The Purple Decades (46 page)
Read The Purple Decades Online
Authors: Tom Wolfe
O how faithfully our native intelligentsia has tried to â¦
do it right!
The model has not always been England. Not at all. Just as frequently it has been Germany or France or Italy or even (on the religious fringe) the Orient. In the old daysâseventy-five-or-so years agoâthe well-brought-up young intellectual was likely to be treated to a tour of Europe ⦠we find Jane Addams recuperating from her malaise in London and Dresden ⦠Lincoln Steffens going to college in Heidelberg and Munich ⦠Mabel Dodge setting up house in Florence ⦠Randolph Bourne discovering Germany's “charming villages” and returning to Bloomfield, New Jerseyâ
Bloomfield, New Jersey?
âwhich now “seemed almost too grotesquely squalid and frowsy to be true.” The business of being an intellectual and the urge to set oneself apart from provincial life began to be indistinguishable. In July 1921 Harold Stearns completed his anthology called
Civilization in the United Statesâ
a contradiction in terms, he hastened to noteâand set sail for Europe. The “Lost Generation” adventure began. But what was the Lost Generation really? It was a post-Great War discount tour in which middle-class Americans, too, not just Bournes and Steffenses, could learn how to become European intellectuals; preferably French.
do it right!
The model has not always been England. Not at all. Just as frequently it has been Germany or France or Italy or even (on the religious fringe) the Orient. In the old daysâseventy-five-or-so years agoâthe well-brought-up young intellectual was likely to be treated to a tour of Europe ⦠we find Jane Addams recuperating from her malaise in London and Dresden ⦠Lincoln Steffens going to college in Heidelberg and Munich ⦠Mabel Dodge setting up house in Florence ⦠Randolph Bourne discovering Germany's “charming villages” and returning to Bloomfield, New Jerseyâ
Bloomfield, New Jersey?
âwhich now “seemed almost too grotesquely squalid and frowsy to be true.” The business of being an intellectual and the urge to set oneself apart from provincial life began to be indistinguishable. In July 1921 Harold Stearns completed his anthology called
Civilization in the United Statesâ
a contradiction in terms, he hastened to noteâand set sail for Europe. The “Lost Generation” adventure began. But what was the Lost Generation really? It was a post-Great War discount tour in which middle-class Americans, too, not just Bournes and Steffenses, could learn how to become European intellectuals; preferably French.
The European intellectual! What a marvelous figure! A brilliant cynic, dazzling, in fact, set like one of those Gustave Miklos Art Deco sculptures of polished bronze and gold against the smoking rubble of Europe after the Great War. The American intellectual did the best he could. He could position himself against a backdrop of ⦠well, not exactly rubble ⦠but of the booboisie, the Herd State, the United States of Puritanism, Philistinism, Boosterism, Greed, and the great
Hog Wallow. It was certainly a
psychological
wasteland. For the next fifty years, from that time to this, with ever-increasing skill, the American intellectual would perform this difficult feat, which might be described as the Adjectival Catch Up. The European intellectuals have a real wasteland? Well, we have a psychological wasteland. They have real fascism? Well, we have social fascism (a favorite phrase of the 1930's, amended to “liberal fascism” in the 1960's). They have real poverty? Well, we have relative poverty (Michael Harrington's great Adjectival Catch Up of 1963). They have real genocide? Well, we have cultural genocide (i.e., what universities were guilty of in the late 1960's if they didn't have open-admissions policies for minority groups).
Hog Wallow. It was certainly a
psychological
wasteland. For the next fifty years, from that time to this, with ever-increasing skill, the American intellectual would perform this difficult feat, which might be described as the Adjectival Catch Up. The European intellectuals have a real wasteland? Well, we have a psychological wasteland. They have real fascism? Well, we have social fascism (a favorite phrase of the 1930's, amended to “liberal fascism” in the 1960's). They have real poverty? Well, we have relative poverty (Michael Harrington's great Adjectival Catch Up of 1963). They have real genocide? Well, we have cultural genocide (i.e., what universities were guilty of in the late 1960's if they didn't have open-admissions policies for minority groups).
Wellâall right! They were difficult, these one-and-a-half gainers in logic. But they were worth it. What had become important above all was to be that polished figure amid the rubble, a vision of sweetness and light in the smoking tar pit of hell. The intellectual had become not so much an occupational type as a status type. He was like the medieval cleric, most of whose energies were devoted to separating himself from the mobâwhich in modern times, in Revel's phrase, goes under the name of the middle class.
Did he want to analyze the world systematically? Did he want to add to the store of human knowledge? He not only didn't want to, he belittled the notion, quoting Rosa Luxemburg's statement that the “pot-bellied academics” and their interminable monographs and lectures, their intellectual nerve gas, were sophisticated extensions of police repression. Did he even want to change the world? Not particularly; it was much more elegant to back exotic, impossible causes such as the Black Panthers'. Moral indignation was the main thing; that, and a certain pattern of consumption. In fact, by the 1960's it was no longer necessary to produce literature, scholarship, or artâor even to be involved in such matters, except as a consumerâin order to qualify as an intellectual. It was only necessary to live
la vie intellectuelle
. A little brown bread in the bread box, a lapsed pledge card to CORE, a stereo and a record rack full of Coltrane and all the Beatles albums from
Revolver
on, white walls, a huge
Dracaena marginata
plant, which is there because all the furniture is so clean-lined and spare that without this piece of frondose tropical Victoriana the room looks empty, a stack of unread
New York Review of Books
rising up in a surly mound of subscription guilt, the conviction that America is materialistic, repressive, bloated, and deadened by its Silent Majority, which resides in the heartland, three grocery boxes full of pop bottles wedged in behind the refrigerator and destined (one of these days) for the Recycling Center, a small, uncomfortable European carâthat pretty well got the job done. By the late 1960's it seemed as if American
intellectuals had at last ⦠Caught Up. There were riots on the campuses and in the slums. The war in Vietnam had developed into a full-sized hell. War! Revolution! Imperialism! Poverty! I can still remember the ghastly delight with which literary people in New York embraced the Four Horsemen. The dark night was about to descend. All agreed on that; but there were certain ugly, troublesome facts that the native intellectuals, unlike their European mentors, had a hard time ignoring.
la vie intellectuelle
. A little brown bread in the bread box, a lapsed pledge card to CORE, a stereo and a record rack full of Coltrane and all the Beatles albums from
Revolver
on, white walls, a huge
Dracaena marginata
plant, which is there because all the furniture is so clean-lined and spare that without this piece of frondose tropical Victoriana the room looks empty, a stack of unread
New York Review of Books
rising up in a surly mound of subscription guilt, the conviction that America is materialistic, repressive, bloated, and deadened by its Silent Majority, which resides in the heartland, three grocery boxes full of pop bottles wedged in behind the refrigerator and destined (one of these days) for the Recycling Center, a small, uncomfortable European carâthat pretty well got the job done. By the late 1960's it seemed as if American
intellectuals had at last ⦠Caught Up. There were riots on the campuses and in the slums. The war in Vietnam had developed into a full-sized hell. War! Revolution! Imperialism! Poverty! I can still remember the ghastly delight with which literary people in New York embraced the Four Horsemen. The dark night was about to descend. All agreed on that; but there were certain ugly, troublesome facts that the native intellectuals, unlike their European mentors, had a hard time ignoring.
By 1967 Lyndon Johnson may have been the very generalissimo of American imperialism in Southeast Asiaâbut back here in the U.S. the citizens were enjoying freedom of expression and freedom of dissent to a rather astonishing degree. For example, the only major Western country that allowed public showings of
MacBird
âa play that had Lyndon Johnson murdering John F. Kennedy in order to become Presidentâwas the United States (Lyndon Johnson, President). The citizens of this fascist bastion, the United States, unaccountably had, and exercised, the most extraordinary political freedom and civil rights in all history. In fact, the government, under the same Johnson, had begun the novel experiment of sending organizers into the slumsâin the Community Action phase of the poverty programâto mobilize minority groups to rise up against the government and demand a bigger slice of the pie. (They obliged.) Colored peoples were much farther along the road to equalityâwhether in the area of rights, jobs, income, or social acceptanceâin the United States than were the North Africans, Portuguese, Senegalese, Pakistanis, and Jamaicans of Europe. In 1966 England congratulated herself over the appointment of her first colored policeman (a Pakistani in Coventry). Meanwhile, young people in the U.S.âin the form of the Psychedelic or Flower Generationâwere helping themselves to wild times that were the envy of children all over the world.
MacBird
âa play that had Lyndon Johnson murdering John F. Kennedy in order to become Presidentâwas the United States (Lyndon Johnson, President). The citizens of this fascist bastion, the United States, unaccountably had, and exercised, the most extraordinary political freedom and civil rights in all history. In fact, the government, under the same Johnson, had begun the novel experiment of sending organizers into the slumsâin the Community Action phase of the poverty programâto mobilize minority groups to rise up against the government and demand a bigger slice of the pie. (They obliged.) Colored peoples were much farther along the road to equalityâwhether in the area of rights, jobs, income, or social acceptanceâin the United States than were the North Africans, Portuguese, Senegalese, Pakistanis, and Jamaicans of Europe. In 1966 England congratulated herself over the appointment of her first colored policeman (a Pakistani in Coventry). Meanwhile, young people in the U.S.âin the form of the Psychedelic or Flower Generationâwere helping themselves to wild times that were the envy of children all over the world.
In short, freedom was in the air like a flock of birds. Just how fascist could it be? This problem led to perhaps the greatest Adjectival Catch Up of all times: Herbert Marcuse's doctrine of “repressive tolerance.” Other countries had real repression? Well, we had the obverse, repressive tolerance. This was an insidious system through which the government granted meaningless personal freedoms in order to narcotize the pain of class repression, which only socialism could cure. Beautiful! Well-nigh flawless!
Yet even at the moment of such exquisite refinementsâthings have a way of going wrong. Another troublesome fact has cropped up, gravely complicating the longtime dream of socialism. That troublesome fact may be best summed up in a name: Solzhenitsyn.
With the Hungarian uprising of 1956 and the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 it had become clear to Mannerist Marxists such as Sartre that the Soviet Union was now an embarrassment. The fault, however, as
tout le monde
knew, was not with socialism but with Stalinism. Stalin was a madman and had taken socialism on a wrong turn. (Mistakes happen.) Solzhenitsyn began speaking out as a dissident inside the Soviet Union in 1967. His complaints, his revelations, his struggles with Soviet authoritiesâthey merely underscored just how wrong the Stalinist turn had been.
tout le monde
knew, was not with socialism but with Stalinism. Stalin was a madman and had taken socialism on a wrong turn. (Mistakes happen.) Solzhenitsyn began speaking out as a dissident inside the Soviet Union in 1967. His complaints, his revelations, his struggles with Soviet authoritiesâthey merely underscored just how wrong the Stalinist turn had been.
The publication of
The Gulag Archipelago
in 1973, however, was a wholly unexpected blow. No one was ready for the obscene horror and grotesque scale of what Solzhenitsyn called “Our Sewage Disposal System”âin which
tens of millions
were shipped in boxcars to concentration camps all over the country, in which tens of millions died, in which entire races and national groups were liquidated, insofar as they had existed in the Soviet Union. Moreover, said Solzhenitsyn, the system had not begun with Stalin but with Lenin, who had immediately exterminated non-Bolshevik opponents of the old regime and especially the student factions. It was impossible any longer to distinguish the Communist liquidation apparatus from the Nazi.
The Gulag Archipelago
in 1973, however, was a wholly unexpected blow. No one was ready for the obscene horror and grotesque scale of what Solzhenitsyn called “Our Sewage Disposal System”âin which
tens of millions
were shipped in boxcars to concentration camps all over the country, in which tens of millions died, in which entire races and national groups were liquidated, insofar as they had existed in the Soviet Union. Moreover, said Solzhenitsyn, the system had not begun with Stalin but with Lenin, who had immediately exterminated non-Bolshevik opponents of the old regime and especially the student factions. It was impossible any longer to distinguish the Communist liquidation apparatus from the Nazi.
Yet Solzhenitsyn went still further. He said that not only Stalinism, not only Leninism, not only Communismâbut socialism itself led to the concentration camps; and not only socialism, but Marxism; and not only Marxism but any ideology that sought to reorganize morality on an
a priori
basis. Sadder still, it was impossible to say that Soviet socialism was not “real socialism.” On the contraryâit was socialism done by experts!
a priori
basis. Sadder still, it was impossible to say that Soviet socialism was not “real socialism.” On the contraryâit was socialism done by experts!
Intellectuals in Europe and America were willing to forgive Solzhenitsyn a great deal. After all, he had been born and raised in the Soviet Union as a Marxist, he had fought in combat for his country, he was a great novelist, he had been in the camps for eight years, he had suffered. But for his insistence that the
isms
themselves led to the death campsâfor this he was not likely to be forgiven soon. And in fact the campaign of antisepsis began soon after he was expelled from the Soviet Union in 1974. (“He suffered
too
muchâhe's crazy.” “He's a Christian zealot with a Christ complex.” “He's an agrarian reactionary.” “He's an egotist and a publicity junkie.”)
isms
themselves led to the death campsâfor this he was not likely to be forgiven soon. And in fact the campaign of antisepsis began soon after he was expelled from the Soviet Union in 1974. (“He suffered
too
muchâhe's crazy.” “He's a Christian zealot with a Christ complex.” “He's an agrarian reactionary.” “He's an egotist and a publicity junkie.”)
Solzhenitsyn's tour of the United States in 1975 was like an enormous funeral procession that no one wanted to see. The White House wanted
no part of him.
The New York Times
sought to bury his two major speeches, and only the moral pressure of a lone
Times
writer, Hilton Kramer, brought them any appreciable coverage at all. The major television networks declined to run the Solzhenitsyn interview that created such a stir in England earlier this year (it ran on some of the educational channels).
no part of him.
The New York Times
sought to bury his two major speeches, and only the moral pressure of a lone
Times
writer, Hilton Kramer, brought them any appreciable coverage at all. The major television networks declined to run the Solzhenitsyn interview that created such a stir in England earlier this year (it ran on some of the educational channels).
And the literary world in general ignored him completely. In the huge unseen coffin that Solzhenitsyn towed behind him were not only the souls of the
zeks
who died in the Archipelago. No, the heartless bastard had also chucked in one of the last great visions: the intellectual as the Stainless Steel Socialist glistening against the bone heap of capitalism in its final, brutal, fascist phase. There was a bone heap, all right, and it was grisly beyond belief, but socialism had created it.
zeks
who died in the Archipelago. No, the heartless bastard had also chucked in one of the last great visions: the intellectual as the Stainless Steel Socialist glistening against the bone heap of capitalism in its final, brutal, fascist phase. There was a bone heap, all right, and it was grisly beyond belief, but socialism had created it.
Â
In 1974, in one of his last speeches, the late Lionel Trilling, who was probably the most prestigious literary critic in the country and had been a professor of English at Columbia for thirty-five years, made what falls under the heading of “a modest proposal.” He suggested that the liberal-arts curriculum in the universities be abandoned for one generation.
His argument ran as follows: Children come to the university today, and they register, and they get the student-activity card and the map of the campus and the university health booklet, and just about as automatically they get a packet of cultural and political attitudes. That these attitudes are negative or cynical didn't seem to be what worried Trilling. It was more that they are dispensed and accepted with such an air of conformity and inevitability. The student emerges from the university with a set of ready-mades, intact, untouched by direct experience. What was the solution? Wellâwhy not turn off the packaging apparatus for a while? In time there might develop a generation of intelligent people who had experienced American life directly and “earned” their opinions.
Whether his proposal was serious or not, I couldn't say. But somehow he made me think once more of the Lost Lad of the Great Plains, the Candide in Reverse,
Who asked how old you had to be
Before the O'Hare curse
Coldcocked you like the freight train
Of historyâ
Tell me, are you willing,
Lost Lad, to pick yourself some
Intelligent lost coed Cunégonde
And head out shank-to-flank in Trilling's
Curriculum?
Will you hector
tout le monde
?
Will you sermonize
On how perceiving
Is believing
The heresy of your own eyes?
Before the O'Hare curse
Coldcocked you like the freight train
Of historyâ
Tell me, are you willing,
Lost Lad, to pick yourself some
Intelligent lost coed Cunégonde
And head out shank-to-flank in Trilling's
Curriculum?
Will you hector
tout le monde
?
Will you sermonize
On how perceiving
Is believing
The heresy of your own eyes?
Boyhood Dreams
“A sniper? The media coverage is goodâbut when it's over, they throw you in the nuthouse, and that's that. Me, I want to go to Europe and kidnap industrialists for the Revolution and write a book about it and make a lot of money.”
Other books
Matter of Trust by Sydney Bauer
The Silent Pool by Phil Kurthausen
Fidelity Files by Jessica Brody
Boyracers by Alan Bissett
Project Aura by Bob Mayer
Both of Us by Ryan O'Neal
The Last of the Firedrakes by Farah Oomerbhoy
The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) by Deena Ward
Brave the Heat by Sara Humphreys
Shadow of a Doubt (Tangled Ivy Book 2) by Tiffany Snow