“At length we arrive at the topic of Peron’s return to power.
‘Is history going to repeat itself, Borges?’
‘History may well repeat itself.’ H is referring to his own dilemma as well as that of his country. He speaks at length nd with frankness about the character of Pron and of the cynicism of the Peronists. ‘ If you call Peron a rascal, they do not mind. They mind only if you call him a fool.’
The most pertinent piece about Trump’s spree in the NYT is not in some op ed column or some copy of the indigestible Ezra Klein’s podcast (“how I learned to hate birth tourism just like you, my neo-Nazi pal”, etc., ad nauseum). No, the best piece is dated September 9, 1973, when the NYT was still a great newspaper. It is an interview with Borges about the return of Peron, the figure who is the closest pre-figuration of the vulgarian Trump. Rascal is of course a word from another time. Thug, Felon, Crook – these are more appropriate.
Borges puts his fingers on something that has a long history in popular culture. In spite of the liberal moralists, the crook, the thief, the Jesse James figure still wins the illiberal heart – or rather, the heart that is still fashioned in what James Scott calls the “little tradition”, which sees in capitalism not a system for creating the best outcomes given the constraints of the Pareto Principle, but sees, instead, a Squid Game where the rich use their advantage to shut out the rest. In which case, our choice among the rich is the one who most boldly expresses this principle – who combines banker and robber, since in truth, the bankers are the robbers of banks. To the liberal, who thinks in terms of systems drummed up out of books, this is vaguely Marxist. In fact, it is the principle of the “limited good”, as the anthropologist has named it: the principle that any good x has has been taken from y.
In the Kingdom of heaven, x and y sit like the lion and the lamb and share the abundance. But in the Squid Games of America, x puts his knife to y’s throat, and you don’t want to be on y’s team of losers.
Even the pre-censorship in Argentina in 1973 sounds up to date – our moment indeed:
“He then explains how the ‘great funk’ already involves him as an individual and a writer. “Editors who have invited me to do an article for thei journal now write back to suggest that I hold off. Friends who have asked me to giv e a lecture now suggest it is not the proper time.”
Or, to quote the great intro song to Seven Beauties:
‘The ones who don't enjoy themselves even when they laugh.
Oh, yeah.
The ones who worship the corporate image not knowing that they work for someone else.
Oh, yeah.’
Incidentally, even Trump’s shock tactics as he comes back seem more Peronist than anything else. Martin Anderson’s book about the Dirty war begins with that notorious return. First, of course, before Peron returned, there was the staffing of the “cabinet” with incompetents and thieves, with the RFK Jr. place held by a man named Lopez Rega, a professional astrologer and occultist, much adored by Peron’s second wife, who was given charge of the Social Welfare post – basically, health care insurance.
Then Peron returned. Three million people greeted him at the airport.
“On June 20, Flag Day, millions of supporters—perhaps as many as 3 million— flocked to Ezeiza airport to welcome Peron. It was the largest rally in Argentine history. People poured in from the federal capital and the sprawling industrial neighborhoods ringing Buenos Aires and from far-flung provinces. Many spent the night in sleeping bags or huddled around campfires, trying to get a good spot from which to catch a glimpse of Peron. When the sun broke through the clouds shortly after noon, spirits soared even more.
At 2:30, the area around the airport was a festive sea of banners and flags. Musicians from the National Symphony Orchestra played the Peronist March from the rostrum. A column bearing posters and banners announcing themselves as members of the FAR and Montoneros approached the podium. Suddenly, they were met by a hail of machine-gun fire.
Many of the leftists had come armed with chains, a weapon used in the fights that sometimes broke out at Peronist rallies; a few, in charge of peripheral security for the columns of marching people, carried guns. Nevertheless, the gunfire continued intermittently for two and one-half hours. The scene was one of pan¬ demonium: Bodies dropped from trees, and the master of ceremonies, on the verge of tears, pleaded for calm. People ran for cover or fell—dead, wounded, or terrorstricken—to the ground. In the confusion, the rightists fired on one an¬ other. Meanwhile someone released doves from the podium.
One gang leader, the brother of an army colonel, later bragged he had lynched “two or three lefties” at Ezeiza. Rucci’s chief bodyguard participated in the tor¬ ture of “captured leftists” in the Ezeiza International Hotel. There, in room 118, municipal physicians found the walls splattered with blood. A business partner of Osinde [a thief who was given a ministry post] directed the firefight from the podium, as well as the torture later in the hotel.”
And so on and so forth.
“The ones who say that's for me.
The ones who say, you know what I mean.
Oh, yeah.
The ones who vote for the right because they're fed up with strikes.
Oh, yeah.
The ones who vote white in order not to get dirty.
Oh, yeah.
The ones who never get involved with politics.
Oh, yeah.
The ones who say, be calm. Calm.”
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