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464 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 21, 2020
Let me just blurt out what I think what I think happened with germs and insects and during the Korean war. You may not be convinced, but that's okay. My aim is to open the files, not necessarily to convince.
Amnesia is the CIA's ideal--and the Air Force's ideal. That's what I'm understanding. By controlling their own records, and purging them, and cutting all the interesting parts out of them, they are forcing a state of amnesia on a whole country--on us--so that we don't know what we as a purportedly self-governing nation did. We can't remember what we did ... Really secrecy is about mind control. It's about deliberately imposed historical amnesia. If you can suppress all knowledge of something like Operation Sphinx [a plan to murder/debilitate more than ten million Japanese citizens by air-dropping tons of poisonous gas], you allow the myth of American decency and goodness to endure. By the time the truth comes out, the shock is muffled. The outrage response is inhibited.
At times, the book is framed as a deliberate challenge to the intelligence community: “I could be completely wrong. The only way to prove me wrong is by declassifying the entire document.” But this is not how a historian proceeds.
In bed I thumbed through lots of old photographs on my phone. Daughter, son, wife, father, mother, stepmother, mother-in-law, brother-in-law, sister, sister's partner, daughter, son, wife, wife, wife, son, daughter. Wife. I was smiling in the dark. Then every so often I'd come across a screen capture I'd made of a document or an old newspaper article. A mysterious Q fever epidemic hits eighty men in Italy in 1950. A trained hog-cholera vaccine kills thousands of midwestern pigs in 1949....The biowar blowback epoch of American history has injected itself into my life, the photo-stream record of my life. Meals eaten, bowls of bean soup sipped, group selfies, airports where we've picked up loved ones--and then suddenly a clump of a thousand snapshotted Air Force documents from the National Archives in which men talk about how much progress is being made titrating diseased bits of glop, injecting them into animals, freeze-drying the purulent exudate, and dropping it from airplanes.
Upstairs, I thought, What do I really want from a book? I want truth in every paragraph. I want surprises. I want a sense that everything is not hopeless. That we can do better. I want a sense that life is a complicated mixture of emotions and inconsistencies. Life is a sandwich. I wan to include, or simulate, the pleasure of eating a sandwich.