To What End?
On Epstein, ambition, and the capitulation of conscience
Kierkegaard wrote of the power of a “poetic memory”. A way for one to hold the richness of the past without being numbed by nostalgia—letting the natural romance of a narrative live in its imperfection. I’m not sure, though, if the idea of a poetic memory is more a creation of a brilliant writer or the observation of a committed theologian. Indeed, Søren Kierkegaard was both of these, and his work and research naturally borrowed from each other.
I say I can’t tell because we, as a species, already approach history with a poetic memory. It is the very foundation of any culture in every society to cultivate the past into a narrative which allows us to make sense of the present. Nationalism itself is just another more vitriolic flavor of a poetic memory—one in which the state, by virtue of its existence, is perpetually absolved of sin.
Kierkegaard was a theologian, however, not a historian. A theologian would derive the idea of a poetic memory not from crowns and charters but from the Almighty and his apostles. Whereas history is meant for all of us, religion is intended for just one. A shared faith still underlies an individual belief that salvation is achievable—like how siblings can live separate lives while still being bound by their blood. This makes the power of a poetic memory much more a process in which the individual is responsible for producing. A citizen can live their entire life without worrying about borders and battles, but we all have to wrestle with the past. Kierkegaard, a devout Christian and student of the New Testament, no doubt borrowed from the religious concept of salvation in crafting this term. Even without a higher power, one still has to put faith into something—in this case the future—for their wellbeing.
One thing that a poetic memory lacks that religion does not is morality. If one cheats on a previous partner, they can easily come up with myriad reasons as to why their infidelity was not inexcusable. Religion, at least, operates on a moral grounding on which its followers are, in theory, supposed to live by. Some argue that religion is necessary for morality to mature—that unless bound by some greater power we would be liable to destroy each other. I used to think such an argument was ridiculous.
Increasingly, though, I wonder if I was mistaken in my certainty—if the core of this argument does have some undeniable truth to it. Even if religion itself is not vital for virtue, some structure of higher authority is. Once one goes beyond that—even one who still subscribes to a more amorphous higher power—they lose the ability to control themselves. It’s a question that strikes at power, and our ability to conjure a poetic memory which allows us to reconcile what we will do for our future. It’s also a question that I think can only be asked and answered by those who come from less than they have reached—the strivers of society like myself.
At the beginning of the ascent, your morality does not interfere with your momentum. You can, really, have it all! But, as happens in all of our lives, things get boring. The fifth invitation to speak at a fancy conference in a fancy place becomes more of a social remittance back towards a group you worked so hard to rise above. So, you begin to harbor just the smallest seed of resentment towards the society that built you. You start to hold not just a poetic memory, but a poetic mythology. Whereas the former is the romanticization based on some accepted version of the truth, the latter is far less restrictive. What if, instead of being a byproduct of a lot of work and even more luck, your success was more innate? What if you were always meant to be this? What if your very drive was not some mushy mix of grit and fortune but an innate, and even supernatural, inheritance to what made money and built status?
In this view, our earlier question on if religion is a precondition for morality turns out to be an entirely backwards way to look at it. Let us return to the church itself as an example. Imagine the Catholic Church of old as a triangle, with a practicing Catholic commoner at the bottom and the Pope himself at the very top. The closer to the top one is, the closer they are to God. They speak for him, they represent him, they are the ones who distill his will onto the world. So, it should reason, they are also the ones most likely to know that God would understand their indiscretion in whatever vice it would present as. God would see that the indulgence of vanities were necessary to show the common man the boundless beauty of heaven. Their power becomes the precondition itself, not out of an abject immorality but a kind of morality that treats the continuation of one’s status as something inherently moral. You have to do what you have to do.
I’m thinking of this question so much after finding myself spending an entire weekend on www.justice.gov reading the trove of documents, emails, and videos of Jeffrey Epstein. It seems like virtually everyone in power knew Epstein, and at the very least allowed for his existence in their social circles. But we’re adults, and we know the full story. We know that when Epstein writes “you have my permission to kill him.” he isn’t speaking in metaphors. We understand that when Epstein emails about a girl staying at the Four Seasons attempting to blackmail a group of Russian oligarchs, his “suggestions?” are anything but innocuous. Yes, we knew Jeffrey Epstein was evil, but reading the diary of one of his victims, is another type of elite-child-rapist-sex-slave-trafficker type of evil. Maybe I’m young and naive, but I didn’t think that level of evil existed in our time.
I’ve thought a lot about those in Epstein’s circle—men who I admired—who did nothing. They jeer and joke with him over email, often outright admitting that they knew what went on behind closed doors. And it leaves me feeling profoundly sad. The type of sad you experience as a kid when you finally accept that Santa Claus is not the one putting those gifts under the tree. It’s less a horrible shock and more a grim acceptance that there are certain truths to this world that, like it or not, you have always somewhat known to be true. We all knew that many of our politicians were far from family men, and our business leaders’ philanthropy more calculated than kind.
But if you’re like me, you still hold out hope. You hold out hope that the ambition that flows so vivaciously through your veins does not have to be tainted—that you can have it all without losing yourself. Ironically such a belief becomes almost religious in the faith one puts into it. The ascent towards power—these years which I am living now in waiting—is all worth it because we tell ourselves that when we do reach it, all will be clear. Our success rewarded, our imperfections hidden, leaving us only to bask in the respect of our peers and the admiration of the public—a poetic mythology fit for a powerful person.
I find myself asking time and time again whether that hope is as earnest as I wish it to be. Is my hope a genuine desire for a world that does exist but of which I have not yet found, or is it a type of poetic memory in motion? Am I, even now without the titles, or the status, or the money I feel so confident I will have, letting on less than I know? Did it really require millions of emails and tiny black boxes for me to reconcile what is plainly evident in our day to day lives? Power and status have always demanded absolutes from those who were not born into it. It has always asked more, and more, and more, until that unspecified moment where we all finally say “enough, I have what I want in life”.
And I want to say that such a line for me is found in the relationships I have, and that is certainly true to an extent. I want a great partner to marry, tremendous friends to enjoy life with, and a job that makes me feel like I am alive. But, I can have all of that without the spotlight. Many do. So, I’m left to wonder why. Why does my brain crave that attention? Why does it need that status? Why do I feel so deeply that my name is meant to be preceded by President, and then, Former President? I wish I knew.
What I do know is that there is this part of me that will never stop wanting. I know that it is this part that has turned so many good and earnest strivers into corrupt and duplicitous elites. I know that I do not want to live that life, but I also know that on some level the goals I have will force me to bend what I’m willing to do. And that, I know, is exactly where a poetic memory turns poisonous. When you can meet with a man who you know is abusing children out of an excuse that the money he will give your candidacy or charity is worth it. When you can go to his dinners, and respond to his emails, and joke about his impropriety because, after all, what can one person do? The answer, as the Epstein Files show, is quite a lot.
