Caterpillars

All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen,
They call false caterpillars and intend their death.
2 Henry VI 

 

When Company A, 27th Armored Infantry Battalion, U.S. 1st Infantry Division (“the Big Red One”), reached the forested hills overlooking the Rhine in the early afternoon of 7 March, 1945, and found the Ludendorff Bridge still, improbably, standing, they may have been surprised to find that they had not only found the last passage beyond Hitler’s Westwall into the heart of Germany—but also stumbled into a controversy that is still, seventy years on, continuing. That controversy could be represented by an essay written some years ago by the Belgian political theorist Chantal Mouffe on the American philosopher Richard Rorty: the problem with Rorty’s work, Chantal claimed, was that he believed that the “enemies of human happiness are greed, sloth, and hypocrisy, and no deep analysis is required to understand how they could be eliminated.” Such beliefs are capital charges in intellectual-land, where the stock-in-trade is precisely the kind of “deep analysis” that Rorty thought (at least according to Mouffe) unnecessary, so it’s little wonder that, for the most part, it’s Mouffe who’s had the better part of this argument—especially considering Rorty has been dead since 2007. Yet as the men of Company A might have told Mouffe—whose work is known, according to her Wikipedia article, for her “use of the work of Carl Schmitt” (a legal philosopher who joined the Nazi Party on 1 May 1933)—it’s actually Rorty’s work that explains just why they came to the German frontier; an account whose only significance lies in the fact that it may be the ascendance of Mouffe’s view over Rorty’s that explains such things as, for instance, why no one was arrested after the financial crisis of 2007-08.

That may, of course, sound like something of a stretch: what could the squalid affairs that nearly led to the crash of the world financial system have in common with such recondite matters as the dark duels conducted at academic conferences—or a lucky accident in the fog of war? But the link in fact is precisely at the Ludendorff, sometimes called “the Bridge at Remagen”—a bridge that might not have been standing for Company A to find had the Nazi state really been the complicated ideological product described by people like Mouffe, instead of the product of “ruthless gangsters, distinguishable only by their facial hair” (as Rorty, following Vladimar Nabokov, once described Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin). That’s because, according to (relatively) recent historical work that unfortunately has not yet deeply penetrated the English-speaking world, in March 1945 the German generals who had led the Blitzkrieg in 1940 and ’41—and then headed the defense of Hitler’s criminal empire—were far more concerned with the routing numbers of their bank accounts than the routes into Germany.

As “the ring closed around Germany in February, March, and April 1945”—wrote Ohio State historian Norman Goda in 2003—“and as thousands of troops were being shot for desertion,” certain high-ranking officers who, in some cases, had been receiving extra “monthly payments” directly from the German treasury on orders of Hitler himself “deposited into banks that were located in the immediate path of the enemy quickly arranged to have their deposits shifted to accounts in what they hoped would be in safer locales.” In other words, in the face of Allied advance, Hitler’s generals—men like Heinz Guderian, who in 1943 was awarded “Deipenhof, an estate of 937 hectares (2,313 acres) worth RM [Reichmark] 1.24 million” deep inside occupied Poland—were preoccupied with defending their money, not Germany.

Guderian—who led the tanks who broke the French lines at Sedan, the direct cause of the Fall of France in May 1940—was only one of many top-level military leaders who received secretive pay-offs even before the beginning of World War II: Walther von Brauchitsch, who was Guderian’s supervisor, had for example been getting—tax-free—double his salary since 1938, while Field Marshal Erhard Milch, who quit his prewar job of running Lufthansa to join the Luftwaffe, received a birthday “gift” from Hitler each year worth more than $100,000 U.S. Both of these were just two of many high military officers to receive such six-figure “birthday gifts,” or other payments, which Goda writes not only were “secret and dependent on behavior”—that is, on not telling anyone about the payments and on submission to Hitler’s will—but also “simply too substantial to have been viewed seriously as legitimate.” All of these characteristics, as any federal prosecutor will tell you, are hallmarks of corruption.

Such corruption, of course, was not limited to the military: the Nazis were, according to historian Jonathan Petropoulos “not only the most notorious murderers in history but also the greatest thieves.” Or as historian Richard J. Evans has noted, “Hitler’s rule [was] based not just on dictatorship, but also on plunder, theft and looting,” beginning with the “systematic confiscation of Jewish assets, beginning almost immediately on the Nazi seizure of power in 1933.” That looting expanded once the war began; at the end of September, 1939 for instance, Evans reports, the German government “decreed a blanket confiscation of Polish property.” Dutch historian Gerard Aalders has estimated that Nazi rule stole “the equivalent of 14 billion guilders in today’s money in Jewish-owned assets alone” from the Netherlands. In addition, Hitler and other Nazi leaders, like Herman Göring, were also known for stealing priceless artworks in conquered nations (the subject of the recent film, Monument Men). In the context of such thievery on such a grand scale it hardly appears a stretch to think they might pay off the military men who made it all possible. After all, the Nazis had been doing the same for civilian leaders virtually since the moment they took over the state apparatus in 1933.

Yet, there is one difference between the military leaders of the Third Reich and American leaders today—a difference perhaps revealed by their response when confronted after the war with the evidence of their plunder. At the “High Command Trial” at Nuremberg in the winter of 1947-’48, Walther von Brauchitsch and his colleague Franz Halder—who together led the Heer into France in 1940—denied that they ever took payments, even after confronted with clear evidence of just that. Milch, for instance, claimed that his “birthday present” was compensation for the loss of his Lufthansa job. All the other generals did the same: Goda notes that even Guderian, who was well-known for his Polish estate, “changed the dates and circumstances of the transfer in order to pretend that the estate was a legitimate retirement gift.” In short, they all denied it—which is interesting in the light of the fact that, as happened during the first Nuremberg trial on 3 January 1946, at one point a witness could casually admit to the murder of 90,000 people.

To admit receiving payments, in other words, was worse—to the generals—than admitting setting Europe alight for essentially no reason. That it was so is revealed by the fact that the legal silence was matched by similar silences in postwar memoirs and so on, none of which (except Guderian’s, who as mentioned fudged some details in his) ever admitted taking money directly from the national till. That silence implies, in the first place, a conscious knowledge that these payments were simply too large to be legitimate. And that, in turn, implies a consciousness not merely of guilt, but also of shame—a concept that is simply incoherent without an understanding of what the act underlying the payments actually is. The silence of the generals, that is, implies that the German generals had internalized a definition of corruption—unfortunately, however, a recent U.S. Supreme Court case, McDowell v. United States, suggests that Americans (or at least the Supreme Court) have no such definition.

The facts of the case were that Robert McDonnell, then governor of Virginia, received $175,000 in benefits from the executive officer of a company called Star Scientific, presumably because not only did Star Scientific want Virginia’s public universities to conduct research on their product, a “nutritional supplement” based on tobacco—but they felt McDonnell could conjure the studies. The burden of the prosecutor—according to Chief Justice John Roberts’ unanimous opinion—was then to show “that Governor McDonnell committed (or agreed to commit) an ‘official act’ in exchange for the loans and gifts.” At that point, then, the case turned on the definition of “official act.”

According to the federal bribery statute, an “official act” is

any decision or action on any question, matter, cause, suit, proceeding or controversy, which may at any time be pending, or which may by law be brought before any public official, in such official’s official capacity, or in such official’s place of trust or profit.

McDonnell, of course, held that the actions McDonnell admitted he took on Star Scientific’s behalf—including setting up meetings with other state officials, making phone calls, and hosting events—did not constitute an “official act” under the law. The federal prosecutors, obviously to the contrary, held they did.

To McDonnell, defining the acts he took on behalf of Star Scientific constituted a too-broad definition of “official act”: to him (or rather his attorneys), the government’s definition made “‘virtually all of a public servant’s activities ‘official,’ no matter how minor or innocuous.’” The prosecutors’ argued that a broad definition of crooked acts is necessary to combat corruption; McDonnell argued that the broad definition threatens the ability of public officials to act. Ultimately, his attorneys said, the broad nature of the anti-corruption statute threatens constitutional government itself.

In the end the Court accepted that argument. In John Roberts’ words, the acts McDonnell committed could not be defined as anything “more specific and focused than a broad policy objective.” In other words, sure McDonnell got a bunch of stuff from a constituent, and then he did a bunch of things for that constituent, but the things that he did did not constitute anything more than simply doing his job—a familiar defense, to be sure, at Nuremberg.

The effective upshot of McDowell, then, appears to be that the U.S. Supreme Court, at least, no longer has an adequate definition of corruption—which might appear to be a grandiose conclusion to hang on one court case, of course. But consider the response of Preet Bharara, former United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, when he was asked by The New Yorker just why it was that his office did not prosecute anyone—anyone—in response to the financial meltdown of 2007-08. Sometimes, Bharara said in response, when “you see a building go up in flames, you have to wonder if there’s arsonyou see a building go up in flames, you have to wonder if there’s arson.” Sometimes, he continued, “it’s not arson, it’s an accident”—but sometimes “it is arson, and you can’t prove it.” Bharara’s comments suggested that the problem was an investigatory one: his detectives could not gather the right evidence. But McDonnell suggests that the problem may have been something else: a legal one, where the problem isn’t with the evidence but rather with the conceptual category required to use the evidence to prosecute a crime.

That something is going on is revealed by a report from Syracuse University’s Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse, or TRAC, which found that in 2011 the Department of Justice reported that prosecutions for financial crimes have been falling since the early 1990s—despite the fact that the economic crisis of 2007 and 2008 was driven by extremely questionable financial transactions. Other studies observe that Ronald Reagan, generally not thought to be a crusader type, prosecuted more financial crimes than did Barack Obama: in 2010, the Obama administration deported 393,000 immigrants—and prosecuted zero bankers.

The question, of course, is why that is so—to which any number of answers have been proposed. One, however, is especially resisted by those at the upper reaches of academia who are in the position of educating future federal prosecutors: people who, like Mouffe, think that

Democratic action … does not require a theory of truth and notions like unconditionality and universal validity but rather a variety of practices and pragmatic moves aimed at persuading people to broaden their commitments to others, to build a more inclusive community.

“Liberal democratic principles,” Mouffe goes on to claim, “can only be defended in a contextualist manner, as being constitutive of our form of life, and we should not try to ground our commitment to them on something supposedly safer”—that “something safer” being, I suppose, anything like the account ledgers of the German treasury from 1933 to 1945, which revealed the extent of Nazi corruption after the war.

To suggest, however, that there is a connection between the linguistic practices of professors and the failures of prosecutors is, of course, to engage in just the same style of argumentation as those who insist, with Mouffe, that it is “the mobilization of passions and sentiments, the multiplication of practices, institutions and language games that provide the conditions of possibility for democratic subjects and democratic forms of willing” that will lead to “the creation of a democratic ethos.” Among these are, for example, literary scholar Jane Tompkins, who once made a similar point by recommending, not “specific alterations in the current political and economic arrangements,” but instead “a change of heart.” But perhaps the rise of such a species of supposed “leftism” ought to be expected in an age characterized by vast economic inequality, which according to Nobel Prize-winning economist Joseph Stiglitz (a proud son of Gary, Indiana), “is due to manipulation of the financial system, enabled by changes in the rules that have been bought and paid for by the financial industry itself—one of its best investments ever.”`The only question left, one supposes, is what else has been bought; the state of academia these days, it appears, suggests that academics can’t even see the Rhine, much less point the way to a bridge across.

Bend Sinister

The rebs say that I am a traitor to my country. Why tis this[?] [B]ecause I am for a majority ruling, and for keeping the power in the people[?]
—Jesse Dobbins
Yadkin County, North Carolina
Federal pension application
Adjutant General’s Office
United States Department of War
3 July 1883.

Golf and (the theory of) capitalism were born in the same small country (Scotland) at the same historical moment, but while golf is entwined within the corporate world these days there’s actually a profound difference between the two: for capitalism everything is relative, but the value of a golf shot is absolute. Every shot is strictly as valuable as every other. The difference can be found in the concept of arbitrage—which conventional dictionaries define as taking advantage of a price difference between two markets. It’s at the heart of the financial kind of capitalism we live with these days—it’s why everything is relative under the regime of capitalism—but it’s completely antithetical to golf: you can’t trade golf shots. Still, the concept of arbitrage does explain one thing about golf: how a golf club in South Carolina, in the Low Country—the angry furnace of the Confederacy—could come to be composed of Northern financial types and be named “Secession,” in a manner that suggested its members believed, if only half-jokingly, that the firebrands of 1860 might have not been all wrong.

That, however, gets ahead of starting another golf tournament on the tenth tee. Historically, as some readers may remember, I haven’t done well starting on the tenth hole. To recap: twice I’ve started loops for professional golfers in tournaments on the tenth tee, and each time my pro has blown the first shot of the day out of bounds. So when I saw where we were starting at Oldfield Country Club just outside of Hilton Head in South Carolina, site of an eGolf tournament, my stomach dropped as if I were driving over one of the arched bridges across the housing development’s canals.

Both of those tenth holes were also, coincidentally or not, dog-leg rights; holes that begin at the tee, or upper left so to speak, and move towards the green in a more-or-less curved arc that ends, figuratively, on the lower right. In heraldry, a stripe in such a fashion is called a “bend sinister”: as Vladimir Nabokov put it in explaining the title of his novel by that name, “a bar drawn from the upper left to the lower right on a coat of arms.” My player was, naturally, assigned to start at the tenth tee. My history with such starts went unmentioned.

Superstitious nonsense aside, however, there’s likely reasons why my pros should have had a hard time of a dog-leg right. Very often on a dogleg right trees close off the right side quickly: there’s no room on the right to start the ball there in order to draw it back onto the fairway; which is to say, golfers who draw the ball are at a disadvantage. As this is the typical flight of your better player—while it might be so that the very longest players very often play a “power fade”—it’s perhaps not accidental that marginal players (the only type I, as an unproven commodity, might hope to obtain) ought to be drawers of the ball.

Had I known what I found out later, I might have been more anxious: my golfer had “scrapped … Operation Left to Right”—a project designed to enable him to hit a fade on command—all the way back in 2011, as detailed in a series of Golf Channel articles about him and his struggles in golf’s minor leagues. (“The Minors” golfchannel.com) His favorite ball shape was a draw, a right-to-left shot, which is just about the worst kind of shot you can have on a dogleg-right hole. The tenth at Oldfield had, of course, just that kind of shape.

Already, the sky was threatening, and the air had a chill to it: the kind of chill that can cause the muscles in your hand to be less supple, which can make it just that much harder to “release” the clubhead—which can cause a slice, a left-to-right movement of the ball. Later on my player actually would lose several tee shots to the right, all of them push-fades, including a tough-to-take water ball on the twelfth (our third) hole, a drivable par four.
Eventually the rain would become so bad that the next day the final round would be canceled, which left me at loose ends.

Up past Beaufort there’s a golf club called Secession—a reference to South Carolina’s pride of place with regard to the events leading up to the Civil War: it was the first state to secede, in late December of 1860, and actually helped persuade the other Southern states to secede with it by sending encouraging emissaries to those states. Yet while that name might appear deeply Southern, the membership is probably anything but: Secession, the golf club, is an extremely private course that has become what Augusta began as: a club for the financial guys of New York and Chicago to go to and gamble large sums on golf. Or, to put it another way, the spiritual descendants of the guys who financed Abraham Lincoln’s war.

You might think, of course, that such a place would be somewhat affected by the events of the past five years or so: in fact not, as on the day I stopped in every tee box seemed filled with foursomes, with quite a few filled by loopers carrying doubles. Perhaps I should have known better, since as Chris Lehmann at The Baffler has noted, the “top 1 percent of income earners have taken in fully 93 percent of the economic gains since the Great Recession.” In any case, my errand was unsuccessful: I found out, essentially, that I would need some kind of clout. So, rather than finding my way back directly, I spent a pleasant afternoon in Beaufort. While there, I learned the story of one Robert Smalls, namesake of a number of the town’s landmarks.

“I thought the Planter,” said Robert Smalls when he reached the deck of the USS Onward outside of Charleston Harbor in the late spring of 1862, “might be of some use to Uncle Abe.” Smalls, the pilot, had, along with his crew, stolen the Confederate ship Planter right out from under the Confederate guns by mimicking the Planter’s captain—Smalls knew what the usual signals to leave the harbor were, and by the half-light of dawn he looked sufficiently enough like that officer to secure permission from the sentries at Sumter. (He also knew enough to avoid the minefields, since he’d helped to lay them.) Upon reaching the Union blockade ships on the open Atlantic, Smalls surrendered his vessel to the United States officer in command.

After the war—and a number of rather exciting exploits—Smalls came back to Beaufort, where he bought his former master’s house—a man named McKee—with the bounty money he got for stealing the Planter, and got elected to both the South Carolina House of Representatives and the South Carolina Senate, founding the Republican Party in South Carolina along the way. In office he wrote legislation that provided for South Carolina to have the first statewide public school system in the history of the United States, and then he was elected to the United States House of Representatives, where he became the last Republican congressman from his district until 2010.

Historical tourism in Beaufort thusly means confronting the fact that the entire of the Lowcountry, as it’s called down here, was the center of secessionism. That’s in part why, in a lot of South Carolina, the war ended much earlier than in most of the South, because the Union invaded by sea in late 1861: 80 years before Normandy, in a fleet whose size would not be rivaled until after Pearl Harbor. That’s also why, as the British owner of a bar in the town I’m staying in, Bluffton, notes, the first thing the Yankees did when they arrived in Bluffton was burn in down. It was in order to make a statement similar to the larger point Sherman would later make during his celebrated visit to Atlanta.

The reason for such vindictiveness was because the slaveowners of the Lowcountry were at what their longtime Senator, John Calhoun, had long before called the “furthest outpost” of slavery’s empire. They not only wanted to continue slavery, they wanted to expand its reach—it’s the moral, in fact, of the curious tale of the yacht Wanderer, funded by a South Carolinian. It’s one of those incidents that happened just before the war, one of those incidents whose meaning would only become clear after the passage of time—and Sherman.

The Wanderer was built in 1857 on Long Island, New York, as a pleasure yacht. Her first owner, Col. John Johnson, sailed her down the Atlantic coast to New Orleans, then sailed her back to New York where a William Corrie, of Charleston, South Carolina, bought her. Corrie made some odd alterations to the ship—adding, for instance, a 15,000 gallon water tank. The work attracted the attention of federal officers aboard the steam revenue cutter USS Harriet Lane, who seized the ship when she attempted to leave New York harbor on 9 June 1858—as a suspected slave ship. But there was no other evidence of the intentions of her owner other than the basic alterations, and so the Wanderer was released. She arrived in Charleston on 25 June, completed her fitting out as a slave ship and, after a stop in Port of Spain, Trinidad, sailed for the Congo on 27 July. The Wanderer returned to the United States on 28 November, at Jekyll Island in Georgia, still in the Lowcountry.

The ship bore a human cargo.

Why, though, would William Corrie—and his partners, including the prominent Savannah businessman Charles Lamar, a member of a family that “included the second president of the Republic of Texas, a U.S. Supreme Court justice, and U.S. Secretary of the Treasury Howell Cobb”—have taken so desperate a measure as to have attempted to smuggle slaves into the United States? The slave trade had been banned in the United States since 1808, as per the United States Constitution, which is to say that importing human beings for the purpose of slavery was a federal crime. The punishment was death by hanging.

Ultimately, Corrie and his partners evaded conviction—there were three trials, all held in Savannah, all of which ended with a Savannah jury refusing to convict their local grandees. Oncoming events would, to be sure, soon make the whole episode beside the point. Still, Corrie and Lamar could not have known that, and on the whole the desperate crime seems rather a long chance to take. But the syndicate, led by Lamar, had two motives: one economic, and the other ideological.

The first motive was grasped by Thomas Jefferson, of all people, as early as 1792. Jefferson memorialized his thought, according to the Smithsonian magazine, “in a barely legible, scribbled note in the middle of a page, enclosed in brackets.” The earth-shaking, terrible thought was this: “he was making a 4 percent profit every year on the birth of black children.” In other words, like the land which his slaves worked, every year brought an increase to the value of Jefferson’s human capital. The value of slaves would, with time, become almost incredible: “In 1860,” historian David Brion Davis has noted, “the value of Southern slaves was about three times the amount invested in manufacturing or railroads nationwide.” And that value was only increased by the ban on the slave trade.

First, then, the voyage of the Wanderer was an act of economic arbitrage, which sought to exploit the price difference between slaves in Africa and those in the United States. But it was also an act of provocation—much like John Brown’s raid on Harper’s Ferry less than a year after the Wanderer landed in Georgia. Like the more celebrated case, the sailing of the Wanderer was meant to demonstrate that slave smuggling could be done—it was meant to inspire further acts of resistance to the Slave Importation Act.

Lamar was after all a Southern “firebrand,” common in the Lowcountry and represented in print by the Charleston Mercury. The firebrands advocated resuming the African slave trade: essentially, the members of this group believed that government shouldn’t interfere with the “natural” process of the market. Southerners like Lamar and Corrie, thusly, were the ancestors to those who today believe that, in the words of Italian sociologist Marco d’Eramo, “things would surely improve if only we left them to the free play of market forces.”
The voyage of the Wanderer was, in that sense, meant to demonstrate the thesis that, as Thomas Frank observed about how the ideological descendants of these forebears put it, that “it is the nature of government enterprises to fail.” The mission of the slave ship, that is, could be viewed as on a par with what Frank calls conservative cautions “against bringing top-notch talent into government service” or piling up “an Everest of debt in order to force the government into crisis.” The notion that the yacht’s trip was wholly contrived must have been lost on the Wanderer’s sponsors.

Surely, then, it isn’t difficult to explain the reasoning behind the appeal of a certain kind of South Carolinian thought and that of wealthy people today. What’s interesting about the whole episode, at least from today’s standpoint, is how it was ultimately defeated: by what, at least from one perspective, appears to be another case of arbitrage. In this case, the arbitrageur was named Abraham Lincoln, and he laid out what he was going to arbitrage long before the voyage of the Wanderer. It was in a speech in Peoria in the autumn of 1854, the speech that marked Lincoln’s return to politics after his defeat in the late 1840s after his opposition to the Mexican War. In that speech, Lincoln laid the groundwork for the defeat of slavery by describing how slavery had artificially interfered with a market—the one whose currency is votes.

The crucial passage of the Peoria speech begins when Lincoln begins to compare two states: South Carolina being one, likely not so coincidentally, and Maine being the other. Both states, Lincoln observes, are equally represented in Congress: “South Carolina has six representatives, and so has Maine; South Carolina has eight presidential electors, and so has Maine.” “Thus in the control of the government,” Lincoln concludes, “the two States are equals precisely.” But, Lincoln goes on to note, observe the numbers of their free people: “Maine has 581,813—while South Carolina has 274,567.” Somehow, then, the Southern voter “is more than double of any one of us in this crowd” in terms of control of the federal government: “it is an absolute truth, without an exception,” Lincoln said, “that there is no voter in any slave State, but who has more legal power in the government than any voter in any free State.” There was, in sum, a discrepancy in value—or what economists might call an “inefficiency.”

The reason for that discrepancy was, as Lincoln also observed, “in the Constitution”—by which he referred to what’s become known as the “Three-Fifths Compromise,” or Article One, Section 2, Paragraph 3: “Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States … according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons … [and] three fifths of all other Persons.” By this means, Southern states received representation in the federal government in excess of the number of their free inhabitants: in addition to the increase in wealth obtained by the reproduction of their slaves, then, slaveowners also benefitted politically.

In an article for the New York Times’ series Disunion (“The Census of Doom”), which is blogging the Civil War as it happened, Adam Goodheart observes that over the decade between the 1850 United States Census, however, as and the 1860 edition of same, the population of the North had exploded by 41 percent, while that of the South had only grown by 27 percent. (By comparison, Goodheart points out, between 2000 and 2010 the United States population grew by just 9.7 percent.) To take one state as an example, in less than 25 years one Northern state—Wisconsin—had grown by nearly 6400 (sic) percent. Wisconsin would, of course, go heavily for Lincoln in the presidential election—Lincoln would be the first president ever elected without the support of a single Southern state. (He wasn’t even on the ballot in most.) One Northern newspaper editor, Goodheart notes, smugly observed that “The difference in the relative standing of the slave states and the free, between 1850 and 1860, inevitably shows where the future greatness of our country is to be.” Lincoln’s election confirmed the fact that the political power held by the Southern states since the nation’s founding, with the help of an electoral concession, had been broken by a wash of new Northern voters.

If read in that light, then, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Amendments to the Constitution, which ended both slavery and the Three Fifths Clause, could be understood as a kind of price correction: the two amendments effectively ended the premium that the Constitution had until then placed on Southern votes. Lincoln becomes a version of Brad Pitt’s character in the movie of Michael Lewis’ most famous book—Billy Beane in Moneyball. Just as Billy Beane saw—or was persuaded to see—that batting average was overvalued and on-base percentage was undervalued, thus creating an arbitrage possibility for players who walked a lot, Lincoln saw that Southern votes were too highly valued and Northern ones too undervalued, and that (sooner or later) the two had to converge towards what economists would call “fundamental value.”

That concept is something that golf teaches well. In golf, there are no differences in value to exploit: each shot has just the same fundamental value. On our first tee that day, which was the tenth hole at Oldfield Country Club, my golfer actually didn’t blow his first shot out-of-bounds—though I had fully expected that to happen. He did come pretty close though: it flew directly into the trees, a slicing, left-to-right block. I took off after everyone had teed off: clearly the old guy who was marshaling the hole wasn’t going to be of much help. But I found the ball easily enough, and my player pitched out and ended up making a great par save. The punch-out shot from the trees counted just the same as an approach shot might have, or as a second putt.

Understanding that notion of fundamental value taught by golf—among other possible human acts—allows the further understanding that the “price correction” undertaken by Lincoln wasn’t simply a one-time act: the value of an American vote still, today, varies across the nation. According to the organization FairVote, as of 2003 a vote in Wyoming was more than three times more valuable than, say, my vote as a resident of the state of Illinois. Even today—as the Senate’s own website notes—“senators from the twenty-six smallest states, who (according to the 2000 census) represent 17.8% of the nation’s population, constitute a majority of the Senate.” It’s a fact that the men of the Secession Golf Club might just as well people ignored—because it just may be why 93 percent of the wealth since the Great Recession has gone to the wealthy.

To take a small example of how the two points might be connected, a recent New Yorker piece has pointed out that “in the fifth year of his Presidency, Obama has failed to place even a single judge on the D.C. Circuit, considered the second most important court in the nation” because the Senate has refused to confirm any of his nominees. This despite the fact that there are now four vacancies out of eleven seats. Why? Because the Senate’s rules allow a minority of Senators—or even just one, in the case of what’s known as the “hold”—to interfere with the will of the majority: an advantage Republican senators have not hesitated to seize.

Nearly twenty years after the publication of Bend Sinister, Nabokov chose to write an introduction in which he endeavored to explain the novel’s name. “This choice of title,” he wrote, “was an attempt to suggest an outline broken by refraction, a distortion in the mirror of being, a wrong turn taken by life, a sinistral and sinister world.” If there are wrong turns, of course, that would suggest that there are right ones; if there are “distortions,” then there are clarities: that is, there is an order to which events will (eventually, sooner or later) return. It’s a suggestion that is not fashionable these days: Nabokov himself isn’t read much today for his own beliefs so much as for the confirmation his novels can provide for one or another thesis. But if he is right—if golf’s belief in “fundamental value” is right—then there must necessarily come some correction to this ongoing problem of the value of a vote.

The location of the new Fort Sumter, however, remains unknown.