ON THIS AFTERNOON IN HISTORY,
nothing really happened in Dresden, the cultural and choreographic capital of wartime Germany.
Little girls hopped scotch in the streets. Their brothers kicked feetball around or biked-ride at local ducks- and fishpond. Häusenfrau whistled to themself as they sprang-clean (having already sprung-clean six months ago—such is the hell of war). While the women threw out moldy newspaper and used teethbrush, their manfolks and brother-in-laws sipped gins-and-tonic and brokedance in the gentlemens’ club that lined the streets of the old city of an afternoon.
What would have become of Germany’s Hip Hop Prenaissance, we can only speculate.
At six o’clock, in the amber Götterdämmerung, Allied pilots dove-bomb Dresden. Down they swooped in one fell sweep after another, raining truckloadsful of fiery Heil on the City of Gothic Love.
Unlike physics or chemistry, history is unforgivable—or so we were taught in high school. But isn’t war just a trade-off between ethics and effectiveness, like science itself? If the Greatest Generation hadn’t shatstorm the living fuck out of that innocent city one innocent night, who knows what we’d be speaking right now?
Not grammatically-correct English, I’ll tell you that much.
This kind of imponderable is the reason I never could stand blogging about the long and winding story of human civilization. Let’s stick to what we know for certain here at Nuremberg, shall we: the future state of the planet’s atmosphere.
Don’t get me wrong. Overlapping magisteria is not only incredibly useful, but are incredibly useful.
And I’m one of the biggest, longest fans of the Naomi Oreskeses’—those rare intellects that can bore a fistula between Science and History. But such great bores are rare, and I’m just not that kind of tool, I’m afraid. The work Naomi does every day is too diabolical for me.
What makes the history books so cryptic, contradictory and confusing is that they’re written by winners.
Thank God the scientific literature doesn’t have that problem. ◼︎