Explain.
HHhH di Binet e` praticamente un biografia di Heidrich molto leggera.
Ti ringrazio, e ringrazio anche ThinkInk.
Ho letto "La letteratura e il male" di Bataille, davvero interessante.
Magari sono un Neonazista che vuole approfondire certe tematiche, chissà.
lui resta un aggressivo pallone gonfiato anche se tu sei un neonazista 
Altra domanda random, avete mai letto qualcosa di Osho? Non che mi interessi leggere ciò che ha scritto, ma è una curiosità.
Grazie, hai confermato i miei sospetti
.
Letto Disrupted, mi avevate messo curiosita. E' allucinante. Tanto per l'ambiente di lavoro da sciroccati, quanto per il meccanismo dei VC che si arricchiscono sfruttando gli impiegati come fossero carta igienica, tanto vien dato loro il contentino con dolciumi e birra gratis. I commenti di Lyons poi sono spettacolari 
Benioff e' uno di quei caratteristici figli di puttana prodotti da quel particolare ambiente, gente che ha il coraggio di pubblicare libri con il titolo "Compassionate capitalism: how corporations can make doing good an integral part of doing well", un Weinstein della silicon valley praticamente. Basta guardare una sua foto per capire che e' un maiale
In her book Being Wrong, author Kathryn Schulz spends a few key pages on the concept of “naïve realism.” Schulz notes that while there are few conscious proponents of naïve realism, “that doesn’t mean there are no naïve realists.” I would go a step further than Schulz; I suspect most conventionally intelligent people are naïve realists, and I think it might be the defining intellectual quality of this era. The straightforward definition of naïve realism doesn’t seem that outlandish: It’s a theory that suggests the world is exactly as it appears. Obviously, this viewpoint creates a lot of opportunity for colossal wrongness (e.g., “The sun appears to move across the sky, so the sun must be orbiting Earth”). But my personal characterization of naïve realism is wider and more insidious. I think it operates as the manifestation of two ingrained beliefs:
“When considering any question, I must be rational and logical, to the point of dismissing any unverifiable data as preposterous,” and
“When considering any question, I’m going to assume that the information we currently have is all the information that will ever be available.”
Here’s an extreme example: the possibility of life after death. When considered rationally, there is no justification for believing that anything happens to anyone upon the moment of his or her death. There is no reasonable counter to the prospect of nothingness. Any anecdotal story about “floating toward a white light” or Shirley MacLaine’s past life on Atlantis or the details in Heaven Is for Real are automatically (and justifiably) dismissed by any secular intellectual. Yet this wholly logical position discounts the overwhelming likelihood that we currently don’t know something critical about the experience of life, much less the ultimate conclusion to that experience. There are so many things we don’t know about energy, or the way energy is transferred, or why energy (which can’t be created or destroyed) exists at all. We can’t truly conceive the conditions of a multidimensional reality, even though we’re (probably) already living inside one. We have a limited understanding of consciousness. We have a limited understanding of time, and of the perception of time, and of the possibility that all time is happening at once. So while it seems unrealistic to seriously consider the prospect of life after death, it seems equally naïve to assume that our contemporary understanding of this phenomenon is remotely complete. We have no idea what we don’t know, or what we’ll eventually learn, or what might be true despite our perpetual inability to comprehend what that truth is.
It’s impossible to understand the world of today until today has become tomorrow.
This is no brilliant insight, and only a fool would disagree. But it’s remarkable how habitually this truth is ignored. We constantly pretend our perception of the present day will not seem ludicrous in retrospect, simply because there doesn’t appear to be any other option. Yet there is another option, and the option is this: We must start from the premise that—in all likelihood—we are already wrong. And not “wrong” in the sense that we are examining questions and coming to incorrect conclusions, because most of our conclusions are reasoned and coherent. The problem is with the questions themselves.
[...]
But what if we’re really wrong, about something really big?
I’m not talking about things like the relative blood temperature of a stegosaurus or whether Pluto can be accurately classified as a planet, or even the nature of motion and inertia. What I’m talking about is the possibility that we think we’re playing checkers when we’re really playing chess. Or maybe even that metaphor is too conservative for what I’m trying to imagine—maybe we think we’re playing checkers, but we’re actually playing goddamn Scrabble. Every day, our understanding of the universe incrementally increases. New questions are getting answered. But are these the right questions? Is it possible that we are mechanically improving our comprehension of principles that are all components of a much larger illusion, in the same way certain eighteenth-century Swedes believed they had finally figured out how elves and trolls caused illness? Will our current understanding of how space and time function eventually seem as absurd as Aristotle’s assertion that a brick doesn’t float because the ground is the “natural” place a brick wants to be?
“The only examples you can give of complete shifts in widely accepted beliefs—beliefs being completely thrown out the window—are from before 1600,” says superstar astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson. We are sitting in his office in the upper deck of the American Museum of Natural History. He seems mildly annoyed by my questions. “You mentioned Aristotle, for example. You could also mention Copernicus and the Copernican Revolution. That’s all before 1600. What was different from 1600 onward was how science got conducted. Science gets conducted by experiment. There is no truth that does not exist without experimental verification of that truth. And not only one person’s experiment, but an ensemble of experiments testing the same idea. And only when an ensemble of experiments statistically agree do we then talk about an emerging truth within science. And that emerging truth does not change, because it was verified. Previous to 1600—before Galileo figured out that experiments matter—Aristotle had no clue about experiments, so I guess we can’t blame him. Though he was so influential and so authoritative, one might say some damage was done, because of how much confidence people placed in his writing and how smart he was and how deeply he thought about the world . . . I will add that in 1603 the microscope was invented, and in 1609 the telescope was invented. So these things gave us tools to replace our own senses, because our own senses are quite feeble when it comes to recording objective reality. So it’s not like this is a policy. This is, ‘Holy shit, this really works. I can establish an objective truth that’s not a function of my state of mind, and you can do a different experiment and come up with the same result.’ Thus was born the modern era of science.”
This is all accurate, and I would never directly contradict anything Neil deGrasse Tyson says, because—compared to Neil deGrasse Tyson—my skull is a bag of hammers. I’m the functional equivalent of an idiot. But maybe it takes an idiot to pose this non-idiotic question: How do we know we’re not currently living in our own version of the year 1599?
According to Tyson, we have not reinvented our understanding of scientific reality since the seventeenth century. Our beliefs have been relatively secure for roughly four hundred years. That’s a long time—except in the context of science. In science, four hundred years is a grain in the hourglass. Aristotle’s ideas about gravity were accepted for more than twice that long. Granted, we’re now in an era where repeatable math can confirm theoretical ideas, and that numeric confirmation creates a sense that—this time—what we believe to be true is not going to change. We will learn much more in the coming years, but mostly as an extension of what we already know now. Because—this time—what we know is actually right.
Of course, we are not the first society to reach this conclusion.
[...]
I believe Snowden more than I believe the government. He does, however, make one statement in Citizenfour that seems preposterous and wrong: While discussing the alleged greatness of the early (pre-surveillance) Internet, he notes that a child in one part of the world could have an anonymous discussion with a verified expert in another part of the world and “be granted the same respect for their ideas.” To me, that does not sound like a benefit. That sounds like a waste of time and energy, at least for the verified expert. The concept of some eleven-year-old in Poland facelessly debating Edward Witten on an equal platform, just because there’s a machine that makes this possible, seems about as reasonable as letting dogs vote. But I suppose that’s because I still can’t accept the possibility of Witten being totally wrong, no matter how hard I try. I mean, if we found records of an eleven-year-old girl from 340 BC who contacted Aristotle and told him his idea about a rock wanting to sit on the ground was irrational bullshit, we’d name a college after her.
Su quest'ultimo punto ha ragione da vendere.
Benioff e' uno di quei caratteristici figli di puttana prodotti da quel particolare ambiente, gente che ha il coraggio di pubblicare libri con il titolo "Compassionate capitalism: how corporations can make doing good an integral part of doing well", un Weinstein della silicon valley praticamente. Basta guardare una sua foto per capire che e' un maiale
In her book Being Wrong, author Kathryn Schulz spends a few key pages on the concept of “naïve realism.” Schulz notes that while there are few conscious proponents of naïve realism, “that doesn’t mean there are no naïve realists.” I would go a step further than Schulz; I suspect most conventionally intelligent people are naïve realists, and I think it might be the defining intellectual quality of this era. The straightforward definition of naïve realism doesn’t seem that outlandish: It’s a theory that suggests the world is exactly as it appears. Obviously, this viewpoint creates a lot of opportunity for colossal wrongness (e.g., “The sun appears to move across the sky, so the sun must be orbiting Earth”). But my personal characterization of naïve realism is wider and more insidious. I think it operates as the manifestation of two ingrained beliefs:
“When considering any question, I must be rational and logical, to the point of dismissing any unverifiable data as preposterous,” and
“When considering any question, I’m going to assume that the information we currently have is all the information that will ever be available.”
Here’s an extreme example: the possibility of life after death. When considered rationally, there is no justification for believing that anything happens to anyone upon the moment of his or her death. There is no reasonable counter to the prospect of nothingness. Any anecdotal story about “floating toward a white light” or Shirley MacLaine’s past life on Atlantis or the details in Heaven Is for Real are automatically (and justifiably) dismissed by any secular intellectual. Yet this wholly logical position discounts the overwhelming likelihood that we currently don’t know something critical about the experience of life, much less the ultimate conclusion to that experience. There are so many things we don’t know about energy, or the way energy is transferred, or why energy (which can’t be created or destroyed) exists at all. We can’t truly conceive the conditions of a multidimensional reality, even though we’re (probably) already living inside one. We have a limited understanding of consciousness. We have a limited understanding of time, and of the perception of time, and of the possibility that all time is happening at once. So while it seems unrealistic to seriously consider the prospect of life after death, it seems equally naïve to assume that our contemporary understanding of this phenomenon is remotely complete. We have no idea what we don’t know, or what we’ll eventually learn, or what might be true despite our perpetual inability to comprehend what that truth is.
It’s impossible to understand the world of today until today has become tomorrow.
This is no brilliant insight, and only a fool would disagree. But it’s remarkable how habitually this truth is ignored. We constantly pretend our perception of the present day will not seem ludicrous in retrospect, simply because there doesn’t appear to be any other option. Yet there is another option, and the option is this: We must start from the premise that—in all likelihood—we are already wrong. And not “wrong” in the sense that we are examining questions and coming to incorrect conclusions, because most of our conclusions are reasoned and coherent. The problem is with the questions themselves.
[...]
But what if we’re really wrong, about something really big?
I’m not talking about things like the relative blood temperature of a stegosaurus or whether Pluto can be accurately classified as a planet, or even the nature of motion and inertia. What I’m talking about is the possibility that we think we’re playing checkers when we’re really playing chess. Or maybe even that metaphor is too conservative for what I’m trying to imagine—maybe we think we’re playing checkers, but we’re actually playing goddamn Scrabble. Every day, our understanding of the universe incrementally increases. New questions are getting answered. But are these the right questions? Is it possible that we are mechanically improving our comprehension of principles that are all components of a much larger illusion, in the same way certain eighteenth-century Swedes believed they had finally figured out how elves and trolls caused illness? Will our current understanding of how space and time function eventually seem as absurd as Aristotle’s assertion that a brick doesn’t float because the ground is the “natural” place a brick wants to be?
“The only examples you can give of complete shifts in widely accepted beliefs—beliefs being completely thrown out the window—are from before 1600,” says superstar astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson. We are sitting in his office in the upper deck of the American Museum of Natural History. He seems mildly annoyed by my questions. “You mentioned Aristotle, for example. You could also mention Copernicus and the Copernican Revolution. That’s all before 1600. What was different from 1600 onward was how science got conducted. Science gets conducted by experiment. There is no truth that does not exist without experimental verification of that truth. And not only one person’s experiment, but an ensemble of experiments testing the same idea. And only when an ensemble of experiments statistically agree do we then talk about an emerging truth within science. And that emerging truth does not change, because it was verified. Previous to 1600—before Galileo figured out that experiments matter—Aristotle had no clue about experiments, so I guess we can’t blame him. Though he was so influential and so authoritative, one might say some damage was done, because of how much confidence people placed in his writing and how smart he was and how deeply he thought about the world . . . I will add that in 1603 the microscope was invented, and in 1609 the telescope was invented. So these things gave us tools to replace our own senses, because our own senses are quite feeble when it comes to recording objective reality. So it’s not like this is a policy. This is, ‘Holy shit, this really works. I can establish an objective truth that’s not a function of my state of mind, and you can do a different experiment and come up with the same result.’ Thus was born the modern era of science.”
This is all accurate, and I would never directly contradict anything Neil deGrasse Tyson says, because—compared to Neil deGrasse Tyson—my skull is a bag of hammers. I’m the functional equivalent of an idiot. But maybe it takes an idiot to pose this non-idiotic question: How do we know we’re not currently living in our own version of the year 1599?
According to Tyson, we have not reinvented our understanding of scientific reality since the seventeenth century. Our beliefs have been relatively secure for roughly four hundred years. That’s a long time—except in the context of science. In science, four hundred years is a grain in the hourglass. Aristotle’s ideas about gravity were accepted for more than twice that long. Granted, we’re now in an era where repeatable math can confirm theoretical ideas, and that numeric confirmation creates a sense that—this time—what we believe to be true is not going to change. We will learn much more in the coming years, but mostly as an extension of what we already know now. Because—this time—what we know is actually right.
Of course, we are not the first society to reach this conclusion.
[...]
I believe Snowden more than I believe the government. He does, however, make one statement in Citizenfour that seems preposterous and wrong: While discussing the alleged greatness of the early (pre-surveillance) Internet, he notes that a child in one part of the world could have an anonymous discussion with a verified expert in another part of the world and “be granted the same respect for their ideas.” To me, that does not sound like a benefit. That sounds like a waste of time and energy, at least for the verified expert. The concept of some eleven-year-old in Poland facelessly debating Edward Witten on an equal platform, just because there’s a machine that makes this possible, seems about as reasonable as letting dogs vote. But I suppose that’s because I still can’t accept the possibility of Witten being totally wrong, no matter how hard I try. I mean, if we found records of an eleven-year-old girl from 340 BC who contacted Aristotle and told him his idea about a rock wanting to sit on the ground was irrational bullshit, we’d name a college after her.
Su quest'ultimo punto ha ragione da vendere.
Prima di Degrelle leggi Il secco e l'umido di Littel.
Prova a dare un'occhiata, per vedere se sia di tuo gradimento, anche a Ultimo. Il memoriale inedito della guardia del corpo di Hitler (1940-1945), scritto da Rochus Misch.
Altrimenti c'è anche Memorie del Terzo Reich, di Albert Speer.
Puoi anche guardare alla memorialistica dei generali, ma sono letture che, nella maggior parte dei casi, stracciano le palle al lettore comune che prova solo un minimo interesse nei confronti del periodo.
Se invece vuoi semplice narrativa, la cui veridicità storica è sempre stata ampiamente messa in dubbio, ci sono i libri di Sven Hassel.
Nel caso in cui tu voglia andare in modalità full-nazi, I leoni morti, ma non mi assumo alcuna responsabilità
Ch4kra non so cosa cerchi, ma se l'idea è entrare nella testa di un nazista prova I proscritti di Ernst von Salomon. Occhio però che non parla della seconda guerra mondiale ma degli anni immediatamente successivi alla prima (l'autore ha fatto parte dei freikorps)
Guarda, io sto leggendo proprio in questi giorni I sommersi e i salvati di Levi.
L'Olocausto è un argomento che va trattato davvero con sensibilità e intelligenza.
E' stata una delle - ahimé, tante - pagine della storia in cui l'uomo ha dovuto fare i conti sui labili confini tra il bene e il male.
Ti consiglio "In quelle tenebre", di Gitta Sereny
Littel per quanto bravo sia a scrivere, non c'entra un cazzo con il nazismo a parte il suo essere ebreo. Direi che dovrebbe almeno darsi alla lettura di scritti/autori del periodo che gli interessa, piuttosto che fiction contemporanea.
Per me il naive realism è un pensiero pre-kantiano, e come la maggior parte di sta risma di positivisti neanche lui riesce almeno a tornare al passo con il 1700.
Sì, anche questo libro non è male.
Non è biografico, ma ritengo sia ben fatto e oltremodo interessante anche Soldaten di Sonke-Neitzel (letto anni fa quando venne segnalato da, mi pare, Sonne ed è stato il libro che mi ha spinto a scrivere la tesi magistrale sul concetto di banalità del male della Arendt).
Comunque sul tema ce ne sono tante di letture interessanti, qualche spunto (formattazione a caso):
W.S. ALLEN, Come si diventa nazisti, tr. it. di L. Pecchioli, Einaudi, Torino, 1994, con introduzione di Luciano Gallino
Z. BAUMAN, Modernità e olocausto (1989), tr. it. di M. Baldini, Il Mulino, Bologna, 1992
C. BROWNING Uomini comuni. Polizia tedesca e “Soluzione finale” in Polonia, tr. it. di Laura Salvai, Einaudi, Torino, 2004)
C. INGRAO, Credere, distruggere. Gli intellettuali delle SS (2010), tr. it. di M. Marchetti, Einaudi, Torino, 2012
C'è anche il libro di Hoss (da prendere con le pinze comunque):
R. HÖSS, Comandante ad Auschwitz (1958), tr. it. di G. P. Saija, Einaudi, Torino, 1997
Levi è una lettura imprescindibile (ovviamente anche Se questo è un uomo e La tregua), anche il libro di Gitta Sereny è valido.
Comunque ce ne sono tante di letture interessanti sul tema:
Y. LAPID, Memories after my Death, tr. en. di E. Fallenberg, London, 2010
C. LANZMANN, Un vivo che passa. Auschwitz 1943 - Theresienstadt 1944, tr. it. di F. Sossi, Cronopio, Napoli, 2003 (Lanzmann ha realizzato un ottimo documentario sulla Shoah, ma è impegnativo e complessivamente sono dieci ore)
C. SALETTI, La voce dei sommersi. Manoscritti ritrovati di membri del Sonderkommando di Auschwitz, Marsilio, Venezia, 1999
P. STEINBERG, Speak you also. A survivor’s Reckoning, Picador, New York, 2001
E. WIESEL, La notte, tr. it. di D. Vogelmann, Giuntina, Firenze, 2014
Il secco e l'umido è una sorta di interpretazione critica di Degrelle - e del suo linguaggio - letto attraverso il "filtro" elaborato da Klaus Thewelheit in Fantasie virili.
Per altro La Benevole è qualitativamente superiore a qualsiasi libercolo di memorialistica raffazzonata e di dubbia qualità che gira principalmente attraverso canali secondari, con riadattamenti fortemente politicizzati e ideologizzati.
Ma più che altro quello che dispiace è non analizzare il perché il naive realism è tornato in voga oggi quando gli argomenti contro sono così semplici: cioè il non analizzare come siamo intrappolati all’interno di istituzioni dove per funzionare ed essere efficaci dobbiamo trattare le informazioni in modo naive.
Il naive realism non è una posizione epistemologica, ma etica, di rifiuto del pensiero critico.
Intendo che in quel passaggio presenta il naive realism come un errore interno alla metodologia scientifica (“dismissing any unverifiable data as preposterous”) e arriva a dire che sia quella la versione sottile e raffinata, perché almeno non è “gli australiani cadono perché sono a testa in giù”.
sì scusa questo non l'ho letto, ho visto che post più indietro qualcuno ha consigliato le benevole. Littel in generale non lo trovo molto adatto ad affrontare con equità certi argomenti. In ogni caso Le benevole è un libro bellissimo che va letto secondo me in un percorso di ricerca diverso. Meglio i Proscritti, una biografia di Skorzeny o gli scritti di Degrelle. Se poi vuoi un occhio sul male in generale, Napoli 44 o Malaparte per partire da vicino.
Invece Il Secco e L'Umido come lo giudicheresti E1ke?
A furia di consigliarmi cose mi si stanno incrociando gli occhi
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