It has been years now since I have eaten bread with a clear conscience.
Look, it doesn’t happen often, but I’m going to be straight up with you. I eat bread. Sometimes, when I’m really fucking hung-over, I medically require a baked bean and cheese jaffle. Or if the food is taking ages in a…
When, in the 1960s, Svetlana Stalin emigrated to the U.S. through India and wrote her memoirs, she presented Stalin “from inside” as a warm father and caring leader, with most of the mass murders imposed on him by his evil collaborators, Lavrenty Beria in particular. Later, Beria’s son Sergo wrote a memoir presenting his father as a warm family man who simply followed Stalin’s orders and secretly tried to limit the damage.
Hannah Arendt was right: these were not personifications of sublime Byronesque demonic evil: the gap between their intimate experience and the horror of their acts was immense. The experience that we have of our lives from within, the story we tell ourselves about ourselves in order to account for what we are doing, is fundamentally a lie—the truth lies outside, in what we do.