The Holocaust survivor Primo Levi noted that we inevitably ask two questions of those who commit atrocities: First, why did you do it? And second, did you realize you were committing a crime? Today, numerous direct confessions are at our disposal. About them Levi writes:
The answer to these two questions, and others along the same lines, are very similar, regardless of the personality of the individual who is questioned.... Using different formulations, and with greater or less insolence, depending on their mental and educational level, they all end up saying basically the same thing: I did it because I was ordered to; other people, my superiors, committed deeds that were worse than mine; considering the upbringing I had and the environment I lived in, I could not have behaved otherwise; if I hadn’t done these things, someone else would have, and more brutally. The first impulse of anyone who reads these justifications is revulsion: they’re lying, they can’t think that anyone would believe them. They can’t see the disproportion between their excuse and the vast suffering and death they’ve caused. They lie knowing that they’re lying; they do so in bad faith.
Levi thinks it runs deeper than that. These monstrous criminals are not simply lying to us. They have learned to deceive themselves. What they tell us is not spoken in good or bad faith.
The silent transition from lie to self-deception is useful: he who lies in good faith lies better, plays his part better, and is more readily believed by the judge, the historian, the reader, the wife, the children (The Drowned and the Saved, 1986).
Lord, deliver us from lying to ourselves | America Magazine
The answer to these two questions, and others along the same lines, are very similar, regardless of the personality of the individual who is questioned.... Using different formulations, and with greater or less insolence, depending on their mental and educational level, they all end up saying basically the same thing: I did it because I was ordered to; other people, my superiors, committed deeds that were worse than mine; considering the upbringing I had and the environment I lived in, I could not have behaved otherwise; if I hadn’t done these things, someone else would have, and more brutally. The first impulse of anyone who reads these justifications is revulsion: they’re lying, they can’t think that anyone would believe them. They can’t see the disproportion between their excuse and the vast suffering and death they’ve caused. They lie knowing that they’re lying; they do so in bad faith.
Levi thinks it runs deeper than that. These monstrous criminals are not simply lying to us. They have learned to deceive themselves. What they tell us is not spoken in good or bad faith.
The silent transition from lie to self-deception is useful: he who lies in good faith lies better, plays his part better, and is more readily believed by the judge, the historian, the reader, the wife, the children (The Drowned and the Saved, 1986).
Lord, deliver us from lying to ourselves | America Magazine