Walter: A Name most Popular in the 1910s
In this somewhat clumsily written, though otherwise quite intriguing biography about Walter Lippman, I've been struck by a few things about both the subject's college career and the Progressive era in general that I think might be of interest. From my understanding, Lippman was your typical New York upper middle class Jewish boy, well educated and well fed. He was smart --far superior to his average colleagues at Harvard (you can't forget that Harvard at the time was just beginning to come out of its long tradition of championing the athlete over teh intellectual, the drunken aristocratic over the minority do-gooder) -- and he decided to become a Socialist, giving his outsider status (Jews couldn't join the eating clubs or many other fraternal organizations) some directed political meaning.
Lippman was a great writer and a strong thinker, according to the biographer. Yes, yes, all true. You can't become the most prolific and powerful American journalist of the 20th century without being these things. But check out this sentence Lippman wrote that was apparently so shocking and awe-inspiring that William James went to the 20-year-old Lippman's door to congratulate him and begin a tradition of afternoon tea and philosophic conversation:
"The simple workingman ... has gone on genially producing houses he will never enter except to repair them, producing food while his own children go to school unfed; building automobiles so that fashionable ladies may take their Teddy Bears out for an airing in Newport."
I would never dispute that this is a fine sentence. But i'llbedamned if this same sentence wasn't uttered daily by every liberal woman in the country, and every male intellectual or worker who was somewhat persuaded by Marx. Am I just jealous that my Cadenza articles don't keep Gerald Early up at night, and that William Gass hasn't been banging on my door anytime soon for a squash match and a conversation about Superintendent Frank Spaulding? You're damned right I am.
After all, the rest of the Lippman Harvard years don't seem so different from our own. Yes, he was a formal debater (what happened to these people?), and yes, he was involved with several political journals, editing a few. But he stayed up late in the night with beer and Nietzsche, too. And what's more, the most difficult French theorist he ever had to read was de Toqueville. Fucking H.G. Wells was considered the greatest living novelist!
I contend that if Lippman was born today he would be the equivalent of a Slate writer: fine with the pen, sharp with the intellect, but unworthy of a 650 page biography. What makes him so special is that he achieved his fame in the Progressive era, a time when all 15 Americans with a college education were dominating decision-making at every level. I went into this biography looking for a kind of "monumental history" but so far have come out just feeling rotten. I would move on to some of the non-fiction suggestions listed by Scranton, but their average page numbers top 1000 (the European history and democratic genealogy, especially). Which leaves me with only one choice: "SA-TUR-DAY"!
Lippman was a great writer and a strong thinker, according to the biographer. Yes, yes, all true. You can't become the most prolific and powerful American journalist of the 20th century without being these things. But check out this sentence Lippman wrote that was apparently so shocking and awe-inspiring that William James went to the 20-year-old Lippman's door to congratulate him and begin a tradition of afternoon tea and philosophic conversation:
"The simple workingman ... has gone on genially producing houses he will never enter except to repair them, producing food while his own children go to school unfed; building automobiles so that fashionable ladies may take their Teddy Bears out for an airing in Newport."
I would never dispute that this is a fine sentence. But i'llbedamned if this same sentence wasn't uttered daily by every liberal woman in the country, and every male intellectual or worker who was somewhat persuaded by Marx. Am I just jealous that my Cadenza articles don't keep Gerald Early up at night, and that William Gass hasn't been banging on my door anytime soon for a squash match and a conversation about Superintendent Frank Spaulding? You're damned right I am.
After all, the rest of the Lippman Harvard years don't seem so different from our own. Yes, he was a formal debater (what happened to these people?), and yes, he was involved with several political journals, editing a few. But he stayed up late in the night with beer and Nietzsche, too. And what's more, the most difficult French theorist he ever had to read was de Toqueville. Fucking H.G. Wells was considered the greatest living novelist!
I contend that if Lippman was born today he would be the equivalent of a Slate writer: fine with the pen, sharp with the intellect, but unworthy of a 650 page biography. What makes him so special is that he achieved his fame in the Progressive era, a time when all 15 Americans with a college education were dominating decision-making at every level. I went into this biography looking for a kind of "monumental history" but so far have come out just feeling rotten. I would move on to some of the non-fiction suggestions listed by Scranton, but their average page numbers top 1000 (the European history and democratic genealogy, especially). Which leaves me with only one choice: "SA-TUR-DAY"!
posted by Robot at 2:13 AM
2 Comments:
It's surprising how unimpressive even the most impressive people from 100+ years ago actually were. Its the waning of affect i suppose, nothin seems exciting; our exposure to history, theory, politics, etc. is so hyperdriven that nothing appears striking or new. I suppose there are those interesting poeple back in the sands of time, but for the most part they really may be boring.
I'm often astounded at academics and philosophy in general from a century ago. Nowadays, if you don't have roughly 75 citations per footnote, you're not thorough enough. Karl Polanyi's The Great Transformation, from only 60 years ago, has maybe 3 per chapter. Freud cites at most a dozen other studies in Civilization and its Discontents (his footnotes are mainly given to expound upon the deep psychosocial ramifications of pissing on campfires). I suppose Robot is right, and there were just fewer people in an academic field back then (or there was no "field," or there were just fewer people in general in academia).
Certainly I think we could say that the 20th century democratized academia. The rise of hundreds of peer-reviewed journals and magazines has helped, but of course those followed whatever social and economic trends allowed more people to continue in their education. It has the unfortunate effect of deflating one's ego, however. You read the Great Books and think you have a privileged grasp of this stuff, then realize that everyone in this month's Classical Quarterly does to. No wonder the Straussians came around; they're the last gasp of the "Great Transhistorical Philosophical Genius." It's just all in their heads.
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