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The handwriting analysis that convicted Alfred Dreyfus is for sale
The false conviction of Alfred Dreyfus, a captain in the French military, for treason against France in 1894 is remembered by historians as a flashpoint of antisemitism in modern history. It spread a renewed hatred and suspicion of Jews throughout French society, birthed Emile Zola’s famous J’accuse and spurred early Zionists like Theodore Herzl, who referenced the Dreyfus affair as proof that Jews could never be safe in Europe.
The case turned on a document known as the bordereau, a handwritten memo offering French military secrets to the Germans. But the handwriting didn’t resemble Dreyfus’ script. So, key to the case was the testimony of a celebrated handwriting expert, Etienne Charavay, whose analysis confirmed a theory that the bordereau was an example of “autoforgery,” a convoluted theory that Dreyfus was purposefully disguising his handwriting, yet it could still be identified as his — in short, that the lack of resemblance between the handwriting somehow was further proof of Dreyfus’ guilt.
However far-fetched, the theory that Charavay’s report advanced convicted Dreyfus in the public eye as well as in court. Now, those papers — tracings of Dreyfus’ writing alongside the script from the bordereau, an analysis of letter shapes and the expert report — are for sale by the Manhattan Rare Book Company at the Antiquarian Book Fair this week for the low price of $175,000. They are all the more interesting for the fact that Charavay emotionally recanted his testimony against Dreyfus several years after the trial, in 1899.
When I went to see the documents for myself at the fair, I found myself applying my own — admittedly amateur — handwriting analysis to the letters. In the first few pages of the dossier, composed of intact only slightly yellowed paper, Charavay outlines the differences between Dreyfus’ hand and the bordereau document, not similarities. There, his writing seems assured; it is unfailingly neat without corrections or ink marks.
But as Charavay turns to the similarities between the letters, arguing that there are, in fact, particular letters that bear a resemblance to those in the bordereau, he begins to repeatedly cross out lines and make cramped corrections. There are lines of analysis that look almost mathematical, comparing individual letters in quasi-equations. The conclusion of the report has almost as many lines crossed out as there are cleanly written.
When I spoke with Michael DiRuggiero, the owner of Manhattan Rare Books, and his colleague Jeremy O’Connor, both marveled repeatedly at the upside-down logic, which violates a cardinal sin of identifying writing. “As professionals who deal with manuscripts, you can’t argue from differences back to validating manuscripts,” O’Connor said. “He’s working his way back from a conclusion that the handwriting is not Dreyfus’.”
It’s hard to know for sure why exactly the French government was so set on convicting Dreyfus, or what pressures were operating on Charavay when he wrote his much-edited report.
“I don’t know if he believed it or if he’s trying to make an argument that he doesn’t believe,” DiRuggiero said. “I don’t know if that can ever be known, what’s in his head, but the French government wanted a scapegoat.”
Handwritten drama
Dreyfus’ handwriting and that in the bordereau were so obviously different that, before Charavay entered the case, there were many attempts to get Dreyfus to produce the same script. Another officer in the army, Major Mercier du Paty de Clam, tasked with the case, attempted to trick Dreyfus into writing out many of the same sentences as in the bordereau in hopes of reproducing the letters, without luck.
Initially, an expert in signatures at a bank was consulted on the handwriting in the bordereau; he said it appeared “spontaneous,” which is to say written fluidly and freely, an idea that would seem to contradict the later autoforgery theory. (Charavay initially concurred with the analysis of a spontaneous hand.) He pointed out many differences and concluded Dreyfus did not write the traitorous note.
But then a French police officer, Alphonse Bertillon — a forensic expert but not in handwriting — originated the “self forgery” theory, putting forth a report concluding that the writing was Dreyfus’. His testimony was not enough, but it influenced the three people consulted next, including Charavay.
Charavay had risen to a sort of celebrity in France a few years before the Dreyfus trial, when he proved that thousands of letters a collector had bought — including supposed writings from Julius Caesar and Mary Magdalene — were all forgeries. He used a newly scientific form of analysis, comparing individual letter shapes and fluidity with unprecedented precision.
At the time, DiRuggiero told me, science was increasingly being brought to bear in prosecutions. Forensics, including fingerprinting, was a new and buzzy frontier. Charavay’s advances in analysis brought him fame and credibility, as did his titles: the highest form of academic paleographic credential and an appointment as the premier forensic document specialist in the country.
“Without Charavay’s credential, the auto forgery theory is just a nutty theory,” said DiRuggiero. With it, however, papers ran with the story, including a piece in the antisemitic paper La Libre Parole, which had long campaigned against Jews in the French army due to their supposedly treasonous nature. With this, the case became a national controversy.
“If you’re told that’s probably Dreyfus’s hand and you pick up a newspaper and that’s what you’re told,” said DiRuggiero, “the public will just believe that.”
As time after the conviction continued, the public — which had divided into Dreyfusard and anti-Dreyfusard camps — continued to debate the case, with prominent intellectuals including Zola and the novelist Anatole France defending Dreyfus’ innocence. Knowledge of the thin evidence began to disseminate, with Zola specifically castigating several of the handwriting experts by name.
Zola noted their reports were “deceitful and fraudulent, unless a medical examination finds them to be suffering from a condition that impairs their eyesight and judgement.” Charavay, however, was not named, a fact O’Connor hypothesized may have been because he was friends with France and may have expressed his doubts in private, doubts France may have relayed to Zola.
In any case, Charavay emotionally recanted his testimony at Dreyfus’ retrial in 1899, just a year after J’accuse…! Dreyfus himself noted the speech in his memoirs. But it wasn’t enough. Though the real perpetrator, Ferdinand Esterhazy, had fled to England and confessed to journalist Rachel Sassoon Beer, Dreyfus was reconvicted. Eventually, he pled guilty in exchange for a pardon; it took several more years for him to be legally exonerated and reinstated in the army.
We will never be sure why Charavay testified against Dreyfus in the first place. Zola wrote in J’accuse…! that one of the handwriting experts “faced military pressure because he dared to come to a conclusion other than the desired one.” Perhaps Charavay bowed to the same. Based on the overwriting, he struggled to make the pivotal argument to himself.
What we know for sure, however, is that the papers are legitimate — DiRuggiero and O’Connor would never make the same mistakes Charavay did. When I asked them how they validated the dossier, they laughed. “There’s no question that it’s his handwriting,” DiRuggiero said.
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The Jewish friendship that let David Hockney experience ‘dangerous perfection’
Think of the British painter David Hockney, who died Thursday at 88, and you think of color. 1967’s “A Bigger Splash,” almost certainly his most famous work, is a study in blue so profound that it’s nearly synesthetic: The pool is such a saturated cool that you can feel the water lap your feet, and the sky so rich with California sunlight that your shoulders burn. When Hockney turned more toward landscapes in later years, trees came in every color of the rainbow — here a pink trunk, there a purple — and roads were streaked salmon and teal.
Which makes it stranger that one of the works of his that I find most evocative has no color at all. It’s a 1975 pen and ink drawing of the American Jewish artist R.B. Kitaj, one of Hockney’s dearest friends, sitting on a bench outside an art school in Vienna.
Kitaj, head propped in his hand, looks out toward the left side of the page. His face is the lone area of detail in a scene thrown together with brisk, expressive lines. There is a sense of place around him, but that place is in the act of disappearing. As the scene spreads to the right and lower edges of the page — the areas that would fall outside Kitaj’s line of sight — it ceases to exist. Kitaj’s bench is slatted, rounded and real, but the bench abutting it is depicted in a few brief strokes. The buildings and street are sketched with light attention within what seems to be Kitaj’s periphery line, and are nonexistent beyond it.
The picture is a study of a man in deep focus. Hockney draws Kitaj’s head — and by inference, everything within it — as real and lifelike. But beyond the scope of Kitaj’s vision — the material the world presents him, possibly to be made into art — Hockney shows his surroundings as being valuable only as perspective lines, helping to situate the subject in space.
To be caught thinking is a vulnerable experience. To have someone restore your sense of your own physical self is a shock. By sketching Kitaj in his moment of remove, Hockney gave a renowned and somewhat glamorous friendship a sense of life. And he gave a sense of life, too, to the thing that made his own art so attractive: the impression of a rare and gorgeous intensity of vision, one that could draw a viewer’s attention so completely that it seemed what was on the canvas was the only real thing on earth.
In his drawing of Kitaj, the line is blurred between his subject’s concentration and his own. Is it really that Kitaj is so immersed in the act of seeing — or that Hockney is, his gaze so rapt upon his friend as to make him able to capture, briefly, what it was like to see through Kitaj’s eyes?
From the first days of their friendship at the Royal College of Art, Hockney and Kitaj existed on two planes for one another: human and artistic. As each worked to find the right way to reflect their own humanity in their art, their concepts of both themselves and their work influenced one another. “I was painting about my Jews and my books and Hockney was just coming out of the closet, so I said paint that,” Kitaj once said. And another time: “He switched to his gay culture as I began on my Jewish culture in its first forms.”
When Kitaj married the painter Sandra Fisher in 1983 — after Hockney introduced them in the 1970s — Hockney was his best man. “Those orthodox Rabbis had never seen such a gang under the chuppa,” Hockney told 032c magazine in 2025. At that moment, he said, “life for me had reached a dangerous perfection.”
A “dangerous perfection.” What did that mean? I see a glimpse of the answer in Hockney’s drawing of Kitaj — a sense of connection so complete as to threaten the boundaries of selfhood. At Kitaj’s wedding, Hockney experienced that threat as a kind of transcendence: Look, how wonderful being alive among other people can be. The experience captured in his drawing of Kitaj is different, but related. It’s that of a kind of looking, and seeing, that briefly gives total knowledge.
That kind of completeness is one of the aims of friendship, and also of art. There will be much to miss about Hockney, an artist who was easy to love. But the rare experience of absolute immersion that his best work gave its viewers may have made, out of all he accomplished, the biggest splash.
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Aristotle, Jewish ethics and the vexing case of Graham Platner
In last Tuesday’s Democratic Senate primary in Maine, nearly three quarters of voters decided that Graham Platner — Iraq War veteran, oysterman, Reddit misogynist and SS tattoo bearer — was their best hope to defeat the Republican incumbent, Susan Collins, come November. While the result was wildly cheered by his supporters, other Democrats and independents were left deeply uneasy.
There are good reasons, philosophical no less than political, for this disquiet. For some Democrats, the winning approach to the election is not necessarily one that leads to victory, but instead one that leads from virtue.
Much attention has been given to the political issues raised by Platner’s candidacy. His embrace of economic populism and excoriation of our country’s oligarchy, his denunciation of forever wars and defense of the common man were and remain compelling stances. That Platner speaks his own mind, and does so simply but rarely simplistically, rather than from a script bolted together by handlers, is clearly a plus as well.
But the matter of his character also raises a serious ethical issue not just for Platner, but also for those who voted for him this spring and plan to do so again this fall. It is less a matter of achieving a good result, than of affirming the good itself.
Moral philosophy comes in three flavors: consequentialism, deontology, and virtue ethics. For reasons of space, let’s focus on the first and last. As the name suggests, consequentialism focuses not on the means but instead on the ends. But this does not mean, as some think, that any end can justify any means. Instead, philosophical consequentialists argue that acts must be judged by a simple measure: seeking the greatest good at the least moral cost.
For a hypothetical example, say I have a student who is floundering in one of my classes. They are doing their best, but for various reasons their best will probably not help them avoid a failing grade. Afraid to disappoint or depress the student, I allow them to continue in the class. Consequently, the student sinks rather than swims by semester’s end. Or, instead, I can sit down with the student earlier in the semester and suggest that they withdraw today and try again a later day when they are better prepared. The result is the least cruel and most good: some suffering in the short term rather than greater suffering in the long run.
Yet, consequentialism can be complicated. Consider the election of John Fetterman to the Senate in 2022. Faced by the prospect of voting for the Republican candidate, Democrats and independents gave Fetterman the winning margin despite a stroke he suffered during the campaign, one that raised serious questions about his capacity to hold the office. For reasons that are hard to parse, Fetterman has since broken with his fellow Democrats on several vital issues.
Rather than realizing the greater good, some Pennsylvania voters may now realize their reasoning was misplaced.
This brings us to virtue ethics, which is now enjoying a second wind among moral philosophers. Inspired by Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, virtue ethicists are less concerned with actions than they are with character. As the philosopher Todd May writes in his book The Decent Life, the key question for consequentialists (and deontologists) is “How should I act?” But for those who promote virtue ethics, the question is “How should I live?”
By this, they mean what Aristotle seems to have meant: how can we live a happy or flourishing life? The answer is by living that life in accord with virtue.
Simply put, virtues are those traits of character — think bravery and constancy, sagacity and generosity—crucial to human flourishing. And to flourish as humans requires a deep disposition to see and feel, choose and respond to the world and others in ways that align with those virtues. In the words of the late Alasdair MacIntyre, the philosopher who reintroduced virtue ethics to modern readers, “The exercise of the virtues is itself a crucial component of the good life for man.”
Inevitably, just as with the other ethical theories, there are problems with virtue ethics. But there are also advantages, principally that it seeks to build character rather than build a calculus of the highest good. This brings us back to Graham Platner. What is at issue with his campaign is not just the character of the candidate, but the character of the nation we wish to realize. The unavoidable question is not whether the ends justifies the means, but whether the means justifies the end—in this case, a nation dedicated not to winning a Senate majority, but to one dedicated to reversing the waning of virtue. Even if this means giving Susan Collins 6 more years.
Modern Jewish thinkers find ties between pagan and Jewish ethics. Yonatan Brafman, who teaches at the Jewish Theological Seminary, points to fascinating parallels between the writings of Aristotle and the medieval philosopher Moses Maimonides. The latter, Brafman suggests, sought various ways to encourage the practice of generosity. “Fulfilling the commandment of matanot le-’evyonim (gifts to the poor) and even prioritizing it over other commandments both expresses and fosters the virtue of generosity,” Brafman writes. “Moreover, in Maimonides’ view, this virtue is central to human flourishing. Generosity enables an individual to achieve divine joy.”
Of course, the exercise of generosity should apply to Platner, a man who insists that he has changed. Come November, we will learn whether this is true for our nation. As for Platner, who insists he has changed, it may take much longer for all of us to know.
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What does it say that Gwyneth Paltrow is advertising luxury Israeli real estate?
What does Gwyneth Paltrow have to do with a new luxury apartment building in Tel Aviv suburb Herzliya?
Not much, it seems, judging from a new ad that dropped this week. It features Paltrow going on a morning jog in the city — New York City, that is. She wakes up, voices some pat complaints about why “mornings have to be so early” and how her “coffee needs a coffee,” before she heads to Central Park. She comes home, showers, then asks her driver to take her to 51 Park.
Her driver asks if she means New York. “Herzliya, Israel,” she clarifies, smiling into the camera, as though the black SUV can drive across the ocean.
The ad makes so little sense that my first instinct was to think that it must be some sort of AI rendition of Paltrow. But a LinkedIn post about the project, from Gabi Attal, the CEO of the ad agency Why Worry, which made it, says that they did indeed shoot the ad in real life, in New York City, and that Paltrow is the face of the ad campaign behind a luxury apartment building called 51Park in Herzliya.
51Park is the name — though seemingly not the address — of an enormous new apartment complex that does not appear to exist yet; the website for the building is written in future tense. In renderings, two 51-story glossy towers, with — depending on which part of the website you read — either 636 or 733 apartments total, shine over a park. The neighborhood, it promises, is about to become the beating heart of Herzliya, bounded by highways, the light rail and Herzliya Park.
Paltrow, who is Jewish, has hawked a lot of weird products in her time — vagina-scented candles, anyone? And in some ways, the luxury building makes sense as a product for the actress, who has often flaunted her wealthy lifestyle. But everything else about the 51Park campaign places it back into Paltrow’s stranger offerings.
First off, of course, is the simple setting of the ad, which is nowhere near the apartment building Paltrow is lending her face to.
“To bring this architectural masterpiece to the Israeli audience, we needed a figure who effortlessly embodies international elegance, a premium lifestyle and uncompromising quality,” Attal wrote in the LinkedIn post about the ad.
No one behind the ad responded to my questions about how Paltrow was selected except the director’s agent, Tal Nathan, who said that he couldn’t comment beyond saying the actress “looks absolutely fantastic.” Still, Paltrow certainly embodies a certain kind of “premium lifestyle” — her lifestyle brand, Goop (tagline: “beauty as wellness”), sells such wealth signifiers as a $425 black tank top and a $55 “sex oil,” and also partners with other luxury brands to market expensive jewelry, clothing, and wellness accessories via Paltrow’s own website as “Gwyneth’s picks.” (These include a $225 “eyelift bioremodeling peptide matrix” and a cream for “mindfulness and intuition.”)
The actress has made her name, at least since her Oscar win in 1999, by defining an ideal of minimalist, luxurious perfection — one with little care for qualities like accessibility, approachability or reality. (She had to pay a fine after Goop sold bespoke jade eggs promising questionable health benefits for one’s “yoni.”) In fact, part of her allure is her lack of those values. Her aesthetic seeks to soar above plebian concerns like pragmatism or cost. Who cares if that $491 pewter cocktail strainer requires regular polishing to maintain its silver sheen? It’s covetable. Similarly, who cares where your luxury building is, the 51Park ad seems to say; the important part is the luxury.
Still, it seems odd to market the building to Israelis via an ad filmed in New York City, in English. Sure, New York might signify wealth and luxury in the international market. But the ad doesn’t highlight the amenities 51Park actually offers, such as proximity to Herzliya Park; it shows Paltrow in a luxury apartment in New York with convenient access to a different, and more famous, park: Central Park.
Instead, it feels as though the ad is directed at Americans, selling the idea that New York City and Herzliya are the same. That’s patently absurd though — even if we were to equate Tel Aviv and NYC, which are really not very similar outside of being their respective countries’ most cosmopolitan cities, Herzliya is neither; it’s a separate, much smaller city. Which means Herzliya is, at best, Hoboken. Perhaps that’s why Paltrow didn’t even bother flying to Israel to film the ad.
Marketing an Israeli home to Americans, however, is a controversial proposition. Over the past couple of years, Israeli companies selling homes and land to Jewish Americans, often at fairs held in synagogues, have been a target for protests. Sure, Herzliya is not in the West Bank. But for an actor to wade into obvious controversy like this, especially when she has a new major project coming up — starring as Belle Burden in an adaptation of the heiress’ best-selling memoir Strangers — is a confusing choice.
The ad was reposted by viral celebrity gossip account PopBase, leading to thousands of retweets and comments accusing her of supporting, as many commenters put it, “gwynocide.” Others said it was tone deaf to market luxury apartment buildings only a few hundred miles from razed apartments in Gaza, and compared her to the Nazi wife who enjoys her garden outside Auschwitz in the Oscar-winning film The Zone of Interest.
Yet, in the ad, Paltrow seems blissfully unaware of all that, or at least doesn’t betray the slightest political statement. It’s not the first time Paltrow has been impressively out of step with public opinion — for example, saying that being a mother while working on movie sets is harder than being a “regular” working mother who is not extremely wealthy and famous, or that she would rather die than let her child eat a “Cup-a-Soup” and would rather do crack than eat cheese out of a tin.
Paltrow’s serene smile in the ad implies she can just float above the political realities tied to Israel without touching them. The idea that one can move to Israel and live a life indistinguishable from the one you once had on Park Ave in NYC, is fundamentally a political statement, of course; not everyone has that freedom of movement, whether due to financial or political realities. But Paltrow has not responded to criticism online or to journalists reaching out to ask what she meant to say with the ad. Though she voiced support for the hostages after Oct. 7, she hasn’t implied that her ad for 51Park is any kind of statement. In fact, she’s carefully avoided making one.
Instead, Paltrow — as is so often the case with the actress famed for her snobbery — has demonstrated that she is not as interested in Israel, Gaza, the war, or Judaism as she is in the disembodied ideal of luxury. As she once said, she “can’t possibly pretend to be someone who makes $25,000 a year.” The rest isn’t important; she can ignore it.
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