantcast