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A Thought on Charlie Kirk [1]
['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.']
Date: 2025-09-11
While reading the philosophical implications of one’s reaction to the Kirk assassination, I remembered something.
Much of the discussion hinges around what philosophers have called the Trolley Problem for longer than I’ve been alive. (You can get a sense of how long by the name, which was coined before atomic weapons or the word metasolution or computers existed). Early in his career one of America’s greatest writers gave us his nightmare of the Trolley Problem in the form of a book. Protagonist John Smith (a character name that spells “everyman” about as loudly as you can) is cursed with the knowledge that a certain as yet obscure person will deliberately and maliciously start World War 3 mostly for yuks, and spends about half the story angsting over how dragons’ teeth are never the solution. Finally John defers the Trolley Problem to his friends & family & acquaintances, getting the usual range of Philosophy 101 results until Stephen King introduces us to this guy…
“Well … suppose you could hop into a time machine and go back to the year 1932. In Germany. And suppose you came across Hitler. Would you kill him or let him live?”
(Side note: A purist will complain that Charlie Kirk is no Hitler; but then, at the point in the story when Johnny is buttonholing all his friends over the matter, neither is Greg Stillson.)
The old man’s blank black glasses tilted upward toward Johnny’s face. And now Johnny didn’t feel drunk or glib or clever at all. Everything seemed to depend on what this old man had to say. “Is this a joke, boy?” “No. No joke.”
(Digression about how Hector got his knife in World War I, not II, skipped)
And it had all turned out to be for nothing. It turned out that it all had to be done over again. Somewhere music was playing. People were laughing. People were dancing. A flashbar popped warm light. Somewhere far away, Johnny stared at the naked blade, transfixed, hypnotized by the play of light over its honed edge. “See this?” Markstone asked softly. “Yes,” Johnny breathed. “I’d seat this in his black, lying, murderer’s heart,” Markstone said. I’d put her in as far as she’d go, and then I’d twist her.” He twisted the knife in his hand, first clock, then counterclock. He smiled, showing baby-smooth gums and one leaning yellow tooth. “But first,” he said, “I’d coat the blade in rat poison.”
Interestingly — and perhaps this is just the author’s license — The Dead Zone does not end in dragon’s teeth, unless we count Johnny Smith’s own lost life in the balance. The tiger is neutralized by its own tendency to think only of itself and go too far. In any case, the interpretation of the story is clear; the terrible thing about the Trolley Problem is that it is not really complicated. It is only complicated because we choose to make it so.
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