The philosopher Hannah Arendt had something that the writers of Sex in New York could have taken advantage: his first boyfriend, the first and most intense and romeojulietanesco love of his life, became Nazi. He fell in love to the hilt of his teacher, Martin Heiddegger. In 1933, Arendt had to flee from Germany because she was Jewish and, moreover, a leftist, but before leaving the country she asked her former lover: Hey, Martin, are not you making me a little Nazi? Martin replied that she did not care about that. Soon after, to the horror of the intellectuals of half the world, he became an enthusiastic Nazi.
If almost all of us feel shame for having been paired with unpresentables of those who do not remember what attracted us and of whom we do not know how to say anything good, Arendt's, which was the intellectual and moral conscience against totalitarianism, is the capital tragedy: his ex he became the incarnation of the most monstrous thing he could conceive. Nobody would have been surprised if he had erased any remnant of his memory, forbidding them from pronouncing his name in his presence. And, nevertheless, after the war, he was reunited with him and they were reconciled. Arendt never concealed that Heidegger occupied a place of privilege in his heart and in his head, even though there were moral, philosophical and intimate abysses between them.
This thorny and very human story comes to mind in an era (today) determined to erase and apply Photoshop to everything that bothers or poses a dilemma. Yesterday it premiered Leaving Neverland, the documentary that accuses Michael Jackson of sexual abuse, and The Simpson They have run to remove from circulation the chapter of 1991 in which the singer doubled a character. Problem solved: if I do not see it, it does not exist. The present and the future extend over a past without spots or plasters. Since evil can be erased with a computer key, we are all good people without Nazi ex-boyfriends.