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384 pages, Paperback
First published February 12, 2008
that guys like me were “in what we call the reality-based community,” which he defined as people who “believe that solutions emerge from your judicious study of discernible reality.” ...
“That's not the way the world really works anymore,” he continued. “We’re an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you’re studying that reality — judiciously, as you will — we’ll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that’s how things will sort out. We’re history's actors…and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.”
Providing the poorly educated with the opportunity for a better education—not loving them—has always been the basis of the American dream. Paradoxically, the difficulty of paying for college may be one of the most significant factors in the resurgence of anti-intellectualism among many blue-collar workers today. On the surface, that seems like a contradiction, but the American expectation—experienced almost as a birthright—that children will do better than their parents has always coexisted with ambivalence about how much education is too much. Parents do not want their children to be so highly educated that they move completely away from the world of their mothers and fathers. Thus, it is possible for a working-class parent to simultaneously loathe intellectuals (or what they presume intellectuals to be) as a cultural stereotype of privilege and want their children to have a chance of joining that more privileged class (even if they would prefer to have a college-educated child to become a doctor or an executive rather than a professor or a member of the media). Trump, with his unerring instinct for targeting other people’s sore spots, was recognizing that ambivalence when he talked about his love of the poorly educated (xiv).One of the more interesting concepts I liked was Jacoby’s exploration of speech and how the words a speaker chooses can convey a lot of information and affect how listeners react: “Casual language, in addition to reassuring people that their [political] representatives are not snobs, also conveys an implicit denial of the seriousness of whatever issue is being debated” (4). The word “folks” is an example of a word used by politicians when it shouldn’t because it conveys a lack of concern—even if the topic is very serious. “Look up any important presidential speech in the history of the United States before 1980, and you will not find one patronizing appeal to folks. Imagine: We here highly resolve that these folks shall not have died in vain…and that the government of the folks, by the folks, shall not perish from the earth. By the middle of the twentieth century…voters still expected their leaders to employ dignified, if not necessarily erudite, speech” (4). Jacoby continues to say that substituting the word folks for more formal/precise language (people or citizens) clarifies the relationship between the abandonment of dignified public speech and the degradation of the political process: “To call for resolution and a spirit of patriotism and sacrifice is to call upon people to rise above their everyday selves and to behave as true citizens. To keep telling Americans that they are just folks is to expect nothing special—a ratification and exaltation of the quotidian that is one of the distinguishing marks of anti-intellectualism in any era” (6). This strikes me as particularly true. There is a reason why the speeches of Martin Luther King or Winston Churchill or (insert the name of another great historical speaker) are so passionately stirring and impressive even today. Not only is the message deadly serious, but the language used, the words chosen, are formal. These speakers want listeners to pay attention because they are calling on them to do something extraordinary, to rise above their everyday selves (as Jacoby writes). If MLK or Churchill had said something like, “hey, peeps, there’s some shit (Churchill may have said shite) going down (racist governors, Nazis with bombs) and y’all need to be stand up and kick some (white supremacist/Nazi) ass” would listeners have responded as they did? Would those speeches still have the same emotional and intellectual impact years later? I think not.
I’ve often said that nobody has ever gotten away with so much egregious nonsense out of sheer charm as Plato. It’s nonsense—absolute nonsense. And the devout Platonists—it’s like a cult, they’re like Moonies. I mean, Plato is a fascinating thinker, and a marvelous writer, and a man of comic genius. Olympiodorus says that he wanted to be a writer of comedy, of plays and comedy—he’s supposed to have had a copy of Aristophanes on his bed when he died—but when he met Socrates he gave that up…(279).She calls this conversation an example of what a “passionate intellectual conversation sounds like—the genuine learnedness, the intensity, the sense of communion with people who lived and died thousands of years ago…One need look no further for a perfect example of the connection between the decline of reading and the decline of intellectual conversation” (because it’s been a long time since she’s heard a conversation that thrilling) (279-280). Um, okay. Frankly, I think the same attributes (genuine learnedness, intensity) can describe a discussion about Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings books. Why do the characters have to be dead (or even real) to have an intelligent conversation about them? An intelligent conversation about books doesn’t necessarily depend on the quality of the book. Books with more complexity and depth that address universal themes will have one kind of conversation, but I’ve read terrible fluff books and discussed them with friends. The conversation centered on the lack of quality in the prose, the construction of the novel itself, etc. The more technical aspects of the book, but certainly the conversations were intelligent.