You have /5 articles left.
Sign up for a free account or log in.
In Texas, football is a collision sport. Politics is a blood sport.
The same is true in Washington.
Politics is, in part, theater, and we’ve just witnessed a great tragedy play out before our eyes. The most effective Democratic president since Lyndon Baines Johnson has been cast aside—and, despite today’s fulsome praise, is likely to be remembered, in Adam Gopnik’s sobering words, as doddering, decrepit, weak and infirm.
Of course, President Biden’s withdrawal from the race was inevitable. His physical decline was too visible to be disguised or ignored any longer.
Those who forced him to abandon his campaign will now hail him to the sky. Still, it must be obvious to the now lame-duck leader that those who call him an old and trusted friend have long disrespected and underestimated him, used him when it suited their convenience and ultimately betrayed him, never truly appreciating his political skills, mature judgment or the breadth of his accomplishments, including his remarkable ability to prevent a fractious party from splintering.
In the end, the only ones who stood by him were the party’s most senior figure, Bernie Sanders, at 82 even older than President Biden, and its youngest and most radical members, like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.
Recent events remind us of certain brutal truths: That no one, no matter how powerful, can escape the ravages of aging. That, ultimately, political parties, which are no more than election-winning machines designed to acquire or cling to power, are utterly unsentimental. That’s certainly true of the Democratic Party, which has always been willing to cast aside losers without a second thought. Those who failed—Jimmy Carter, Michael Dukakis, Al Gore, John Kerry, Hillary Clinton—are disdained or quickly forgotten. They become unpersons.
If we are to appreciate the tragic dimensions of what has happened to Joe Biden, we must look beyond blog postings and newspaper columns to great works of literature. From novels, plays and poetry we learn about the inevitability and indignities of aging, the poignant struggle to maintain dignity in the face of obsolescence, and the heartbreak that accompanies the ceding of authority. We also learn about betrayal and deceit and the volatile nature and precariousness of power.
News accounts can provide a factual rendering of Joe Biden’s fall from grace, but only through literature that we can truly understand the emotional weight and the human dimensions of what has taken place before our eyes.
From these literary sources we can begin to grasp the loneliness, emotional isolation, erosion of authority and sense of betrayal that President Biden must have experienced. We can also begin to empathize with those who felt impelled to force him to end his campaign lest the result be a Republican trifecta.
These works also remind us that the true measure of a leader’s legacy is not just in their achievements but also the wisdom and humanity they exhibit, even in their decline.
A few commentators have, in fact, cited various literary works to help their readers understand what has transpired. There have been a few striking references to Shakespeare. Maureen Dowd of The New York Times has referred to the theme of betrayal in Julius Caesar and The New Yorker’s Adam Gopnik to the physical, psychological and social dimensions of growing old in King Lear.
The theme of betrayal is, of course, central to Julius Caesar’s narrative. The most significant act of betrayal is Brutus’s decision to join the conspiracy to assassinate Caesar. Despite his close friendship with Caesar, Brutus is persuaded that killing Caesar is necessary for the good of Rome. This act of betrayal is presented as a conflict between personal loyalty and civic duty. Brutus’s internal struggle is evident when he says, “Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.”
Cassius, the instigator of the conspiracy, has manipulated Brutus by appealing to his sense of honor and the threat of Caesar’s potential tyranny. Cassius’s betrayal is rooted in jealousy and political ambition.
These acts of betrayal are not simply political; they’re also deeply personal. Caesar’s famous line—“Et tu, Brute?”—captures Caesar’s shock and pain at seeing Brutus among his assassins. This moment symbolizes the ultimate betrayal by a trusted friend. No doubt, President Biden feels betrayed by those he served. Yes, by Barack Obama and his friend Nancy Pelosi.
The conspirators justify Caesar’s assassination as a pre-emptive strike to prevent him from becoming a tyrant. They believe they are avenging the potential future suffering of Rome under Caesar’s rule, complicating the notion of betrayal by presenting it as an act to prevent greater harm.
Following Caesar’s assassination, Mark Antony seeks revenge against the conspirators. In his eulogy, Antony incites the Roman populace against Brutus and the other assassins by underscoring Caesar’s virtues and the treachery of his murderers. His repetition of “Brutus is an honourable man” is heavily laced with irony, turning the public against the conspirators.
The weight of betrayal and the quest for revenge take a significant toll on Brutus. As he is haunted by guilt and the moral ambiguity of his actions, his eventual suicide reflects his realization of the tragic consequences of his betrayal.
King Lear, in turn, offers some of literature’s most profound reflections on aging and the vulnerability of the elderly to emotional manipulation, psychological distress, guilt and regret, and the loss of authority and identity. Stripped of his kingly authority, Lear grapples with feelings of powerlessness and insignificance, poignantly expressed in his exclamation “Who is it that can tell me who I am?”
Offering little in the way of redemption or cosmic justice, the play ends with a somber recognition of the inevitability, inexorable nature and the harsh realities of aging. As is often said, aging ain’t for sissies.
Other works, some literary, some more philosophical, help us appreciate the gravity of what we are witnessing—the pain of losing one’s place and purpose.
There’s Dylan Thomas’s poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” which captures the emotional devastation associated with aging and the loss of vitality.
Or Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, which examines the personal heartbreak of losing status, respect, influence and power as well as the themes of misplaced pride and the futility of resistance to change.
Or Machiavelli’s The Prince, with its timeless insights into the maintenance and loss of power, emphasizing the importance of pragmatism and manipulation and the unpredictable nature of political fortune.
Or Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, which describes the despair and sense of obsolescence felt by its protagonist, who feels cast aside by a society that values youth and tangible success. “I am not a dime a dozen! I am Willy Loman,” he rages.
Or Gabriel García Márquez’s The Autumn of the Patriarch, a novel that vividly captures the frailty and physical deterioration, the emotional isolation, and the erosion of authority that inevitably accompany aging, as well as mental decline and the intrusive, inescapable, haunting memories, regrets and resentments of the past.
Or Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men, which reflects on the challenges faced by the elderly in adapting to a world that seems to have moved past them. The book’s money quote: “You can’t stop what’s comin’. It ain’t all waitin’ on you. That’s vanity.”
In a recent blog posting, Tyler Austin Harper, a literary scholar at Bates College, writes that “one of the benefits of a humanities education is that it reveals that the events and crises that you may be tempted to treat as singular modern phenomena are in fact timeworn human problems, like aging gracefully, that admit of no permanent solution.”
We study the humanities for many reasons, but among the most important is to appreciate the intricate tapestry of human life. Literature allows us to move beyond the mere presentation of facts and lets us explore the emotional and ethical struggles, the personal ambitions, and the rivalries and jealousies that shape human actions, whether in our personal, family or work lives or the realm of politics and leadership.
By exploring the emotional, psychological and ethical dimensions of human actions, literature helps us understand the deeper motivations behind ambition, the complexities of power and the struggles we face as we try to reconcile ourselves to the inevitabilities of aging.
One of the profound benefits of a humanities education is its ability to contextualize contemporary events within the broader spectrum of human history and experience. This perspective helps reveal that many issues we face today are not new but rather enduring human challenges. By studying history, literature and philosophy, we gain an appreciation for the continuities in human experience. We learn that many contemporary issues are not unique to the present but have been faced and grappled with by countless generations.
By allowing us to see the world from different perspectives, literature and history promote empathy and help us better understand the motivations and struggles of others, both past and present. Much as foreign affairs inevitably offer lessons in geography, political events can also serve as learning experiences, revealing the ethical dilemmas and moral questions we encounter in our lives and forcing us to think about duty and the good life.
Will Joe Biden be remembered as a latter day Cincinnatus or Washington, an elder statesman who dutifully relinquished power to serve a greater good? As a betrayed leader whose supposed friends abandoned him in his time of need? Or as a tottering, incapacitated figure manipulated by his self-serving staff, who did their best to hide from the public unsettling truths? Only time will tell.
But this I can say: This is indeed a story worthy of Shakespeare.
