His background as a professor of religion and a participant in peace movements lends the book an almost prophetic tone, framing Kennedy's death not as an isolated tragedy but as a pivotal moment in the American soul's confrontation with its own "unspeakable" demons—the forces of militarism and covert violence that lurk within the national security state.
The central thesis of *JFK and the Unspeakable* is both bold and meticulously argued: President Kennedy, once a Cold War hawk, underwent a profound personal and political transformation toward peacemaking. This shift, evidenced in his handling of the Cuban Missile Crisis, his pursuit of a nuclear test ban treaty, and his secret overtures to Fidel Castro and Nikita Khrushchev, positioned him as a direct threat to the entrenched interests of the CIA, the military-industrial complex, and elements within his own administration.
Douglass speculates that these forces orchestrated Kennedy's assassination to eliminate not just a man, but a vision of global peace that challenged the perpetual war economy and ideological rigidity of the Cold War era. The "unspeakable," in Douglass's terminology—borrowed from Trappist monk Thomas Merton's concept of the unspoken horrors of nuclear extinction—refers to this systemic evil, a conspiracy so profound that it remains taboo in mainstream discourse.
What elevates this book beyond typical assassination narratives is its structure and scope. Approximately two-thirds of the text chronicles Kennedy's presidency, weaving a narrative of his evolution through key events like the Bay of Pigs invasion and the American University address. The remaining third dissects the assassination itself, interweaving Oswald's biography with the events in Dallas. This interleaved approach creates a "textured effect," as Douglass calls it, allowing readers to see the assassination not as a sudden rupture but as the culmination of mounting tensions. Drawing on declassified documents, interviews with key figures, and a synthesis of prior research, Douglass builds his case with scholarly rigor, avoiding the sensationalism that plagues much of the genre.
I will summarize the book's key arguments and reflect on its broader implications. For those unfamiliar, the book has garnered praise from figures like Oliver Stone, who called it "the best account I have read of this tragedy and its significance,”.
Ultimately, JFK and the Unspeakable matters because it forces us to confront why Kennedy's death still echoes in our collective psyche, reminding us that history is not just what happened, but why it happened—and why we refuse to speak its truths.
Douglass opens with Kennedy's early life and entry into politics, portraying him as a product of his time—a decorated war hero shaped by the anti-communist fervor of the 1950s. Chapters on his Senate career and 1960 presidential campaign highlight his hawkish rhetoric, such as calls for a stronger stance against Castro. Yet, Douglass argues, beneath this facade lay seeds of doubt, sown by personal brushes with mortality (Kennedy's chronic illnesses) and intellectual encounters with figures like Albert Einstein and Bertrand Russell, who warned of nuclear apocalypse.
The pivotal chapter on the Bay of Pigs invasion (April 1961) marks the beginning of Kennedy's disillusionment. Douglass details how the CIA, under Allen Dulles, deliberately misled the new president about the operation's prospects, hoping to force a full U.S. invasion of Cuba. Kennedy's refusal to commit air support, leading to the mission's failure, enraged the agency.
He famously vowed to "splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds," a quote Douglass uses to illustrate the personal rift. Evidence here includes declassified memos and testimonies from participants like Arthur Schlesinger Jr., showing how the CIA viewed Kennedy as weak for not escalating.
This event, Douglass contends, was the first "unspeakable" act against Kennedy—a covert entrapment that revealed the agency's rogue nature.
The Cuban Missile Crisis (October 1962) forms the emotional and thematic core of the early chapters. Douglass reconstructs the 13 days of brinkmanship with vivid detail, drawing on Robert Kennedy's secret back-channel communications with Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin and Khrushchev's memoirs. He argues that Kennedy's restraint—rejecting military advice for immediate strikes and opting for a naval blockade—stemmed from a moral awakening. Private letters exchanged between Kennedy and Khrushchev, quoted extensively, reveal a shared humanity: "We both know what it means to live in the shadow of nuclear destruction," Kennedy wrote.
The crisis's resolution, with the U.S. secretly removing Jupiter missiles from Turkey, is portrayed as Kennedy's first major peacemaking victory, but one that deepened enmities with Joint Chiefs like Curtis LeMay, who called it "the worst defeat in American history."
Douglass interweaves Oswald's story here, noting his defection to the Soviet Union in 1959 and return in 1962 without prosecution—facts that, in Douglass's view, suggest Oswald was a low-level intelligence asset, possibly monitored by both CIA and FBI. This parallel narrative underscores the thesis: just as Kennedy was pivoting toward peace, Oswald was being positioned as a patsy in a larger plot.
We then read on to find out about Kennedy's post-crisis initiatives, framing them as a "strategy of peace."
The June 10, 1963, American University address is a highlight, where Kennedy called for an end to the Cold War: "Let us reexamine our attitude toward the Cold War... Our problems are man-made—therefore, they can be solved by man." Douglass links this speech to Merton's "unspeakable," arguing it was a lethal profile in courage, coming just five months before Dallas. Evidence includes transcripts and reactions from hawks like Senator Barry Goldwater, who saw it as appeasement.
On Vietnam, Douglass challenges the orthodox view that Kennedy was committed to escalation. He details NSAM 263 (October 1963), authorizing the withdrawal of 1,000 advisors, and quotes aides like Roger Hilsman: "The president was determined to get out."
The chapter on the Diem coup (November 1963) is harrowing, showing how Ambassador Henry Cabot Lodge and CIA operative Lucien Conein encouraged the assassinations of Ngo Dinh Diem and his brother against Kennedy's orders. Kennedy's shock upon learning of the murders— "This is the worst mistake" —is cited from oral histories, illustrating bureaucratic betrayal. Douglass argues this event, mirroring the Chicago plot against Kennedy weeks earlier, signaled to plotters that the president was vulnerable.
The backchannel to Cuba receives exhaustive treatment. Starting with journalist Lisa Howard's 1963 interviews, Douglass traces negotiations through William Attwood and French journalist Jean Daniel. Castro's response to Daniel— "Kennedy could become the greatest president in history if he achieves peace" —is quoted, but so is the CIA's sabotage via exile groups like Alpha 66. Evidence from declassified cables shows Kennedy overruling State Department hardliners, a move that, per Douglass, would have normalized relations by 1964. The chapter ends poignantly with Castro's reaction to the assassination: "Something smells fishy," he told associates, sensing the plot's success.
Oswald's arc intensifies here, with Douglass exploring his pro-Cuba activities in New Orleans and contacts with CIA figures like David Atlee Phillips. Using John Armstrong's *Harvey and Lee* (controversially, as a source on Oswald doppelgangers), Douglass suggests Oswald was a "designated suspect," his Marxist facade crafted to blame communists’ post-assassination.
Finally we accelerate into the events of November 1963. The "Saigon and Chicago" chapter masterfully parallels the Diem coup with a foiled plot in Chicago on November 2, where Thomas Vallee (an ex-Marine with CIA ties) was arrested with a rifle aimed at Kennedy's motorcade. Secret Service agent Abraham Bolden, interviewed by Douglass, revealed scrubbed reports of the plot, linking it to Dallas via shared gunmen like those from the 544 Camp Street address.
The Dallas chapter is a tour de force, reconstructing the day with granular detail: Oswald's "patsy" cry, the "three tramps" arrests (including CIA-linked figures like Frank Sturgis), and the hasty autopsy. Douglass argues the plot involved a "false flag" operation—Oswald as the lone nut to justify war—thwarted in Chicago and Miami but executed in Texas, where Governor Connally and right-wing oilmen were complicit. Evidence includes witness testimonies (e.g., Jean Hill on the grassy knoll shooter) and acoustic analysis from the House Select Committee, which Douglass uses to affirm multiple shooters.
Post-assassination, Douglass examines the cover-up: the Warren Commission's rushed conclusions, J. Edgar Hoover's memos suppressing Oswald's intelligence ties, and Lyndon Johnson's rapid reversal of NSAM 263 via NSAM 273, greenlighting Vietnam escalation. The book closes with reflections on why it matters: Kennedy's vision could have averted millions of deaths in Vietnam and eased Cold War tensions, but the "unspeakable" prevailed, perpetuating endless war.
Douglass's greatest strength lies in his synthesis of sources. Over twelve years of research, he consulted the Warren Report, ARRB releases, and interviews with survivors like Vallee's associates. His use of primary documents—Kennedy's tapes, Khrushchev's letters, CIA cables—lends credibility, avoiding the anecdotal pitfalls of books like Mark Lane's *Rush to Judgment*. The interleaved structure is innovative, humanizing both Kennedy and Oswald while building suspense toward the assassination. As a theologian, Douglass infuses moral depth, comparing Kennedy to prophets like Martin Luther King Jr., assassinated for similar anti-war stances.
The book's readability is another asset; despite dense footnotes (over 1,000), the prose flows like a novel, with poetic flourishes: "Kennedy was dying all his life, but in his last months, he chose to live." This accessibility broadens its appeal beyond assassination buffs to peace activists and historians.
The reliance on conspiracy staples—like Oswald's CIA handler George de Mohrenschildt or the Paines as intelligence assets—can feel speculative. Douglass dismisses the lone-gunman theory outright without engaging ballistics experts in depth, potentially alienating mainstream readers, but then again, why speculate on the absurd? One point of critique is however that Kennedy emerges almost saintly, downplaying his own covert ops like Operation Mongoose.
Yet, these flaws do not undermine the core thesis. Recent declassifications, like 2017 CIA files on Oswald, bolster Douglass's claims of intelligence complicity. Compared to contemporaries like Vincent Bugliosi's Reclaiming History (a pro-Warren tome), Douglass's work is more nuanced on policy, showing how JFK's "peacemaking" threatened trillion-dollar industries. The New York Observer noted its "selective rehashing," but praised the portrait of Kennedy's foreign policy disillusionment as the book's true value.
Methodologically, Douglass excels in contextualizing the assassination within Cold War dynamics. He draws on Merton's letters to frame the "unspeakable" as nuclear madness, a theme resonant today amid U.S.-Russia tensions. His analysis of the military's hatred, LeMay's post-Dallas toast to "victory over the Soviets" (implying Kennedy's death), is chilling and well-sourced.
Why does JFK and the Unspeakable matter in 2025, over six decades after Dallas? Douglass argues it exposes the "deep state" long before the term's vogue, warning of a security apparatus that prioritizes perpetual conflict over democracy. Kennedy's unrealized vision; a world without nuclear swords, normalized Cuba relations, Vietnam withdrawal, haunts us amid ongoing wars in Ukraine and the Middle East. The book's pacifist ethos aligns with Catholic social teaching, urging readers to resist the unspeakable through nonviolence, much like the Catholic Workers' protests.
Personally, reading Douglass evokes a mix of outrage and hope. His portrayal of Kennedy's humanity, a man who stared into the abyss during the Missile Crisis and chose dialogue, restores faith in transformative leadership. Yet, it also indicts our complacency; why has no president since dared such bold peace? In an era of drone strikes and surveillance states, Douglass's call to "speak the unspeakable" feels urgent.
Critics may dismiss it as conspiracy porn, but as historian David Kaiser notes in endorsements, it's a "thoroughly researched account" reshaping JFK scholarship
For balance, pair it with Gerald Posner's Case Closed, but Douglass's evidence tilts toward conspiracy.
Ultimately, it matters because it humanizes history: Kennedy died for peace, and in remembering why, we reclaim our agency against the shadows. JFK and the Unspeakable is a masterpiece of historical theology, blending rigorous research with moral urgency. This is a book that not only explains why Kennedy died but illuminates why peace remains our unfinished revolution. Essential reading for anyone grappling with America's soul. Read.
