Eichmann in Jerusalem

I never did manage to love Arendt, and this book pretty much exemplifies why. You have to be a certain type of person to go to this trial, for this man, and to write a book like this. The best thing I can say about it is that via the medium of pretentious snobbery, Arendt intended to dehumanize Eichmann to a blank space, a cliche without substance or consequence, only a person in the physical sense. I will even leave space for the possibility this was, for Arendt, the worst condemnation there was. And yet, it’s not, because Eichmann was not banal and he was not unthinking or without consequence. He was perfectly adapted to his enviroment, comfortable with it, enjoyed exercising his preferred and curated flavor of maniacal evil. There is nothing banal about his work. The fact he was particular how he wanted to kill millions does not make him dull or inconsequential. And the implication that the people he killed would have died just the same without him—made often and without reserve—is a grotesque self report on Arendt. With that said, she is a fantastic writer. I will give her that easily. If you read it as a strange novel that offers uncomfortable insight into the mindset of the fictional journalist, it’s a great read.