How such love feeds on hatred and fear
Hermann Hesse has a short tale—almost a parable—called Augustus. That is the name of its main character. The hero’s mother receives permission from a “kind magician,” who is also the child’s godfather, to express her single greatest wish for her son—a wish that, as the “miracle worker” promises, will certainly come true. The mother hesitates for a long time between wealth, power, and fame. But in the end, leaning over the cradle, she whispers into her baby’s ear: “I want everyone to love you.”
It seems like a wonderful wish—how happy must the person be whom everyone loves. But in reality, it becomes a great misfortune for Augustus. He grows up in an atmosphere of universal adoration, imagines himself the center of the world, and—since everything is forgiven to him—turns into a cruel, selfish fraud. Yes, everyone loves him, and precisely for that reason he despises everyone and hurts everyone around him. Love becomes a source of power for Augustus, because he knows that whatever he does, people will forgive and justify him.
The story was written in 1913, when the disasters that would soon strike Hesse’s homeland were still ahead. Yet the sensitive artist probably sensed something in advance.
Read also
Hesse perceived the dangers of “love” as an artist. Later, however, political philosophers—above all Erich Fromm and Hannah Arendt—described the trap into which a “loving people” can fall. (A “trap of glory,” as our compatriots had already titled a work back in the 18th century.)
In such cases, the pursuit of love follows a particular path—or, more accurately, a particular descent:
“Since I am the only one who truly loves the people—or, in Armenian political language, the only one who ‘cares about this people,’ who would even remove a thorn from their finger—then the people must love me.”
The next step is this:
“Since I received power thanks to the people’s love, then anyone who disagrees with me on any issue is not simply my opponent but an enemy of the people—effectively a criminal and a traitor.”
From this perspective, dividing society into “the people” and “the enemies of the people” appears entirely justified. And so do pressures on the courts, parliament, the opposition, and the media.
Just as in Hesse’s tale, the “loving people” forgive their leader everything. They idolize him, justify his—putting it mildly—unpleasant actions, and effectively ignore the contempt he shows toward them. At the same time, they fear him to some degree, striving to present themselves as part of “the people,” rather than risk being labeled “an enemy of the people.”
In short, the decisive element in this kind of “political love” is the image of the enemy, because that love constantly needs to be fed with hatred. The targets, however, may change. That is precisely what has happened in Armenia. Earlier, the enemies were the “former authorities” and the “looters,” supposedly eager to return and plunder again. Now the enemies are the Kremlin and its “agents,” who allegedly want to turn Armenia into a Russian province and drag the country into a new war. Thus, the “enemy” is not really a specific person or group—it is more like a function.
This “love”—the kind we are talking about here—and fear always walk hand in hand. When the spell of that “love” fades, the fear fades as well.
In Hesse’s tale, Augustus eventually asks his godfather to remove the spell and teach him how to love people himself. After that, he encounters hatred, hardship, and humiliation. But at the same time, that is when he truly begins to live.
Aram ABRAHAMYAN
