Abstract

In seventeen secular sermons, composed in a style at once grave, elegant, and concise, Ignatieff offers us his digest of the wisdom—the wisdom of consolation—that he has sought to find in writings as old as the book of Job and as recent as some of the letters of Václav Havel. Concluding the book, Ignatieff says of the authors he has surveyed that the “consolation they offer, it seems to me, lies in their example, in their courage and lucidity, and in their determination to leave something behind that might console us.” Reduced to its basic argumentative structure, then, the book is about the ways in which the desire to find consolation could itself be consoling.This self-reinforcing rhetorical maneuver, not wholly reassuring, is undermined by what some of the selected writers actually believed. Michel de Montaigne, for instance, came in his later years to think that, provided we have the consciousness of simply being alive, “we would have no need for consolation at all.” David Hume, noting the debilities of reason and seeing much of the world as beyond the grasp of human understanding, concluded that “we should abandon the ground of consolation altogether.” Karl Marx, his mind fixed on a post-revolutionary world, envisioned a “utopia beyond the need for consolation.” Abraham Lincoln, whom Ignatieff presents in the most saintly and tragic of colors, had “no secure footing in faith,” but turned to biblical traditions calling for us “to forswear vengeance and judgment.” And what is consoling about such traditions? “That we are not condemned to live imprisoned in the rhetoric, foolishness, and mendacity of the present.” But that is where Lincoln lived, inconsolably, and where we too live.Ignatieff begins his book, and his most complex of sermons, with Job. Rendered truly miserable by God—his crops and animals destroyed, his family annihilated, his body burning with pain—Job never wavers in his faith. The God who had made him suffer is the God in whom Job places all his trust. Despite advice from friends to confess his wrongs, Job admits of nothing. He wants only to understand, and from God himself, why he suffers. The answer he gets is that he has no right to ask, for to ask is to challenge the almighty authority of God. Ignatieff writes that “God demands absolute obedience as the condition of consolation,” but the text nowhere has God offering consolation of any kind on any terms to Job. His lands and animals are returned to him and he is given a new family, but his inquiries to God go unanswered. Negotiation is out of the question. Compensated, he is not consoled.Wherever he looks—and he looks far and wide in his reading—Ignatieff wants to find consolation. But when in this book he comes to the heroic figure of Primo Levi, who saw with utmost clarity the power of humankind to do evil, Ignatieff at last acknowledges the elusiveness of consolation: “History has no consolations to offer because it never ends and its meaning is never settled.” Nonetheless, he goes on to say, of the writers he has presented, that “we should keep faith with them and defend the truths they bequeathed to us.” Alas, that legacy leads us again and again to see, despite Ignatieff's valiant efforts, just how much of life is inconsolable.