Writers Under Surveillance

police blue sky security surveillance

Photo by PhotoMIX Ltd. on Pexels.com



What did Ray Bradbury, James Baldwin, Susan Sontag, Ernest Hemingway, and Hannah Arendt all have in common? They were all victims of FBI surveillance under J. Edgar Hoover. You can listen to my radio interview, which ran yesterday on Arts Express WBAI 99.5 FM NYC, with J. Pat Brown, editor of Writers Under Surveillance, a collection of FBI files obtained through the Freedom Of Information Act, by clicking on the grey triangle above.

Hamlet: Spying, Identity, And Eluding the Panopticon



The first line of Hamlet, like many first lines of Shakespeare, announces the theme: “Who’s there?”  For Denmark, like the countries we inhabit, is a place where no one is sure who is watching whom, who the enemy is, or on a more metaphysical plane, who makes up the person one calls oneself.  Identities are questioned from the outside and the inside. Who and what is real? Can we know others? Can others know us? Can we know ourselves?

Denmark is a prison says Hamlet. It’s a country that seems to be perpetually at War.  In such a world, where the enemy can sneak upon you at any moment, nothing is private. The State dominates through surveillance of actions and thoughts. The dangerous one is the one who keeps to him or herself. The notion of privacy has disappeared.

In No Place to Hide, Glenn Greenwald’s book concerning the revelation of ongoing, illegal, mass warrantless  surveillance by the American government, he makes a point that is often overlooked: it is not possible for human beings to grow and develop normally in a society where there is no privacy. Privacy is a necessary condition for being able to try out different versions of ourselves, to both invent and to find out just who we are. To keep sane.

But Denmark is a prison.

In a government where the will of the people is feared, the alarm must sound for Hamlet—Claudius warily declares that “madness in great ones must not unwatched go.” Hamlet feigns madness as protection, to save his true self from scrutiny. Madness acts as a protective shell,  the soul’s attempt to keep from being “too much in the sun.”  There is no place for Hamlet to feel his feelings without the glare of the court on him. Even his most intimate conversations with Ophelia are watched. Like the sacred ceremony being recorded by an anthropologist, sacredness evaporates. There is no room for the sacred under such conditions, even though humans must have such a place or go mad. The early Shakespeare commentators asked whether Hamlet was really mad or only feigning it. He is both: he feigns madness and is driven mad by his panopticon society.

Hamlet eludes. He puts on an antic disposition. He play acts. What is a human being that s/he can act? For centuries, actors were reviled and cursed, classified with beggars, thieves and prostitutes. They were shapeshifters, untrustworthy, not what they seemed. Worse, an actor seems to have no center. Indeed, Borges once wrote that that was Shakespeare’s glory and curse—Shakespeare was everything and nothing. Everything because he was nothing.

Denmark is a prison. It’s a prison because there is nowhere to hide. A place becomes a prison when there is nowhere to be alone, no way to find out who you are. You are constantly being defined by others, being told who you are, who you must be, what you must do.

But the actor escapes definition. The actor is subversive of the whole notion of fixed identity; subversive of the notion of control. It’s, paradoxically, in the act of acting that Hamlet finds the truth and frees himself.

When we wonder whether art can be revolutionary, an act of resistance, it serves well to remember that every government in the world throughout history has sought to control its art. Surely that must be a salve to those who are not certain whether their efforts are useful. We don’t always know what kind of art will be effective or not, but the possibility that art can be a strong weapon always exists, even when it may be in ways we don’t always fully understand. The actor on the stage is always the promise that we contain multitudes and have the capacity to transform ourselves and society.

The play’s the thing.


Audio Poem: Surveillance

Security guard conducting surveillance by watching several security monitors


This is the poem as I performed it over WBAI radio 99.5 FM NYC last year. I mentioned in another post that I thought this performance was too big for the medium. What do you think? Click on the grey triangle to play

Poem: Surveillance

I don’t write much poetry, but here’s one that might be timely:

Surveillance (For Edward Snowden)

Just which secret do you want to know?
That I slept with my cousin the year everyone was 28?
That my grey suitcase was the one I stole from your bedroom?
That I didn’t love you?
That the secret ingredient was sugar?
That I walked behind couples so that I
Could know what one person says to another?
That I read your diary, that I used your brush,
That I peeked through the door, that I forged your name?
That I forgot to wear a green tie on assembly day?

That I wanted you to fail
That I made fun of a fat woman who took up two
Seats in the bus.
That I dropped out of school,
That I graded the essays without reading them.

Was it you who saw
Me rolling down the grass of Parliament Hill
Hugging myself?
Was it you who saw
Me sitting cross-legged on the floor of the
Elevator as the doors opened?

Was it you who saw
That I didn’t clean the corner by the radiator
Or the wet stains on the sheets and headboard?
You who saw
That I can’t get up this morning and
That the next cookie
Has to last
Until the next commercial?

Did you record
the sounds of the three of us in bed?
Did you capture
the joy in my heart while I was
Humming “My Favorite Things”?
Did you analyze
the underline I put under the word
“Beautiful” when I emailed my sister?
Did you scan
where I put the line
Break in my last poem?
Did you scrutinize
the timbre of my voice when I
Said “Perfect” ?
Did you observe that I wrote “resumé” instead of “resume”?

Do you have any idea that by “flower” I mean the
Rhododendrons by Highway 117 which yesterday
Turned from red to blue?

Come, sit down.
I’ll tell you everything.
You can be
In a poem.