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My first introduction to fascism was the tin-pot dictator of Sala-ma-Sond.
Yertle the Turtle, the king of a “nice little pond,” clean and quaint with temperate water and plenty of food, was an expansionist. From his lowly rock he determined that, while lord of all he could see, he couldn’t see enough. Like a shell-wearing Nimrod, he built a tower on the backs of his people. Yertle, Dr. Seuss made no secret of the fact, was Hitler.
But he was a sanitized Hitler, one fit for childhood consumption an allegory to be internalized. Just as the “Butter Battle Book,” with its fanciful arms race, skirted the existential dread of the nuclear age, Yertle never exhibited any thread of ethno-nationalism, offering a simpler lesson about corrupting power and taking advantage of those beneath you. Theodor Seuss Geisel, who would turn 117 on March 2, was not always so subtle or, it turns out, morally lucid.