We argue, endlessly and enthusiastically, about “the greatest” examples of things we care about. Untold hours have been spent, over countless rounds of drinks, debating who was the greatest midfielder, the greatest novelist, the greatest political orator, the greatest character actor, the greatest whatever. We have these arguments because they take us deep into the details of subjects we’re passionate about: Bench or Fisk? Beatles or Stones? Betty or Veronica? They’re fun, in part, because they don’t have a unique, objective solution; there are too many variables, too many ways to weight them, and too much room for intangibles.
Aaron David Miller’s The End of Greatness doesn’t so much engage in the evergreen “greatest American presidents” debate as attempt to bury it. Miller argues, uncontroversially, that that the list of great chief executives begins with George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Franklin Roosevelt. He goes on, however, to contend that the list also ends there: That they are the only three presidents worthy of being called “truly great,” and that changing political and historical realities make it unlikely that there will be a fourth.
Miller develops his argument in careful, step-by-step fashion and bolsters it with great slabs of American Political History 101 detail. The intent of this approach is, I think, to split he difference between “scholarly” and “popular” . . . to make the book rigorous enough to be taken seriously by specialists (to make it more than just another “Top 10 American Presidents” piece), but keep it accessible enough to be read by a wide audience who know the names but not the careers behind them. The effect, unfortunately, is something else entirely. The abundant historical and political background is pitched at a level that fans of Robert Dallek and Doris Kearns Goodwin, or loyal viewers of The American Experience—the core audience for this book—are likely to find tedious. Readers who haven’t thought much about American political history since their 11th-grade U. S. history class, who might welcome the background material, will likely lose patience with the slow-and-deliberate pacing of Miller’s argument (which leaves the impression that this book could have been a long magazine article).
Miller, for all his carefully developed and meticulously bolstered arguments, seems prone to arbitrary judgments. He acknowledges that James Polk achieved, in his one term, all four of the (substantial) goals he had promised to pursue if elected—and then bars him from the ranks of the great because one-term presidents’ accomplishment can’t match those of two-termers. How do we know they can’t? In effect, because Miller declares it so. Why does Lyndon Johnson’s bungling of Vietnam disqualify him from greatness when Franklin Roosevelt’s court-packing scheme and authorization of wartime internment camps for Japanese-American not disqualify him? Why was World War II (which did not directly threaten America) a greater crisis than the Cold War (which, especially with the advent of ballistic missiles, did), and thus more capable of producing a great president? Miller gives reasons, but they are thin and unsatisfying—rhetorical fig leaves to cover the yet another instance of: “because my gut tells me so.”
I don’t begrudge Miller his gut instincts, or his reliance on them to draw fine distinctions and break ties. We all do that, when we argue about greatness—it’s part of the game. What frustrates me about The End of Greatness is its implied claim to be doing something more scholarly and sophisticated. As smart, deeply informed, and passionate as Miller is, I found myself wishing he’d unbent a little, filled a glass, and joined the rest of us in amiable argument.