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ABSTRACT: After the terror attacks of September 11, 2001, it took the United States almost two years to forfeit the sympathy of the world. After the terror attacks of October 7 of last year, Israel, a more nimble superpower, accomplished the same feat in just a few days. Because the atrocities committed by Hamas have been eclipsed by the horrors that Israel has brought down on the people of Gaza, a consideration of the way the U.S. left responded to Hamas's attacks might seem to be of nothing more than historical interest. But some of the questions raised by our responses should still be of concern to those who want to build a better left.

ABSTRACT: After the terror attacks of September 11, 2001, it took the United States almost two years to forfeit the sympathy of the world. After the terror attacks of October 7 of last year, Israel, a more nimble superpower, accomplished the same feat in just a few days. Because the atrocities committed by Hamas have been eclipsed by the horrors that Israel has brought down on the people of Gaza, a consideration of the way the U.S. left responded to Hamas's attacks might seem to be of nothing more than historical interest. But some of the questions raised by our responses should still be of concern to those who want to build a better left.

When Irving Howe died suddenly, in May 1993, no one was sure whether Dissent would keep going. The magazine's young-ish editors and writers wanted to see it continue, but we all felt that it would thrive only if Michael Walzer stepped in as Irving's successor. And none of us knew whether Michael wanted to do that. With his reserve, his inwardness, his courtly distance, Michael wasn't someone whom the younger editors knew well. He was the Greta Garbo of Dissent. Although he formally served as Irving's co-editor and reliably attended Dissent's quarterly editorial board meetings, he played little role in the day-to-day life of the magazine.

When Irving Howe died suddenly, in May 1993, no one was sure whether Dissent would keep going. The magazine's young-ish editors and writers wanted to see it continue, but we all felt that it would thrive only if Michael Walzer stepped in as Irving's successor. And none of us knew whether Michael wanted to do that. As I write this, it occurs to me that if I had known him better, I wouldn't have been surprised that he stepped in so quickly to make sure that Dissent kept going. Maybe the main thing I learned about Michael over the years is that he is a man who knows what he values, and who knows that anything we cherish needs to be nurtured with all the intelligence and patience and love that we can muster -- whether it be something adorable, like a young grandchild; or something abstract, like the principle of reasoned argument; or something venerable yet fragile, like a little magazine that does its best, through decade after inhospitable decade, to keep the idea of democratic socialism alive. Adapted from the source document.

In Henry James's short story "The Middle Years," an ailing writer is troubled by the conviction that only now, after many books, has he begun to find his true voice. All the work he's done so far has been nothing more than a sort of apprenticeship, in preparation for the truly great work that he'll be able to do if only he is granted more time. In the story's last pages, the writer comes to accept the fact that he's dying. He won't get more time. The magnificent works that he might have written will never be written. What he has done already is all he'll ever do. The story isn't depressing, because in his last days, the writer meets an admirer, a young doctor who has read all of his books with an intelligent appreciation. The young man's devotion, a devotion that verges on the idolatrous, helps the writer understand that his life hasn't been in vain. "The thing is to touch someone, to make someone care," the writer says to his admirer. "You happen to be crazy, of course, but that doesn't affect the general law." Near the end of the story, the writer sums up what he's learned: "A second chance! That's the delusion. There never was to be but one. We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art."

Near the end of Henry James's short story "The Middle Years," the writer sums up what he's learned: "A second chance! That's the delusion. There never was to be but one. We work in the dark -- we do what we can -- we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art." The entire passage has become well known, the last phrase especially so: "the madness of art." The phrase has been taken to be a summation of everything that's glorious about the artist's life. I think, though, that if we take another look at the passage, we'll find that for James, or at any rate his hero, Dencombe, it had the opposite meaning. Adapted from the source document.