Category Archives: Essays/Articles

“Lifting Them Up” a censors notes for silent film titles…

Benjamin DeCasseres, who wrote intertitles for films produced by the Famous Players–Lasky Corporation—including the first American release of Nosferatu—leaked to his friend H. L. Mencken the Pennsylvania State Board of Censors’ notes for one of the films he was working on. Mencken, amused by the absurdity of the mandated moral “corrections,” published the list verbatim as an item titled “Lifting Them Up” in his and George Jean Nathan’s Répétition Générale column in The Smart Set 68, no. 3 (July 1922). The incident exemplifies both DeCasseres’s irreverent wit and his enduring association with Mencken, with whom he collaborated and corresponded for many years.


Lifting Them Up. — Proof of the rationalizing and uplifting influence of official censorship upon the movies, as afforded by the cuts ordered by the Pennsylvania State Board of Censors in a German film based upon the familiar old tear-squeezer, Camille — a film called “Poor Violetta” in Germany and here produced by the Famous Players under the name of The Red Peacock, with titles by Benjamin De Casseres:

Reel 1a
Eliminate subtitle: “Gaston du Pont, her satellite,” and substitute: “Gaston Dupont, her fiancé.”

Reel 3a
Eliminate subtitle: “Count Girgy sees an opportunity,” and substitute: “Count Girgy sees an opportunity to vary his hectic life with an act of humanity.”
b
Eliminate subtitle: “Violette, you may remain as maid in this house if you wish to,” and substitute: “Violette, my house is lonely. Let me do an unselfish act. Be my ward and enjoy the comforts of my home as a sister would.”
c
Eliminate views of Girgy embracing and kissing Violette after bringing her wrap to her, and all views of Girgy kissing and embracing Violette in any other reel, throughout the picture.

Reel 4a
Eliminate subtitle: “Alfred, I love you. Take me away from this,” and substitute: “Alfred, I love you. I was happy as Girgy’s ward until you returned. Take me away.”
b
Eliminate views of Alfred shaking his head to express “No.”
c
Insert, after Alfred has fallen at Violette’s feet with his head in her lap and she is fondling and kissing him, subtitle: “Come to me, Violette; we will be married at once and say nothing about it.”

Reel 5a
Insert a subtitle after: “I love Alfred. He is all I have in the world; I cannot let him go,” when Violette sinks in chair and Claire goes out of the room, to this effect: “Realizing that for his own reasons Alfred had not told his father of his marriage, Violette loyally kept the secret.”
b
Insert a subtitle during the views showing Violette leaving her home and before she goes to Gaston Dupont, to this effect: “With a courageous determination to find some means of honestly earning money to aid Alfred.”
c
Eliminate subtitle: “I am here, ill in body and soul. Take me away, anywhere,” and substitute: “I am here, ill in body and soul. You offered to help me. Are you good friend enough to take me, unselfishly, where I can learn to dance, so that I may earn money?”
d
Eliminate subtitle: “My dear Alfred: Forgive me, I am leaving you. My illness will become a greater and greater burden on you, and our financial troubles are growing each day. You have your future to consider. Violette.” And substitute: “My dear Alfred: Forgive me, I am leaving you for a time that I may earn money to overcome our financial troubles, which are growing each day. I love you and hope for the future. Violette.”
e
Eliminate all views in this and other reels following of Gaston Dupont embracing and kissing or making love to Violette.
f
Eliminate subtitle: “We will go south and there will soon be roses in your cheeks,” and substitute: “You may trust me. We will go south and there will soon be roses in your cheeks. You shall learn to dance there.”

Reel 6a
Eliminate all views of Gaston Dupont making love to Violette, kissing or embracing her.
b
Eliminate subtitle: “You’d better not dance this evening; your cough,” and substitute: “You’d better rest this evening; your cough.”
c
Eliminate the word “you” from subtitle: “It was my money you loved, not me—you.”
d
Eliminate subtitle: “Now I know you for what you are—and I’m through with you,” and substitute: “I’m through with you forever.”

All Music Has Touch of Satanism

All Music Has Touch of Satanism

By Benjamin De Casseres
Detroit Evening Times (Detroit, MI), July 29, 1941

One of the pastimes of the human mind when nations go to war is to “find the goat” — the “evil genius” behind the people or the government that you hate.

A writer in a New York newspaper who evidently must pin something on Germany, and enough can be pinned on her, heaven knows! — lets fly with this extraordinary bit on Richard Wagner, who probably has more radio devotees than any other composer:

“Wagner’s genius was stupendous, universal, the genius of the devil, whose able apostle he was. His music mocks all the laws of life except those of the jungle. He has turned an entire nation into veritable limbs of Satan.

He was himself, perhaps, the most powerful limb of Satan that ever encumbered the earth. One admires his intellect as one admires a magnificent snake.”

This will surprise those who have listened to the “Good Friday” music of Wagner’s Parsifal or the quite un-satanic music of Siegfried’s “Rhine Journey,” with the warble of birds and the purling of brooks.

But there is a grain or two of truth in the writer’s accusations, for what is said about Wagner’s “Satanism” is, in a measure, true of all great music.

James Huneker, famous critic of the arts, said that music was “the weapon of Satan,” and Tolstoy has a man commit murder because of the influence of Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata on him.

And don’t forget that Nero “fiddled while Rome burned,” and Hitler plays the violin, and Paganini, the greatest of all violinists, was called “the spawn of the devil.”


This is the age of that most fascinating, that most hated, that most useful, that most execrable of human beings known as the spy.

The best book on spies today is Joseph Gollomb’s Armies of Spies (Macmillan).

Here is the story of “The Hooded Ones,” the Gestapo at home and abroad, the great spymasters and the little spymasters — and, above all, the Communist spies who fill the United States at the present time.

Macmillan has issued a new edition of this book with supplementary material right down to 1941.

Says Mr. Gollomb about these subverters here:

“To say that they have made no secret of their program to overthrow capitalism in this country is to put it mildly. They have preached revolution for over 20 years. That, then, is what the Communists mean in this country.”

The Hearst papers have been saying that for years.


Citation (Chicago style):
Benjamin De Casseres, “All Music Has Touch of Satanism,” Detroit Evening Times (Detroit, MI), July 29, 1941.

“Get the Nonsense Habit,” The Red Cross Magazine 16, no. 8 (August 1920): 26.

GET THE NONSENSE HABIT

NONSENSE is a fine art.
It is a great antidote to the Tower of Babel, which is the great symbol of man’s, devitalizing seriousness.

The secret of the tremendous hold of the “movies” on people is rooted in their sheer nonsense. They are the necessary antidote to the hours piled on hours of common sense that we must hold like a loaded pistol pointed at the world in our struggle for existence.

Open the valves of nonsense. It is the topsy-turvy Castle in the Air. It is a fairy land that the most hopelessly grown-up among us can enter.

Nonsense is a break in order, a sudden break in the chain of cause and effect, that old leaden chain that wears us down with the eternal inevitability.

A nonsensical word, a nonsensical idea, a nonsensical situation causes a sudden explosion in us like the dropping of a bomb filled with the laughter of the fairies in the tired trenches of the brain.

Nonsensical literature is a storehouse of wisdom. It is of the wisdom that isn’t wise. There is more wisdom in the adventures of “Alice in Wonderland” than in all the lamentations of old grouch Solomon. Reason sees her limitations turned reversed and illuminating laughter.

In our strenuous American life today there isn’t enough of the spirit of waggery and tomfoolery. Horse-play is not necessarily nonsense. It is generally vulgar, and the true God of Nonsense is not vulgar. He is even intellectual.

Many believe “Don Quixote” to be the greatest book ever written. Well, it is the finest bit of intellectual nonsense ever penned.

Be Don Quixote one hour each day. Charge windmills, wear your mantle of humbug unashamedly.

On the higher levels, Chesterton and Shaw have opened the sparkling Burgundy of Nonsense. On the popular level, we have Charlie Chaplin—a very genius of clownish nonsense!

Salute the great god, Bunk.
Get the nonsense habit! Let the keen air of a little humbug in on your steam-heated grouch!


Benjamin DeCasseres, “Get the Nonsense Habit,” The Red Cross Magazine 16, no. 8 (August 1920): 26.

DeCasseres on the “orgy” of Walt Whitman’s funeral in the Mercure de France

The following letter was published in the June 1, 1913 edition of Mercure de France. 

A new English translation precedes a transcription of the French that was published.


About Walt Whitman
New York, May 8, 1913

To Mr. Alfred Vallette,

Dear Sir,

All honor to Stuart Merrill for his glorious defense of Walt Whitman! We, who in America read the Mercure de France (and, for my part, I couldn’t exist without it), were astounded by the description of the funeral ceremonies surrounding the burial of Walt Whitman. For years I have admired Mr. Apollinaire, but to speak of “bad taste” in connection with this story, as Mr. Stuart Merrill does, is not strong enough. It is worse than all the deplorable gossip spread about Verlaine and Rimbaud.

At the time of Walt Whitman’s death, I was on the editorial staff of the Philadelphia Press, whose editor-in-chief was Bradford Merrill and whose chief editor was Talcott Williams, now the director of the School of Journalism, founded at Columbia University through the Pulitzer bequest.

Nothing was more solemn, beautiful, and dignified than the funeral of “Old Walt.” I remember that Robert G. Ingersoll gave a great speech at the tomb about the greatness of that sublime soul (poets, jurists, writers, and statesmen all emphasized the immortality of the soul). I also remember that upon returning from the funeral, Mr. Williams stated, in the offices of the Press, that this great discourse conducted by Ingersoll would be printed to preserve it.

Such was the “orgy” described by Mr. Apollinaire’s informant!

This alleged informant claimed he took a “tramway” from Camden to return to Philadelphia. That is absolutely impossible! There is no bridge at that location over the Delaware River, and the only way to return from Camden to Philadelphia was then, as it still is today, by steam ferry.

As Mr. Merrill points out, all the newspapers of the time devoted entire columns to the funeral of the great poet, but not even his worst enemy could have imagined such an abominable story as the one we read in the Mercure.

If ever a man’s life was noble, dignified, and beautiful, it was that of Walt Whitman. And his funeral ceremony was equally noble, solemn, and beautiful.

Throw mud at the effigies of gods if you must, but leave great poets in peace!

Yours truly,

Benjamin De Casseres,
11 West 39th St., New York City


À propos de Walt Whitman.
New-York, 8 mai 1913.

À M. Alfred Vallette.

Cher Monsieur,

Honneur à Stuart Merrill pour sa glorieuse défense de Walt Whitman ! Nous qui, en Amérique, lisons le Mercure de France (et, pour ma part, je ne saurais exister sans cela), avons été stupéfaits par la description des cérémonies funèbres dont l’inhumation de Walt Whitman fut l’occasion. Depuis des années j’admire M. Apollinaire, mais parler de « mauvais goût » à propos de cette histoire, comme le fait M. Stuart Merrill, n’est pas suffisamment fort. C’est pire que tous les déplorables racontars qu’on a débités sur Verlaine et sur Rimbaud.

À la mort de Walt Whitman, j’étais à la rédaction de la Philadelphia Press, dont le rédacteur en chef était alors Bradford Merrill et le rédacteur principal Talcott Williams, actuellement directeur de l’École de Journalisme, fondée à l’Université Columbia grâce au legs Pulitzer.

Rien ne fut plus solennel, plus beau et plus digne que l’enterrement du « Vieux Walt ». Je me souviens que Robert G. Ingersoll prononça, devant le tombeau, un grand discours sur la grandeur de cette âme sublime (poètes, juristes, écrivains, hommes d’État insistaient tous sur l’immortalité de l’âme. Je me souviens aussi qu’au retour des funérailles Mr Williams déclara, dans les bureaux de la Press, qu’on imprimerait, pour la conserver, cette grande discussion conduite par Ingersoll.

Telle fut l’orgie décrite par l’informateur de M. Apollinaire !

Ce prétendu informateur dit qu’il prit à Camden un « tramway » pour rentrer à Philadelphie. C’est absolument impossible ! Il n’y a pas de pont, à cet endroit, sur la rivière Delaware, et le seul moyen de rentrer de Camden à Philadelphie était alors, comme aujourd’hui encore, le bac à vapeur.

Comme M. Merrill le remarque, tous les journaux de l’époque consacrèrent des colonnes entières aux obsèques du grand poète, mais son pire ennemi n’aurait pas rêvé d’une histoire aussi abominable que celle que nous avons lue dans le Mercure.

Si jamais la vie d’un homme fut noble, digne et belle, ce fut celle de Walt Whitman. Et la cérémonie funèbre eut tout autant de noblesse, de solennité et de beauté.

Qu’on lance de la boue à l’effigie des dieux, mais qu’on laisse en paix les grands poètes !

Votre…

Benjamin De Casseres,
11 West 39th St., New York City.

KEEP COOL. Advice of a Philosopher Who Ponders the Eternal Flux of Things.

The following was printed in The Sun (New York) in the September 03, 1914 issue.


KEEP COOL.

Advice of a Philosopher Who Ponders the Eternal Flux of Things.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE SUN-Sir: To those who think in units of fifty thousand years instead of in units of five years, as does the average mind. this European war means absolutely nothing. Life on the planet Earth is an eternally rising and falling wave, and the present international massacre is only a bubble on the top of one of those waves. We attach such great importance to it because we think in terms of our span of life instead of thinking in terms of geological and biological eras.

New redeemers, new dreams, international socialism, international paganism, a new medievalism, a new Renaissance, a new Waterloo, a new Armageddon – that is the future, a procession of yesterdays coming toward us.

Finale: a billion fissures on the face of this dried up sun spark, and then pitch! bang! pouff! we are a million aerolites in the ghastly vortices of space.

So what difference does it make whether the Kaiser strolls down the Champs Elysées or M. Poincaré eats sauerkraut in Berlin?

BENJAMIN DE CASSERES.
NEW YORK, September 2.

10 from “March of Events”

The following 10 essays were from Benjamin DeCasseres syndicated newspaper column that would later be known as the “March of Events,” but went by different names or none at all. We have proofread the text, done basic formatting, and added the dates published. All examples below were transcribed from the Syracuse New York Journal. Eventually, they will be folded into the archives of the website in a more formal way.

Thanks to S.P. and #mybookcult Proofreaders.


Communists and Civil Rights

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(December 21, 1934)

THE case of Alexius Karllson, the alien Communist held at Ellis Island for deportation, is full of that ironic mirth which is said to make the gods laugh at all things mortal and which we on earth call the “horselaugh.”

Karllson, whose only use for America is to turn it into a Communistic slave-state, had his lawyer apply for a writ of habeas corpus. He wants to stay in this accursed capitalistic country. He demands the right to go on talking and plotting—neither of which he could do in his own ideological Utopia, Russia, without an early morning trip to the live-target yard.

Federal Judge Goddard denied the writ on the ground that membership in the Communist party was proof of conspiracy to overthrow the government.


Aside from the momentous nature of this decision, the question arises why these enemies of the American form of government are so loath to leave our shores. They exhaust every legal resource of this hateful “bourgeois-capitalistic-ruggedly individualistic” democracy to stay here.

They appeal—with perfectly straight faces—to their “rights” under the constitution—that constitution which they would tear into bits.

They abjectly petition judges and bureau chiefs at Washington to keep them here, where they are, so they claim, being “exploited” and “enslaved”—those very judges and bureau chiefs that they would not only abolish but lift into the air with a gentle bomb or two.

They use, in a word, all the privileges that a free democratic country accords them—free speech, free pen and a free soap-box—TO ADVOCATE THE ABOLITION OF ALL THESE SWEAT-AND-BLOOD-BOUGHT PRIVILEGES.

WE PERMIT these aliens to use our own culture and civilized practices for the purpose of destroying us!


No wonder they want to stay here! Think of the loot!

It is like inviting a man to sit in your office chair so that he can more comfortably shoot you.

The Communists, both of the foreign and home-spawned varieties, are strong for the preservation of American civil liberties when their own liberties are threatened.

But when they come into power, as in Russia, presto!— all civil liberties disappear and the Karllsons line up against a wall anyone who utters those words of hated democratic capitalistic origin, civil liberties.

A political dissenter in Russia when arrested ls hurried before a MILITARY TRIBUNAL. He has no counsel (that is a capitalistic custom). There is not even a trial. There is a “hearing” (the military tribunal HEAR themselves pronounce sentence), and the objector to Communism is hurried up against a wall.

The only writ of habeas corpus is written by the vultures if the fellow is not buried in quicklime.


Sixty-six of these cases in one day In the last communist “purge”!

And Karllson and his Communist plotters yawp about their “rights”!

As a matter of fact, Karllson and his alien cronies know that they are having the time of their lives in free America. They never breathed freely before they came here.

But it is time to check the breathing of these plotters, of all plotters of all patterns—Communists, Nazists and Fascists—and make them understand that this democratic- individualistic republic is still a going concern.

The Communists dish it out (in Russia), but they can’t take it (in the U. S. A.).

THERE SHOULD BE NO CIVIL RIGHTS FOR THOSE WHO DO NOT BELIEVE IN THEM.

The dictatorship of the proletariat means the end of everything that is fundamentally American! Liberty, self-reliance, private property, civil procedure, free speech, free press and even free movement.

It would be the return of ant-civilization. Instead of the free-flying eagle as our emblem a Communist regime would substitute A BUG.


What the Communists here need is a dish of their own cooking. Do unto them as they have done unto the minorities in Russia!

The time for action is NOW. Let democracy destroy Communism. Don’t wait until the Fascist man-on-horseback appears!


Mr. Tugwell

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(January 15, 1935)

BEFUDDLEMENT!

No word more precisely describes the mental flounderings of the Sanhedrin of professors who hatch the word-eggs of the “new order” in Washington.

There is nothing courageous, well-defined or creative in the books, pamphlets or the verbose proclamations of these professorial and professional rigmaroleans.

Now and then they flutter around the red flame of Communism. When they feel they are in danger of getting politically scorched, they blithely trip away to the frogpond of near-Socialism.

Here, comfortably squatted, they croak “rugged individualist,” “capitalist” and “Tory” at the self-reliant, aggressive, self-made Americans who pass by.

These horn-rimmed nunkey-donkeys of the New Deal are already immortalized by what they do not know.

Their thoughts hop around pathetically on their flypaper brains.

Their mucilaginous political views prevent their puny ideas from ever taking wing.

Hence they have no historical sense, no knowledge of men at first band, no psychological penetration and no sincere belief of any kind except in the financial rewards of publicity and that their jobs MAY some day be turned into a soft life-commissarship.

Befuddlement!

Of all the hopelessly befuddled minds of the “new order,” Rexford Guy Tugwell, deputy commissar in the department of agriculture, seems to be most muddle-headed.

He is the most perfect type of the yes-and-no man, of the right-wing-left-wing-no-wing man, of the high-diddle- diddle-jump-over-the-fiddle, the phoney-baloney young man.

One has but to read his latest bull on the New Deal, called “The Battle for Democracy,” to see plainly that the grand junta of Brain-Trusters is very like Br’er Rabbit: It come in by the same hole it went out at.

Someone said economics was the deadly dull science. This is sheer nonsense. Nothing is dull to a live, vital brain.

It isn’t economics that is dull. It is the brains of the political-professorial press agents of the New Deal that are atrophied.

Befuddlement!

Listen to Mr. Tugwell:

“What the old order describes as ‘rugged individualism’ meant the regimentation of the many for the benefit of the few.”

ONE OF THESE “FEW” IS REXFORD GUY TUGWELL.

The “old order” and “rugged individualism,” which he despises, built the dozen or so universities from which Mr. Tugwell drank at the bubbling founts of Marx, Engels and the other czars of collectivism.

It was the “old order” and “rugged individualism” that made Possible Mr. Tugwell’s job of deputy commissar of agriculture, with its emoluments and the revenues he derives from his royalty-laden proclamations.

If the “old order” meant, as Mr. Tugwell says, “The regimentation of the many for the benefit of the few,” THEN WHY HAVE THE WORKING CLASSES OF ALL THE WORLD BATTERED AT OUR DOORS FOR ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS? WAS IT TO BE REGIMENTED AND EXPLOITED?

The “old order” and the “rugged individualism” of the American character built the only country in the world WHERE THERE WAS NEITHER COMPULSORY MILITARY SERVICE NOR REGIMENTED HUMAN BEINGS; WHERE LABOR UNIONS ACHIEVED MORE IN FIFTY YEARS THAN ALL THE LABOR UNIONS OF EUROPE HAD ACHIEVED IN A CENTURY.

“Malefactors of great wealth” and “plutocrat” having become shopworn, the “new order” demagogues have invented the new bugaboo of “rugged individualism” to scare the old ladies of both sexes.

It is “rugged individualism.” physical, mental and political, that is the very core of the character of Mr. Tugwell’s humane chief, President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

“Rugged individualism” is a mighty, an inspiring phrase that should be hung on every wall in every home and office in America.

The antonym to “rugged individualism” is milksop, weakling, chicken-heart.

Under which banner does Mr. Tugwell prefer to march?


More befuddlement!

“What is demanded of us in America today is the making over of the institutions controlled and operated for the benefit of the few so that, regardless of their control, they shall be operated for the benefit of the many.”

As they do in bled-to-the-bone Russia, where a small bureaucratic Camorra own 170,000,000 people body and soul? Here Mr. Tugwell flutters around the red flame.

I spoke of Mr. Tugwell’s lack of historical sense. I suggest that he throw his abstractions out of the window and read concrete American history.

From the foundation of America, THE MANY HAVE BENEFITTED BECAUSE THE FEW HAVE BENEFITTED.


The working classes of America are literally dragged upward when the few prosper by the inexorable law of supply and demand.

Besides, where have 99 percent of Mr. Tugwell’s “few” come from in America? They have risen because of their RUGGED INDIVIDUALISM and their SUPERIOR COMPETENCE right out of the ranks of the “many.”

And who is to “operate” these “institutions” for the benefit of the many?

Why, of course, Rexford Guy Tugwell and the rest of the vast army of mentally befuddled “new order” crusaders who only wait the signal to doff their masks of “democracy” and turn to the duped “many” the face of Lenin.


Matriarchy?

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(March 9, 1935)

A PUBLIC SOOTHSAYER some time ago said that somewhere in our country was now a young man who would be the first Fascist dictator of America.

This loud wish-thought brought to life a Communist soothsayer who predicted that somewhere on the high seas a stowaway was approaching America who would be the first commissar of the United States of Soviet Republics.

Both of there crystal gazers left out the obvious fact that there are just about one hundred and twenty-four millions of Americans left who, when it comes to a showdown, might object to both a native Fascist dictator or a foreign first commissar in the manner of the famous axe which smote the no less famous chicken in the neck.

But a prophecy that has more material ground than either is the statement of Miss Lillian D. Rock, vice president of the National Association of Women Lawyers, that she expected to see a woman as vice president of the United States before another decade, and, later on, a president.


The League for a Woman President and Vice President has already opened permanent headquarters in Brooklyn, and the drive for “recognition” will come next year at both conventions. All male delegates to both national conventions had better go with their wives and mothers.

The male has made such a bad mess of it in Washington in late years that it might pertinently be asked, why shouldn’t the hand that rocks the cradle ALSO help to rock the boat?

As Miss Rock, who is the organizer of this matriarchal movement, so wisely and pertinently says:

“The voice that sang the evening lullaby should play an important role in the legislative halls of the state and Nation.”

This logical connection between the evening excursion to Blanket Bay with the little darling and initiating legislation on taxation, drawing up a declaration of war and refunding the public debt will be instantly apparent even to the dullest masculine brain among the brain trusters at the national capital.


Another striking apothegm of Miss Rock’s is also worth recording:

“The brain that solved the economic problems of the home was certainly keen enough to play a part in politics.”

No mere male can gainsay this. As a matter of fact, the very first duty of a woman president, if she is true to her innate economic instincts, will be to create a secretary of charge accounts.

It must also be recorded, reluctantly and regretfully, that woman has already played “a part in politics”. The fate of a New York magistrate and a New York secretary of state, both evening lullaby singers, must grieve the judicious and even cause some quakings and forebodings among the masculine upholders of the honor of the Republic.

Man is, of course, naturally a scalawag. So we expect of woman better things. However, the several ladies who have sat in Congress have seemed, off the record, somewhat null and void, and certainly our grand old America would not dance with prideful and puffy joy at seeing a Ma Ferguson in the White House.

As a matter of truth, that estimable lady is too good for the job. Too much character is not desirable in high places in democracies. Ma is a dud at carrying water on both shoulders.

On the other hand, a woman president would give us many advantages, especially if she had with her a sound yes-and-yes, lollipop-sucking president consort at her heels.

Reason seems by way of rotting in Washington at the present time. A good dose of female intuition might snap us back into the good old days.

A cabinet of pure intuitionalists, especially a postmaster generaless who flipped out postmasterships on purely subconscious grounds, could decide the heavy problems of state just like THAT. Why waste the people’s time with reason, hindsight and foresight when we can get time-saving intuition F.O.B. and off the hoof?

Women have ruled great nations before. There are the instances of those profound stateswomen and humane lawgivers, Jezebel, Cleopatra, Catherine of Russia and Elizabeth.

Of course, there was Queen Victoria, but that good lady had the misfortune to have been doomed to reign in the Victorian era, so she was really not seen at her best.

With a woman in the White House, many states and legislative bodies would go feminine. This would eventually put man back just where he belongs: He could fight and die for his country, build the airways, finance big business, create the art and literature of a nation, and put up the ironwork on 80-story skyscrapers. Let the beast do the dirty work!

Meanwhile, Mrs. Roosevelt—who knows—says the country is not yet ready for a woman president.

With the highest respect for that sagacious lady’s opinion, I think the country is just about ready for anything short of total extinction.


New American Primer

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(March 20, 1935)

The following primer for all naughty Americans could be compiled from a day-to-day, week-to-week and month-to-month reading of the red, pink and sour-green publications published in the land of the good-natured sucker, the U.S.A.:

To defend fundamental American institutions is now Fascism.

To be wealthy is to have your heel on the neck of the poor.

To war against the enemies of democratic doctrines is to be sold to the “interests.”

To believe in the competitive system stamps you as a Wall Street wolf.

To announce yourself as a rugged individualist means you are getting ready to shoot down pajama-stitchers.

To believe that Jefferson was a greater man than Lenin brands you as a “bourgeois” and a “tory.”


To denounce the crimes of the Cheka and the GPU is treason to the ideal of the brotherhood of man.

To wear an American flag in your lapel means that you advocate calling out the state militia to suppress labor unions.

To believe that the Constitution of the United States is a superior document to “Das Kapital” is proof-positive that you are working your help to the bone.

To merely whisper that Communism should not be taught in state-supported institutions brands you as an enemy of Stalin’s Nutopia.

To believe that alien enemies should be deported to the lands of their birth makes you a paid agent of Adolf Hitler.

To denounce a Russian blood purge means you are not “social-minded.”

To adhere to the capitalistic system of economic development as the best for ALL the people in the long run is prima facie evidence that you are for child-labor, sweatshops and the 24-hour day.

To believe that the state is the servant of the individual links you with the White Guards.

To even suspect that our freedom is not wholly in the keeping of the carmine Civil Liberties Union nails you as a brutal coal-and-iron baron.

To announce that state-aid, as a principal, is an anti-American doctrine, is to put yourself in the class of beetle-browed predatory Cro-Magnons.

To even insinuate that the American boudoir branch of Leninism and the spats-and-monocle phalanx of the New Vision is merely a publicity racket in some vacuous skulls is to be branded as a poor slob of a Victorian who still reads Dumas and Walter Scott.


To believe that America has its own political philosophy and social ideals that have no relation to Marxist fiddle-faddle, diddle-daddle and walla-walla is to line you up with the savage capitalistic seamstress-starvers.

To assert that Communism is worming its way into the army and navy means that you are for making war immediately on Russia, Japan and Irak.

To even mildly observe that a Moscowegian who plots the violent overthrow of the American government should be brought to heel is certain proof that you have secretly torn up the Declaration of Independence.

To sit in your seat while the “Internationale” is being played in Madison Square Garden is treason to the world proletarian state. Horrendus horrors!—They may even find a copy of the “Star-Spangled Banner” in your pocket!

To asseverate that it is more important that a man should be free mentally, physically and verbally than that he should be “secured” in his livelihood stamps you as a gold bloc buzzard.

In a word, the American system is doomed. The Politburo has spoken, you poor American fish!


American Parade

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(March 28, 1935)

Grand Marshal:
The Mad-Hatter


On Horseback:
Politicians, Racketeers, Dope Kings


In Automobiles:
Brain-Trusters, Bureaucrats, Economists


Grand Float:
The United States Treasury Pumping Out Billions of
Dollars All Over the World


TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS
Dragging Ball and Chain


CLOWNS SENATORS SENATORS CLOWNS


Grand Float:
Guillotine Chopping Off the Heads of Capitalists


On Foot:
Upton Sinclair Leading Ten Thousand Communists


TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS
Dragging Ball and Chain


Grand Float:
Marriner S. Eccles Dividing Our Incomes Among
the Spectators


GANGSTERS GANGSTERS GANGSTERS


Colossal Tumbril in Which Sits Big Business Manacled


INFLATIONISTS DEFLATIONISTS DILUTIONISTS
STABILIZERS


On Foot:
Henry A. Wallace Gertrude Stein Rexford G. Tugwell


TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS
Dragging Ball and Chain


Revolving Platform:
Dr. Townsend Hurling Another Fellow’s
$8,000,000,000 to the Multitude


Grand Float:
Radical Professors Carrying the Moscow State
University to New York


DEVALUATIONISTS DEPRECIATIONISTS
REVALUATIONISTS EXPANSIONISTS


Tableau Vivant:
Huey Long, Theodore G. Bilbo, Jim Farley and
General Johnson in a Battle Royal


On a Mule:
Nicholas Murray Butler Costumed as Jupiter


TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS
Dragging Ball and Chain


Grand Float:
Symbolical Figure of the NRA Making No Thing Grow
Where Two Things Grew Before


COMMUNISTS FASCISTS NAZISTS SOCIALISTS


An Old Fire-Horse Labeled CREDIT


Grand Float (for the Kiddies):
A Gigantic Rubber Figure Labeled
THE NATIONAL DEBT Dilating to Bursting Dimensions


TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS TAXPAYERS
Dragging Bail and Chain


Ambulances Ambulances Ambulances Ambulances


MIKE ROMANOFF


America Last!

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(April 1, 1935)

THE YALE NEWS, student organ of the great university in New Haven, prints a long editorial urging our colleges to institute courses in Communism and Fascism.

This ought to be electrifying news to the shoals of Stracheys and Mosleys in Europe who are hoping to run the blockade of our loose and good-natured immigration laws to pick up an honest capitalistic-tainted penny.

These Communist and Fascist highbrows lie in the offing like the ships of old Rum Row in order to bootleg their reactionary and mediaeval Old World doctrines in our colleges and schools.

They will also, no doubt, demonstrate to the plastic generation how poisonous, out-moded and oppressive is our own home-grown brand of government labeled INDIVIDUALISTIC DEMOCRACY.


The Yale News suavely asserts with the flamboyant omniscience of ignorance that “one of these two extremes will prevail in this country.”

This is what is known as a wish-thought. Back of it, in the shadow, stands another wish-thought—democracy is dead.

The editorial then blandly says, “Education should open its eyes.”

What it means to say is:

“LET’S THROW SAND IN THE EYES OF AMERICA—MAYBE WE CAN MIX IN A DROP OR TWO OF VITRIOL.”

“Fascism and Communism are realities,” slickly pursues the NEWS.

Then why not institute traveling scholarships for the study at first hand of these systems in the countries with which they are blessed? Bath diseases and Utopias should be studied on the home grounds.

“it is essential that courses be instituted at Yale to deal specifically with these problems,” pursues, with its innocent, china-blue eyes, the editorial.


We already know how “specifically” these problems are dealt with at Teachers’ College, Columbia University. That is, ALL AMERICANS WHO ARE NOT RED ARE STAMPED YELLOW.

But, the YALE NEWS condescendingly admits, as a kind of after-thought, a little sop to conscience or what you will:

“Needless to say, the study of our own government …. must be in no way sacrificed.”

This ought to hearten the rapidly disappearing American cells and cadres in some of our colleges.

This concession ought, further, to stiffen the spines of the declining American colonies in Columbia and Yale.


The Wheeler-Rayburn bill, pending in Congress, is one of the most disturbing pieces of legislation ever suggested in this country.

By destroying holding companies it would wreck a twelve-thousand-million-dollar industry.

In so doing, it would destroy the value of investments held by tens of millions of people, including the life-savings of families, by as ruthless a method of confiscation as could be devised.

Abuses and bad practices in the holding company field must and shall be corrected and prevented from recurring.

But why kill a patient in order to cure his malady?

There is just one thing for Congress to do with the Wheeler-Rayburn bill—REJECT IT!


Billion Paranoia

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(April 2, 1935)

ONE of the symptoms of chronic paranoia is the delusion of a person totally broke that he has vast sums of money and that he can go on indefinitely borrowing and spending without paying back.

A cold-blooded, disinterested ailienist—say from Mars—who should make a cursory examination of the centralized national brain in Washington, or if he merely skimmed the daily papers, would most certainly pronounce us a nation far advanced along the road to paranoia.

The United States has a huge debt, running far into the billions. It has a deficit of billions of dollars. And yet it goes on spending billions of dollars—always BILLIONS, MORE BILLIONS AND MORE BILLIONS.


These billions are raised in taxes, always MORE TAXES, ALWAYS MORE BILLIONS.

Millions of persons not yet born are already being taxed into prenatal poverty to pay for the dementia of our billion-bitten rulers and their congressional servants.

Croesus, king of Lydia, was so rich and powerful that he drew all the wise men of Greece to his court.

Uncle Sam, in the hallucinated visions of our billion mad representatives, is now Uncle Croesus.

And he, too, has drawn around him all the wise men of the Republic. ——-

They have trooped from the East, South and West all a-shimmer with degrees and decorations.

Many of them have graduated from four colleges, while others, like Topsy, just growed up into wisdom.

The word BILLIONS, like a star of promise and good news, drew them to the miraculous pork barrel which is in Washington.

Once being in the atmosphere where BILLIONS are spent that do not exist, where BILLIONS are paid out of empty tills and where BILLIONS of taxes are levied on people who are not yet born, they soon came to believe that the one hundred and twenty-five million inhabitants of the United States are nothing but safe deposit vaults to be rifled at will.

And so, like those happy and fantastic persona who live in asylums, they toss away billions of dollars over the breakfast coffee.


This billion-mania is no doubt part of “the more abundant life”—at least for the wise men in and out of Congress who manipulate our destinies.

There is an almighty lift, an airy buoyancy, an expansive feeling of well-being that comes to the great official who can fling billions around from toast to coast which is far greater than the effect of a morning swim or a predinner cocktail.

Our billion complex began during the war. It was our first national taste of colossal spending, colossal taxing and colossal lending.

We flipped billions out of our pocket with the merry ha-ha of a drunken sailor entering a penny arcade with a dime to spend.

We dished up billions for the European countries— those that we fought with, those that we fought against and those that didn’t fight at all—with the superb carelessness of a maharajah who has nothing else to do but to tax the living and unborn to their last rag.


During the boom years following the war we continued on our billion binge with the assurance born of our swelling head.

Those years were the megalomania period of Uncle Croesus’ new life. To talk in millions was bourgeois. To think in thousands was infantile.

We kept lending. We kept spending.

We were open sesame to Europe and to our own people.

In those days a ribbon clerk would throw out his chest when he arrived at the store in the morning and say to the cash girl:

“I see WE appropriated several billions yesterday, and Europe now owes us rah-rah billions.”

The humblest citizen lived on the manna of hallucinating BILLIONS.


Came the dawn—1929.

Did that cure us of the billion frenzy?

No. What was merely megalomania passed into paranoia.

Instead of retrenching, we began to talk bigger billions than ever.

The more definitely Europe repudiates the billions we “loaned” her, the more Uncle Croesus spends.

The deeper we get into a hole, the higher climb the billions.

THE LESS WE HAVE THE MORE WE SPEND.

It’s the greatest paradox of the ages—DEMENTIA PARADOX!


“Reactionaries”

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(April 29, 1935)

One of the oldest tricks of political revolutionists (especially of the collectivist breed) is to fasten epithets on their adversaries.

A conservative becomes a Tory, a Tory becomes a reactionary, and a reactionary becomes an advocate of shooting down strikers.

Today in America all who do not believe in Communism, Socialism, Tugwellism, Wallaceism or any of the other varieties of collectivism are “reactionaries.”

The reverse of this is the cold truth.

It is individualism (the ruggeder, the better) that is RADICAL, PROGRESSIVE and in the STREAM OF EVOLUTION.

It is Communism that is REACTIONARY and RETROGRESSIVE.


Communism is NOT advancement. It is a RECESSION, a degenerative movement to OLD, DISCARDED FORMS.

It can only be put over where THE INTELLIGENCE IS LOW, WHERE PERSONAL INITIATIVE HAS BEEN PARALYZED, WHERE FEAR IS THE DOMINANT EMOTION.

That is the reason it was so easy to apply the doctrine to Russia. The Russians have regimented minds and fear has been their constant companion for centuries.

Communism may be observed in all its mechanical degeneracy in the ant, the bee and the beaver, where millions of years of automatism has killed all change. Here is complete Stalinization.

There is nothing new in Communism. It is as old as herd-tyranny.

Dr. Frederick B. Robinson, president of the College of the City of New York, recently said something about Communism that demolishes tons of verbal humbug:

“Communism is nothing new. It was one of the primitive forms of tribal government thousands of years ago. Its obvious shortcomings and fallacies caused it to be discarded as civilization progressed.

“To revert to it would be to destroy the development and advancement of mankind for many centuries. It would be a reversion to patriarchal government…. It would destroy the freedom of the individual. This is the freedom for which America, and the American Government especially, stands—freedom of self-expression, freedom to make personal contracts and free use of personal property.”


Communism has been tried here in America. There were Brook Farm, the Oneida Community, the George Rapp experiment in Pennsylvania, Robert Owen’s “New Harmony” and Topolobampo in California.

They all went to pieces — these “Edens” — because of that old serpent the INDIVIDUAL, who is always a healthy, energetic, promoting, progressive, goad-and-evil animal.

Communism’s divinization of the laborer and the peasant is an insane attempt to reverse a supreme biological law — THE RACE IS TO THE SWIFTEST AND THE STRONGEST AND THE MOST INTELLIGENT, even among laborers and peasants.

History also gives Communism the lie. All collectivist nations are culturally dead nations.

Civilization advances with STRUGGLE, COMPETITION, THE RIVALRY OF BRAINS.

The whole economic plan of the brain-trusters at Washington is REACTIONARY-COMMUNISTIC, or maybe Commufascist.

The depression began with a panic in 1929.

IT HAS BEEN PERPETUATED BY SEMI-COMMUNISTIC EXPERIMENTS AT WASHINGTON.

The REACTIONARIES are in the saddle and the fabric of our institutions crumples.

The genius and destiny of America is FORWARD—which means MORE RUGGED INDIVIDUALISM.


‘Down With EVERYTHING!’

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(May 29, 1935)

AFTER one hundred and fifty years of upbuilding an epidemic of destruction evidently has taken possession of the American people—or at least of that part of them that now pretends to represent them.

“DOWN WITH EVERYTHING!”

Among professional Communists, direct-action anarchists and that vast horde of “social innovators” who are born with ants in their bones and bats in their belfrey, this is quite understandable.

But, both officially and among a crowd of demagogues and their followers, a demoniacal spirit, totally foreign to the conservative instincts of the American, has suddenly seized the country.


Is this mania to revolutionize all our traditions, to tear up all our safeguards to liberty and to trample on all that we once boasted of—our ingenuity, our individualism, our competitive joy—NARROWLY LINKED TO THE RISE AND DOMINANCE IN OUR LIFE OF RACKETEERING AND GANGSTERISM?

There is a close connection, psychologically and actually, between the professional politician and the gangster.

Their methods differ, but their object is the same—SPOLIATION.

One uses a gun. The other uses the weapons of taxes, bureaucratic tyranny and sappings and mining the edifice of free institutions under the guise of “going forward to better things.”


DOWN WITH EVERYTHING ! Down with profits! Down with the rich! Down with savings! Down with free competition! Down with incomes! Down with independdence! [** ]misspelled in original text[] Down with the Constitution! Down with private business! Down with criticism! Down with capital! Down with over-production! Down with under-production! Down with the law of supply and demand —etc., etc., etc.

DOWN WITH EVERYTHING—EXCEPT the jobs of politicians, the right to confiscate personal wealth, the right to build up a tyrannous bureaucracy, the right to play fast-and-lose with every crackbrained theory that has made Europe a shambles and a stench.

THESE things are made safe for the mob-masters and the Utopian racketeers.


Look back from 1935 to 1932. Here is a three-year perspective for solid thought.

1T LOOKS NOW AS IF THERE HAD BEEN A PLOT HATCHED BEFORE THE LAST ELECTION WHICH IS ONLY NOW COMING TO LIGHT.

If the national program that is now undermining the traditional American Republic had ever been hinted at in the Democratic platform adopted in the summer of 1932, HERBERT HOOVER WOULD NOW BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.

The Socialists who now rule at Washington are bent on a program of DOWN WITH EVERYTHING!

They are doing precisely as the dictator-tyrants of Europe are doing—everything to dig themselves in indefinitely.

The “forgotten man” is today more completely forgotten than ever—HE IS NOW JUST A NUMBER ON A DOLE CARD.

The “remembered man”—that is, the man of wealth, the business man, the capitalist—is the big target of the “down with everything!” program.


Economic atheism is another reason for this destructive business.

We no longer believe in natural law. We no longer believe that business and normal human beings, who are left alone, more certainly attain their ends than when they are harried and hamstrung.

When we have as rulers men of the “down with everything!” school we have turned to strange gods.

Especially are these new, strange gods a menace when they and their actual character and opinion never were elected by the people, but swooped down on us in the Trojan horse of a perfectly conventional and traditionally American political platform.


Who Is President?

BENJAMIN DeCASSERES
(June 22, 1935)

IN 1932 THE American electorate was under the impression that it had elected Franklin D. Roosevelt President of the United States, running on the Democratic platform.

THE MAN WHOM IT REALLY ELECTED PRESIDENT WAS NORMAN THOMAS, RUNNING ON THE SOCIALIST PLATFORM.

No sooner had Mr. Roosevelt been inaugurated than the Democratic platform, which the people had indorsed by a plurality of 7,000,000 votes, was thrown overboard and the platform of the Socialist party, which polled only 884,781 votes out of a total of 39,000,000 votes, WAS ADOPTED ALMOST IN TOTO.

Therefore, we are ruled today by a party that was OVERWHELMINGLY DEFEATED AT THE POLLS BY BOTH MAJOR PARTIES.

We elected a Democratic ticket, but we live under a SOCIALISTIC form of government.

Let us looks at the facts:

The only two important planks in the Democratic platform, adopted at Chicago in June, 1932, that have been lived up to are the prohibition and national defense planks.

The platform began with this “solemn covenant” with the people:

“The Democratic party solemnly promises by appropriate action to put into effect the principles, policies and reforms herein indicated.”

They were: A drastic reduction of governmental expenditures; the abolition of useless commissions and offices; consolidation of departments and bureaus; eliminating extravagance; a federal budget annually balanced; unemployment and old-age insurance under STATE LAWS.

All these “solemn promises” have been broken by increased governmental expenses, the creation of new commissions and bureaus; increased extravagance; a further division, instead of “consolidation,” of departments and bureaus; an unbalanced federal budget; a mounting debt, and federal unemployment and old-age insurance instead of insurance under state laws EXCLUSIVELY.


The rest of the platform consists of vague generalities piled on the still vaguer basic generality of “to recover economic liberty.”

Now turn to the platform of the national Socialist party, adopted in May, 1932, at Milwaukee.

Here are the leading planks in that platform which the Roosevelt administration has tried by every means in its power, TO FOIST ON A COUNTRY THAT VOTED FOR THE DEMOCRATIC PLATFORM:

The entrance of the United States into the world court (failed).

Recognition of the Soviet government (succeeded).

Six-hour day and a five-day week (succeeded, partly).

Increased inheritance tax (about to be launched).

Moratorium on farm foreclosures (succeeded until knocked out by the ALL-AMERICAN supreme court).

Socialization of the power, banking and other industries (already begun on a large scale under the NRA—until smashed by the same ALL-AMERICAN supreme court, Socialistic power and banking planks now under consideration).


Cancellation of war debts (tacitly successful, as nothing is being done in the matter).

That is the platform adopted by a party, whose avowed aim is the DESTRUCTION of individualistic – Democratic – capitalistic America and the SUBSTITUTION of a tyranny of economic and political mob-masters originating in the brains of reactionary minded European peoples.

And that is the platform—with still more revolutionary and crackpot details—that the Roosevelt administration has adopted, instead of the one it was ORDERED TO PUT INTO EFFECT BY THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES!

If Norman Thomas was elected president in 1932, why isn’t he serving?

WHY HAS HE A PROXY?

DeCasseres Dances With Nietzsche

 

Two small articles/reviews from the Detroit Jewish Chronicle concerning Benjamin DeCasseres and Nietzsche.  The first about “Germans, Jews and France,” published November 15, 1935,  followed by  “I Dance With Nietzsche,” published December 11, 1936, enjoy.


DeCasseres Shows Nietzsche Hated the German People

Benjamin DeCasseres, eminent writer and critic, descendant of the family of Baruch Spinoza, is the author of a pamphlet, “Germans, Jews and France,” in which is compiled a series of statements from the writings of Nietzsche. This pamphlet, published by the Rose Printers & Publishers, Inc., 91 Runyon St., Newark, N.J., proves that contrary to the claims of Nazis, Nietzsche hated the Germans and had the highest respect for the Jews. DeCasseres took the excerpts in this pamphlet from the 15 volumes of Nietzsche’s works. In a foreword to the booklet he states:  “In Germany his universal doctrine of Will-to-Power and his ideal of Superman have been used by professors and mob-masters as philosophy to excuse their atrocities, their sadism and their totalitarian-state crimes. But they have carefully concealed what you will find in this booklet.”

In his attack on the Germans, Nietzsche is quoted among other things as follows:

“German intellect’ is my foul air.”

“When I try to think of the kind of man who is opposed to me in all my instincts, my mental image takes the form of a German.”

“Even the presence of a German retards my digestion.”

“I can no longer abide the (German) race.”

“I was condemned to the society of the Germans.”

Under the caption “Germany and the Germans,”Mr. DeCasseres has compiled a chapter of quotations among which we read:

“The Germans have not the faintest idea how vulgar they are.”

“The spirit of Germany—soft, swampy, slippery soil.”

“A man lowers himself by frequenting the society of Germans.”

Another chapter in which he condemns the Germans is titled “German Culture.”

Three of the 31 pages are devoted to a discussion of the Jews, and he says of them:

“What a blessing a Jew is among Germans!”

“This race (the Jews) should not be irritated without necessity. Therefore anti-Semites should be expelled from Germany.”

“Since Wagner’s return to Germany he has condescended to everything that I despise—even to anti-Semitism.”

“In respect to cleaner intellectual habits, Europe is not a little Indebted to the Jews; above all, the Germans as being a lamentably deraissonable race, who, even at the present day, must always have their ‘heads washed. ‘It has always been the Jews’ problem to bring a people to raison.”

“It was Heinrich Heins who gave me the most perfected Idea of what a lyrical poet could be.”

“Among Jews I did, indeed, find taste and delicacy toward me, but not among Germans.”

“The Jews are beyond all doubt the strongest, the toughest and purest race at present living in Europe.”

A two-page chapter on France pays tribute to the French as compared to the Germans he despised. Nietzsche is quoted as saying: “We Germans are nearer to barbarism than the French.”

Detroit Jewish Chronicle – November 15, 1935, P.6


DeCasseres “Dances With Nietzsche”

Benjamin DeCasseres, lineal descendent of Spinoza, ranks among the outstanding authorities on the German philosopher, Nietzsche, whose name has been invoked by Nazis in the campaign against the Jews. A short time ago DeCasseres published a pamphlet entitled “Germans, Jews and France by Nietzsche” in which he compiled the writings of this German to prove that instead of being a hater of Jews, Nietzsche, rather, favored them and despised the Germans.

A great lover of Nietzsche, DeCasseres is continually writing commentaries on his works and one of the most interesting of his pamphlets entitled “I Dance with Nietzsche” has just come off the press. It is procurable at 50 cents from him, care of the Blackstone Publishers, 118 W. 27th St., New York City.

The title of this pamphlet is derived from Nietzsche’s having been referred to as the Dancing Philosopher. A most interesting tribute to Nietzsche is contained in this pamphlet in which DeCasseres writes:

“No one has stimulated me over a longer period of time than Nietzsche. Merely to pick up one of his books after reading him for 30 years gives me a great thrill, physical, mental and metaphysical. With a book of his in my hand I feel precisely like a person who holds a bomb.”

“I love him because he inflames every part of my physic and physical life. He is perpetual ecstasy, orgasm. He inflames me to intellectual anger, quite often, as well as to dancing with intellectual joy. But I thank him for infuriating me almost as much as I thank him for penetrating me with mental ecstasy. For whether I agree or disagree with him, he causes my emotions, my thoughts, my nerves to dance.”

Elsewhere in this booklet, Mr. DeCasseres states:

“The prophet and writer in Nietzsche are straight out of the Old Testament. He is of the strain of Isaiah and Jeremiah, King David and Jesus. He is an Old Testament Jew transposed to a modern sensibility. He Is par excellence the Puritan. He is in no sense Greek. He is Oriental. “His “funeral of God’ Is somewhat pathetic, for he has resurrected Jehovah under the name of the Superman. ‘Sacrifices’ are demanded in the name of the Superman. Here is the God of the Old Testament again.”

DeCasseres calls Nietzsche “the greatest phychologist of all time, one of the greatest poets who have ever lived, one of the master-stylists of world-literature, one of the Six Colossi of Thought, the incarnation of all militant Individualists that have been and the protagonist of those to come — sublimely beautiful soul whose like we shall probably not see again.”

Detroit Jewish Chronicle – December 11, 1936 P.13

 

Hawthorne: Emperor of Shadows

 

From the “Hawthorne number”  of The Critic – Vol.XLV No.1, July 1904


Hawthorne: Emperor of Shadows

By Benjamin DeCasseres

 

HAWTHORNE drank from the beaker of inexhaustible shadows; his soul sought instinctively the obscure and the crepuscular; the shadow-glozed figures of his brain were never mockeries of the real, but phantasms of the dead-beings called out of the endless night of the tomb to sport, at his will, in the shadow of crypts and catacombs, or to languish in half-lights, or to be the pawns in some moral problem that vexed his sensitive heart. He dallied in byways and roamed strange, blighted heaths, and preferred to listen to the sibilant murmurs that came from the brackish tarn than to stand beside the gay, tumbling waterfall in the full light of the sun. He was an emperor—but an emperor of elves—an Oberon whose reign began at the twilight hour and who abdicated at the first cockcrow. He was a giant—but a giant leashed in cobwebs. He was a thinker whose thoughts were always at half-mast for the sorrows that sucked at his heart. He was exquisitely aware of a Conscience. He knew that the supernormal could alone explain the normal, that the exceptional housed all the laws that governed ordinary occurrences plus an explanation, which if it did not explain gave us something better — another mystery. “The Scarlet Letter” is the romance of pain; “The House of the Seven Gables” is the romance of crime; “The Marble Faun” the romance of penitential despair.

The evil that is in the heart of man; the subtle poisonous vapors that emanate from his soul like vent-hole gases; strange, sudden maladies without name, dateless in their birth, bringing with them reversions to a kind of devilship; moral cankers which he identified with physical environment and which he made to dwell in dank cellars, in old gabled houses, in curious angles in the garden-wall, or in the fetor of old wells—these things possessed Hawthorne entirely. He dealt with pain as though it were a conscious being —a survival in his brain of the puritan belief in a personal devil. He never burst through the black cerements and dun dreams that kept him apart from his kind. His tales are his soul-saga.

They portray a man immured in a sunless moat—one who is content with the dark, but who, unconsciously, rises from his seat at intervals and searches the walls with his eyes for a chink of light. His mind was a lodging-house for the distraught. What weird, pain-bitten, grief-ravaged beings took up their abode in that caravansary at night and slunk away in the morning, maybe never to return!—imprinted, unprintable, untellable. And there came, too, to stay with him myriads of wan, pale, ethereal wayfarers who seemed to bear about their eyes the light of impalpable worlds and on their brows the sombre thoughts of thwarted genius. The best that is in a man is never told—and the worst is past imagining. Two things the soul cannot formulate in language: its remote, obscure emotions and its immediate noon-day certainties. In Hawthorne’s face there are the wonderful tales that he never told.

There is phantom-touch in his pages. He lacked the sense of reality—the sure test of spirituality. Long, shadowy files sweep up from out the unconscious and form black processions across the earth. That is life. It is the phantom lockstep. These shadows come and go, making frenetic comic gestures. They whisper hoarsely each to the other—and this they call history. They scud across the earth from the immurmurous to the immurmurous — from Mist to Mist. They are palpitant sobs vested in flesh-mesh. This star is but a ghost walk—the fading ramparts of a mystic Elsinore, and graveyards are but tombs within tombs. The days sheened in their meridional glories, the nights set with their little pulsing eyes are the reflections of soul-torrent. Our arts are but the photographs of the apparitional.

Who has touched the Real or tethered the Now? What Hawthorne saw, that is so. Who can say, “Here thought begins and things cease”? Who can put his thought upon that moment that divides the sleeping moment from the waking moment?—who can tell how far one trenches on the other? Life is but a conscious sleeping; sleep an unconscious waking—or a waking into the Unconscious. Life in prospect is always phosphorescent with hope; the path behind is a white capped dream. Youth and Age are to both somnambules. Our imaginations —and Hawthorne was an imaginative seer — are unplumbed, immeasurable. Fancy is the mirror that gives us back the real. Life is a progressive dream, a languorous, painful unwinding. We pace the decks, withered gods, the definite shrunk to a hint, a puzzle to ourselves, a puzzle to the beasts below and the inhabitants of the fourth dimension above. Hawthorne nowhere formulates this sense of mystery, but it stands shadowlike behind each sentence. It is the breath of his literary body.

Though here, of our date and time, he was a belated spirit—a fanciful, roving, ether-cleaving spirit who one day, while peeping in curiosity over the eaves of his dream-mansion, fell into flesh. Society annoyed him and he turned from the rouged arts of civilization with a fine contempt.

Genius treads far from that bellowing sphinx called civilization. The nineteenth century was a coarse melodrama written by the devil for the delectation of the blasé gods. By ignoring it utterly Nathaniel Hawthorne and Walter Pater became its greatest critics. Civilization at best is a peddler dressed up to look like a monarch. It is that process which has subtilized the direct and made automatic the spontaneous. It has made a crooked line the shortest way between two given points and substituted Machiavelli for Euclid. It invents pains in order to banish from its heart the horrible boredom that oppresses it. The vaunted arts and sciences sit cheek-by-jowl with Mammon. “Progress” is the cluck-cluck of satisfaction of Caliban as he makes headway into thicker mud.

Practical life stands for the utter materialization of the soul. Its glitter, which attracts from afar, is the glitter that falls from pomade-burnished garbage cans. In the great cities, which Rousseau called nature’s sinks, men do not congregate, but fester. Cities are great street-canalled slime-vats, wherein long familiarity has indurated the sense of smell. Here the souls of men turn turtle: they call it “business.” Ideals melt in these fens like the snow-image in Hawthorne’s tale when it is dragged by the Practical Man—always and everywhere an atheist—before the fireplace. Practical life!—the domain of the arched spine and the furtive glance—it is better to become moss-grown in the Old Manse of Dreams. Hester Prynne, Arthur Dimmesdale, Clifford Pynchon, Miriam, Donatello shall outlive in shadowy immortality the flesh and blood beings that mimic their ways here below, and the turrets and spires of our civilization shall long be gangrened in the muds of oblivion when the shadow-makers that have gone shall still with potent rod smite the souls of generations unborn, and from them, as from us, shall burst the fountains of exalted wonder.

What strange shadows tread at our heels!—shadows of evil and shadows of good. On how slight a pivot turn our fortunes! In that exquisite fantasy, “David Swan,” the muffled march of events that never materialize, that cross and recross our paths unseen, unapprehended, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father when he parades before the eyes of the spirit-blind Queen Gertrude, is the theme of  Hawthorne. In this little allegory we read the chances of life. Our destinies are brittle but inexorable, and we are tossed around in the great world-forces like a bottle in the sea.

Young Swan lies down to rest beneath a tree that stands by a well-travelled road. He is poor and sleeps deep. A carriage becomes disabled near him and the occupants, an elderly lady and gentleman, while waiting for a broken wheel to be mended, contemplate his adoption, but the coachman interrupts with the message that the carriage is ready, and Fortune, which just grazed him in her flight, passes on forever. Death, in the guise of thieves who are about to murder him for his clothing, but who are opportunely frightened off, lingers near him for a second and then postpones her rendezvous with the soul of David Swan. Love, in the person of a young girl who steps aside to contemplate and blush, glides by him. David wakes and goes on his way whistling.

Our days are freighted with gifts and curses, and the bitterness of life lies in the consciousness of what might have been. Yet the Law never swerves, or if it swerve, it carries on its breast the debris of our dreams and hurries us to the Gulf that swallows all dreams. The might-have-been is as far away as that which never came to being. “Our happiness passes close by us.” Not so: it is the illusion of space. Unless we possess it, it is but the greater mockery when it thrusts its flowers under our noses and when we are about to inhale the fragrance substitutes snuff.

Hawthorne, King of a realm fantastic, Emperor of shadows, Grand Seigneur of the unmapped, tourist of the sub terrene, who saw from behind his lattice of fancy the pain that bases the moral world and the comic lie that is called optimism — he sups to-night, with Omar, Amiel, and de Maupassant, on herbs and bitters. For he was one of the Order of the Black Veil—in life a soul of regal pains, in death a quenchless memory in our hearts.

 

 

America’s Most Unpublished Author

As published in the San Bernardino Sun, Volume 67, Number 23, 23 September 1930


Intelligentsia Pole Star Gives Bernard Shaw Merciless Flaying In Volume Lauding H.L Mencken

America’s Most Unpublished Author at Last ‘Clicks’ and Works to Be Printed

By H. ALLEN SMITH (United Press Correspondent) NEW YORK, Sept. 22.

Benjamin Decasseres, pole star of the American intelligentsia and sometimes called the most unpublished author in the United States, has written a new book that will be published. It is called “Mencken and Shaw, the Anatomy of America’s Voltaire and England’s Other John Bull.” Between its covers Decasseres sets out, with a pen that drips blue fire, to prove that George Bernard Shaw is a colossal mountebank and that H. L. Mencken is the true modern Voltaire.

Lives in Apartment Off Gramercy Park

This being an interesting thesis, Decasseres submitted to an interview. He lives in an apartment off Gramercy park surrounded by books, green pencils, unpublished manuscripts and an ice box well stocked with tannic acid. The “Lone Eagle” of American literature wore brown striped pajamas, of a silken texture, during the interview. First off he brought out his 16 unpublished books. These range in topic from a volume of poetry to the love letters of Bio and Benjamin Decasseres. “The publishers,” Decasseres said, “won’t touch my stuff because I won’t go to literary teas.” His new volume on Mencken and Shaw will be published by Silas Newton, a Texas oil man. Newton may publish all of Decasseres works. The 57-year-old author believes that Mencken’s books should be placed in the schools, “to teach Americans how to write English.” He holds that Mencken is the greatest writer as well as the greatest social satirist this country has ever produced. “I have taken Mencken and Shaw,” he said, “as the world’s two outstanding sane rebels. But my idea is that Mencken’s sanity is sincere, while Shaw’s is not. Shaw delights in making people believe he is insane, which he probably is. He is a cheap publicity-seeker, a publicity-shark of the lowest type. He is like a trick bear, always clowning. “The big difference lies in the fact that Mencken has character, Shaw has none. I don’t agree with Mencken on many of his literary and esthetic judgments. But I believe that his grandeur comes from his narrowness, his height comes from his lack of breadth. “Mencken glories in the use of words. He takes the same pleasure in studying the use of words that a Beethoven would take in the study of notes, or a Rembrandt in the study of colors.” The frequent charge of insincerity, brought against Mencken, irritates Decasseres.

Has Been Pursuing One Line of Thought

“For 20 years.” he said, “the man has been following one solid line of thought a battering ram against sham and humbug and popular idols. My objection to him is that he is monotonously sincere. I wish he would change his record occasionally.” Decasseres said that Shaw has never created a character that will live, that he is the “father of all the sophisticated drool that exists on the stage today. He is the greatest disaster to the English stage of the century. He cannot create human beings, only epigrani-spouters, and he creates his characters to fit his epigrams instead of letting the epigrams flow naturally from the characters. I might add that he gats all his epigrams from jazzing up Schopenhauer, Neitzsche, Tolstoy, La Rochefocauld, Oscar Wilde and Samuel Butler. Shaw is related to the world of great artist? as jazz composers are related to Beethoven and Mozart.” Decasseres sent the proofs of his book to Mencken, who in- turn wrote a letter to the author. The last line of this letter reads: “You forgot to put in that I was baptized at the age of two months and had the hives for five weeks thereafter.”

“A Counsel of Imperfection” by Benjamin DeCasseres

The following was published in The International, Vol. VI, No. V for October 1912.


A Counsel of Imperfection
by Benjamin DeCasseres

GULLIBUS:—But if your theories prevailed what would become of the race?

SATIRICUS:—The race ? My dear Gullibus, there is no such thing as the race; like posterity, it is a verbal superstition. The word was invented to keep social philosophers from saying anything dangerous. “To live for posterity” is the phrase of faddists. The attempt to live up to that phrase results in mental, moral and physical decay. It is part of the doctrine of Christian altruism—the part that is the most beautiful and decadent in tendency ; for you know, dear Gullibus, that all altruism is degeneracy. I can conceive of nothing more immoral than to sacrifice a present benefit in order to avoid a future evil. Grasp what you can now. Why should we live like a naked Hypothesis, sacrificing ‘the facts of this day for fear of the things that may not happen to-morrow ? Fine phrases have eviscerated the instinct to individuality. Social evolution is the evolution of phrases. The idea that we should so order our lives as to benefit generations not yet born is an idea that came into the world with the advent of man ; and man is only an abnormal development of the monkey, the most perfect, to my way of thinking, of all the vertebrates. Being an abnormality, man’s ideas are all abnormal, freakish. Do you suppose for a moment that the histories of those wonderful social states that the ants, bees, monkeys and other forms of superior intelligence have organized can show such worship of Cant as the history of man?
Let us look at some of the consequences were men to live solely with an eye to the good of posterity. What would become of sin, the one thing that gives form, color and symmetry to life? We dream of transmitting our sins and our defects as well as our virtues, and a father would rather see a son resemble him on his seamy side alone than not to have the son resemble him at all. The dream is to have “a chip of the old block.” There is no greater secret humiliation for a parent than to see a child who is “better” than himself. Superiority always draws the arrows of hate from the hidden slings where they are kept.

GULLIBUS :—You mean to say, Satiricus, that we are all in love with sin?

SATIRICUS :—Yes. Our dream of Heaven, of Perfection, is but the soul brooding over its abrogated darling sins. Perfection is sin deferred. The dream of a perfect social State springs from the cupidity of the heart. As for me, the most beautiful thing I can think of is a life wherein I shall live out my thwarted instincts. That is a marvellously beautiful thought which comes to me at times—that in some other sphere, social or celestial, I will be able to do all those things which the policeman would not allow me to do here. For the way of the transgressor who meets with no resistance is paved with gold.

GULLIBUS :—And conscience, Satiricus, what of that?

SATIRICUS :—It is not our sins that have begotten conscience. On the contrary, it is the inability to realize our sinful (miserable word !) desires that gives us that uncomfortable feeling in the head which is known as conscience. Successful murderers and thieves and swindlers have no conscience until they are caught. Success never had a conscience. It is born of fear and baffled instinct. Conscience is the homage that evil intention pays to the policeman.
Altruistic ideals are indeed valuable if we do not try to live up to them. Nothing so coarsens a thing as to use it. The sublime is only the sublime as long as we do not humanize it. Self-sacrifice is a sublime feeling; it attracts because of its unreality. To live for others ! Superb uplift in these words ! What exaltation in the idea! And, my dear Gullibus, it only exalts because it is an idea. We love goodness in an inverse ratio to our means of realizing it. Pegasus appeals to the imagination because he never existed. Drag him from his habitation in the clouds and we should yoke him to drays and furniture vans. It is thus with our ideals. If by any accident a great ideal becomes practicable it is soon ground up in the mills of the commonplace—and so loses all its beauty.

GULLIBUS :—What a paradoxist you are ! You destroy the value both of conscience and the ideal. Has the ideal, for instance, no value at all?

SATIRICUS :—Of course—did I not just speak of its value ? The ideal of self-sacrifice has an aesthetic value, like a sunset or a charming landscape. It has the beauty of perspective, the vague charm of aloofness. It has the value of an incentive. To degrade a dream into a concrete rule of conduct is as vulgar a thing as to litter the heavens with patent medicine advertisements. Have you noticed how convictions lose their force when enacted into law ? All our legislative bodies are engaged in repealing what the previous body ordained. It is a tragedy of the Ideal—the debacle of Imagination.
The man who goes to the stake for his convictions is an ass. But the martyr as a motive for a work of art or a novel is invaluable. For the beauty of an act of martyrdom lies in the fact that it will appear beautiful to somebody else. It has an aesthetic value only and is absolutely destitute of moral significance. Bruno, Savonarola and Socrates were merely obstinate fanatics. It is we who have created them. A kind of ex-post facto idealism. Now as to this craze of living for posterity and the “good of the race,” the motive is not moral, but aesthetic ; and that it has a value (as a human motive) no one can doubt who loves the marvellous literature of the New Testament, the jewelled but inutile phrasings of Ruskin and the simple patriarchal style of the late Tolstoi. What literature the unphilosophical philosophy of self-acrifice has given us!

GULLIBUS :—And Truth—what becomes of that in this amazing view ?

SATIRICUS :—Truth ! There is only one truth !—The universality of error. You remember what I said about Pegasus? Well, if Men ever discovered the Truth they would be bored to death. Without error life would not be worth the living. Indeed, life is hardly worth the living to-day because it is so much better than it used to be. People actually commit suicide now because they are happy—that is, they are bored with life, and what is boredom but the highest phase of happiness ? We are confronted by the dreadful possibility that every ideal may soon be realized. The Socialists are about to decree the end of poverty and want and will substitute a nasty ennui. The pride of rank is to make way for rank pride. The Empire of the Wise will soon be in the dust and every wise man will be compelled to live out his system as a penance for having dared to dream it. Gullibus, the imagination of man is confronted by the greatest crisis in its history. We are going to lose our gods ; the corner orator is decreeing the death of the Intangible. We shall fall from Parnassus into the Bon Marche.
And then in these days we are all understood. We no longer know the sweet secret of incommunicable sorrows. We are no longer mysterious one to another. We read each other like circus billboards. Life has lost its savor of mutual ignorance. The Brain is discovering all things, even its own limitations. Everything is classifiable. We are verging toward truth, goodness and cosmic lassitude. I foresee a time when there will no longer be room for those exquisite little hatreds and subtle jealousies from which we at present derive much pleasure.

GULLIBUS :—You don’t seriously hold that our hatreds are a source of pleasure, do you ?

SATRICUS :—Nothing is more clearly true. All hatred adds to self-esteem, and anything that adds to self-esteem must be pleasurable. Envy I hold to be the first and highest of virtues. To be envious of another reveals to us our own limitations. It makes us desire the things we lack ; and this gives birth to the instinct of pursuit. I often conceive envy as an exquisite perfume. It gives us our ideals. It is the fairest flower that blossoms on the Tree of Good and Evil. I, for one, dear Gullibus, would not consent to live another minute did the Green Goddess desert me. Envy is certainly the father of genius and the mother at least of self-culture. The total absence of this almost universal spur argues a low origin—bovine or porcine. We find little envy among peasants because they have no knowledge of values and no aspirations ; they would rather sleep on a dunghill than in the seigneur’s halls. Nothing so titillates my daily life as a desire for my neighbor’s wife or his rugs or his gold. Those who lack this divine and urgent fire of envy will be found prosy and virtuous or stupidly wise ! To dream of undoing your neighbor raises the tide of life—and Herbert Spencer, you know, defines pleasure as a rise in the tide of life. This is the age of intellectual Borgias, but it will pass, is passing now with the coming apotheosis of stupidity, the Brotherhood of Man. The Brotherhood of Man ! What a gigantic egotism ! We so love ourselves that, not being content with that, we are constantly seeking to be some one else. The precious fluids of selfhood seek discharge in other modes of life than our own. The passion for the consummation of the scheme of the Brotherhood of Man is generated in the monstrous desire of o’erbrimming egotists to expand the bladder of self to the dimensions of the race. The soul of man blasphemously seeks to take on the characteristics of Omnipotence ; this it calls self-sacrifice. Men desire to be MAN ; this they name the Brotherhood of Man.
It is envy that creates want ; it is the fulcrum on which Power tries its instruments. I would rather envy than have.

GULLIBUS :—And what becomes of justice?

SATIRICUS :—Justice is a catchword. It is as fugitive as the idea of God. It has never been defined. The only definition of justice that sounds rational to me is the tiger’s definition : What you want go and take. It is just that the strong should prey and that the weak should pray. All that I have has been stolen, even my present reasoning. If any one interferes with my methods, that is unjust, for injustice may be defined as settling an arbitrary limit to Power. Our present social condition is the most unjust imaginable because of the unceasing depredations of the weak on the strong. All organized government is used by the weak to harry and oppress primitive strength. Hence the present reign of mediocrity. The strongest go to the wall or jail and the unfittest survive and write our laws, our literature and our poems. You see, Gullibus, it is the old posterity-worship idea again. We are preserving the race at the expense of the individual. There is no justice in a system that will tie a Gulliver to the ground and allow myriad black ants from the government ant-villages to void their offal on him. Only war is justice.

GULLIBUS :—You are hardly convincing. From your remarks I gather that you have a very poor opinion of civilization. Come, have some common sense.

SATIRICUS :—Common sense is vulgar sense. Let us put common sense aside and talk intelligently. Civilization is a device for increasing human wants. It, too, is merely barbarism tattooed. But civilization is good in this : that it never satisfied a human craving. It promotes all the sacrosanct vices. There is nothing more frightful than a sense of satisfaction with things. Content is ever the doctrine of the aged and well-to-do. No, my dear Gullibus, let us not underestimate the blessings of civilization. Nowhere else can you find such exquisite pains and sufferings. Nothing so promotes the picturesquely criminal as our great and compact cities. The vileness of modern life is the one thing that redeems it. It made Balzac, Zola and Gissing possible. The slums are worth while when they manure such genius. Organized want—that is London ; unique thought, is it not ? Artists and psychologists and thinkers are interested in the phenomenon. It is the clay of the artistic spirit. Thus does civilization tend to perpetuate the arts and sciences. Gloria in Excelsis ! Have a cigarette?