Writings from the New Yorker 1925-1976 (6 page)

 

The problem of security is full of bewildering implications, pitfalls, and myths. It is paradoxical that the more secure a person gets in a material way, the less secure he may become in other ways. The least secure fellows you see around, in any age or period, are the big fellows, with their personal empires and kingdoms and all the responsibilities and ulcers that go with kinging. In a sense, the only genuinely secure person is a healthy man possessed of absolutely nothing; such a man stands aloof and safe—there is no way either to reduce his fortune or to debase his currency. But even he is not perfectly secure: his loneliness may suddenly depress his spirit, and this might en-danger his health.

There is a sort of security in savagery, in that the savage enjoys an extremely intimate and direct relationship with his supply—the berry, the root, the deermeat, the fish, the pelt. He is more truly a man of the world than is the civilized man. But he is not really secure, either; he soon notices the twinkle in a glass bead (and the possibilities of appreciation and exchange), and he fights wars with other savages (as do we all), and his security fades when the arrow is directed not at a deer but at another man.

OUR POLITICAL EXILES

8/6/49

A DOCUMENT DESCRIBING
the Russian system of exile and forced labor has been produced by the British Government and is to be placed before the United Nations. It is estimated that some ten million persons in the Soviet Union are subject to compulsory work. These persons include the “unstable” elements, the “déclassé” elements. The concept of forced labor is so abhorrent to the American temperament, one wonders why there is so little concern in this country over our own system of forced idleness. The disease is the same—the difference is in the method of treating the victims. In the last couple of years, a handful of American citizens have been banished from industry for political reasons and forced into the camp of idleness. From this nucleus there can easily grow (and in fact there is growing) a group of American political prisoners. They are the “déclassé,” the “unstable.” Their crime is to have belonged to a wrong organization in a bygone year, to have once entertained a bubbly thought (or a second cousin at dinner), to have worn a hat backward, to have been seen by an agent at a rally. Industry is being encouraged to get shed of these unstable elements, these nebulous people. Laws are being framed to help detect and debar them. They may never have broken a law, or a piece of pottery, but they are being marched steadily, imperceptibly, toward the queer Siberia of our temperate zone. This is a dangerous exodus, an unhealthy state of mind. Perhaps a report should be placed before the U. N., but we would rather see it placed where it belongs—just a memo in the hatband of every democrat, reminding him that no country has a monopoly on political terror.

ORTHODOXY

12/30/50

FOR OURSELF
, we shall resolve not to overwrite in the New Year, and to defend and exalt those principles and quirks that have carried the nation slowly up the long hill since it started: its gaiety, its resilience, its diversity, its tolerance of the divergent or the harassing idea, its respect for all men. Who is to say we are not greatly ascendant still? Because of fear, Americans have lately compromised their essential position—have published blacklists, have permitted legislative committees to pre-suppose what is “American,” have watched them hang innocent men and women on the gallows of the newspaper headline, have winked at the meddling of congressmen in the conduct of the movies, have made the natural loyalty of the citizen ever so much more difficult by removing loyalty itself from the realm of free choice, have hinted that jobs belong chiefly to the confessed orthodox. For us, 1950 will be memorable above all other years because it was the year we once found ourself hesitating to throw something in the wastebasket, from a fleeting dread that it might be seen and misconstrued. In that one blinding moment of hesitation, the fresh air of America suddenly seemed contaminated with evil. The incident was absurd and the feeling passed, but nothing is quite absurd that happens.

Insofar as orthodoxy has gained strength, our republic has lost strength. But the loss is neither irreparable nor unusual. It is the product of war clouds—a sort of terrible mist that gathers. Luckily, many of our strongest skippers see through it. For 1951, we wish our readers health, faith, the sure eye that sees through mists, and the patience and muscle for the ascent of the most beautiful hill there is.

NEWSPAPER STRIKE

12/12/53

AT ONE POINT
in the newspaper lull,
*
Edward R. Murrow remarked that “breakfast without a newspaper is a horse without a saddle”—an unhappy metaphor, it seemed to us. We began watching our own breakfasts, to see whether they were horses without saddles, and all we could discover was that the breakfast hour had achieved a sort of eerie serenity. Our digestion improved noticeably when the morning paper stopped arriving. Our private feeling about newspapers is a mixed one. Surely ninety per cent of all so-called news is old stuff—some of it two and three thousand years old. And surely ninety per cent of everything we read today is discouraging stuff, whether newsy or not. So the breakfast hour is the hour when we sit munching stale discouragement along with fresh toast. Except for one thing, we could take a newspaper or leave it alone. If we felt confident that liberty was secure and that democracy would remain in good health without assistance from its many admirers, we could do without a newspaper quite handily. At certain periods in our life, we've tried the experiment of not reading newspapers, and we found it put no strain on our system, since we enjoy a very low-grade curiosity and are seldom moved to keep informed of late developments. Mr. Murrow's famous opener, “This is the news,” which carries the vox-humana sound of civilization-at-the-crossroads, often turns out to be a slight exaggeration. Nothing much happens from day to day. Public servants serve, felons act feloniously, demagogues croak their froggy tunes, echo answers echo (if it can get network time), and life goes on in its familiar pattern. But city dwellers without newspapers breathe an ominous air, as though the smog were descending. Liberty is not secure. Democracy does not thrive unassisted. And so, for love of these, we all swallow our bulletins at breakfast along with our marmalade.

WE'RE ALL AMERICANS

3/6/54

DR. SOCKMAN
, the Methodist pastor, says the American city is more like a sand pile than a melting pot. “People are heaped together, but they do not hold together.” Well, we have a letter telling us of an incident when Americans held together beautifully. The writer of the letter went, during his lunch hour, to buy stamps at the small post office in Bloomingdale's basement. Ahead of him in line was a lady who brought things to a stand-still by changing her mind about what kind of stamps and envelopes she wanted, by running up a bill of more than thirty dollars, and by discovering that she didn't have thirty dollars and could she pay the balance by check? The line grew and grew. After a while, someone ventured to hope, out loud, that she wouldn't change her mind again, because he was on his lunch hour. At this, the woman turned on him and said, “You aren't even an American, are you?” The man was quite shaken by this, but the others in the line weren't, and they came to his aid instantly. “We're all Americans,” shouted one of them, “and we are all on the lunch hour!”

That was no sand pile. People hold together and will continue to hold together, even in the face of abrupt and unfounded charges calculated to destroy.

A BUSY PLACE

7/5/76

Our Misfortunes in Canada, are enough to melt an Heart of Stone. The Small Pox is ten times more terrible than Britons, Canadians and Indians together. . . . There has been Want, approaching to Famine, as well as Pestilence. . . . But these Reverses of Fortune dont discourage me. It was natural to expect them, and We ought to be prepared in our Minds for greater Changes, and more melancholly Scenes still.

 

So wrote John Adams to Abigail, in one of his mercurial moments, June 26, 1776. We don't know how far into the future he was gazing, but if he were around today, celebrating our two-hundredth, he would not lack for melancholy scenes. As far as the eye can see in any direction, corruption and wrongdoing, our rivers and lakes poisoned, our flying machines arriving before the hour of their departure, our ozone layer threatened, our sea gasping for breath, our fish inedible, our national bird laying defective eggs, our economy inflated, our food adulterated, our children weaned on ugly plastic toys, our diversions stained with pornography and obscenity, violence everywhere, venery in Congress, cheating at West Point, the elms sick and dying, our youth barely able to read and write, the Postal Service buckling under the crushing burden of the mails and terrified by gloom of night, our sources of energy depleted, our railroads in decline, our small farms disappearing, our small businesses driven against the wall by bureaucratic edicts, and our nuclear power plants hard at work on plans to evacuate the countryside the minute something goes wrong. It is indeed a melancholy scene.

There is one thing, though, that can be said for this beleaguered and beloved country—it is alive and busy. It was busy in Philadelphia in 1776, trying to get squared away on a sensible course; it is busy in New York and Chillicothe today, trying to straighten out its incredible mess.

The word “patriot” is commonly used for Adams and for those other early geniuses. Today, the word is out of favor. Patriotism is unfashionable, having picked up the taint of chauvinism, jingoism, and demagoguery. A man is not expected to love his country, lest he make an ass of himself. Yet our country, seen through the mists of smog, is curiously lovable, in some-what the way an individual who has got himself into an unconscionable scrape often seems lovable—or at least deserving of support. What other country is so appalled by its own shortcomings, so eager to atone for its own bad conduct? What other country ever issued an invitation like the one on the statue in New York's harbor? Wrongdoing, debauchery, decadence, decline—these are no more apparent in America today than are the myriad attempts to correct them and the myriad devices for doing it. The elms may be dying, but someone has developed a chemical compound that can be injected into the base of an elm tree to inhibit the progress of the disease. The Hudson River may be loaded with polychlorinated biophenyls, but there is an organization whose whole purpose is to defend and restore the Hudson River. It isn't as powerful as General Electric, but it is there, and it even gets out a little newspaper. Our food is loaded with carcinogens, while lights burn all night in laboratories where people are probing the mysteries of cancer. Everywhere you look, at the desolation and the melancholy scene, you find somebody busy with an antidote to melancholy, a cure for disease, a correction for misconduct. Sometimes there seems almost too much duplication of good works and therapeutic enterprise; but at least it suggests great busyness—a tremendous desire to carry on, against odds that, in July of 1976, as in June of 1776, often seem insuperable.

 

But these Reverses of Fortune dont discourage me. . . . It is an animating Cause, and brave Spirits are not subdued with Difficulties.

 

Let us, on this important day when the tall ships move up the poisoned river, take heart from good John Adams. We might even for a day assume the role of patriot, with neither apology nor shame. It would be pleasant if we could confront the future with confidence, it would be relaxing if we could pursue happiness without worrying about a bad fish. But we are stuck with our chemistry, our spraymongers, our raunchy and corrupt public servants, just as Adams was stuck with the Britons, the Canadians, the Indians, and the shadow of Small Pox. Let not the reverses discourage us—liberty is an animating Cause (and there's not much smallpox around, either). If the land does not unfold fair and serene before our eyes, neither is this a bad place to be. It is unquestionably a busy one. Bang the bell! Touch off the fuse! Send up the rocket! On to the next hundred years of melancholy scenes, splendid deeds, and urgent business!

5

Maine

COME ONE, COME ALL

8/26/44

THERE ARE MANY FACETS
of the promotional spirit which beguile us, but our favorite is the promotion of states of the Union by their development commissions. It is common practice for a state to recommend itself as a sanctuary to people of other states, extending a blanket invitation to all to come and romp in the peculiar sunlight within its borders. Maine, conscious of its paradisiacal quality, doggedly advertises its “un-spoiled wilderness,” presumably in the hope that millions will shortly arrive to cry in it. This is an odd quirk. Obviously, if a state valued its wildness, it would keep silent and not let the secret out among the tame. The very idea of “development” is inconsistent with natural beauty, and there is, of course, little likelihood that the Maine woods will be thoroughly appreciated by Maine until after they no longer exist, except in the joists and rafters of the wayside soft-drink parlors.

Bill Geagan, a sportswriter for the Bangor
News,
wrote a column the other day in strong contrast to the rich prose of the vacation ads. He was describing a Maine trout stream before the black flies entered the scene to distract his attention: “I found unsightly dumps that contained rusted bedsprings, tin cans, automobile seats and tires, iron wagon-wheel tires, burlap sacks, washtubs, barrel hoops, medicine and beer bottles, rotten potatoes, and wornout corsets It should be remembered that the future of this great State of ours . . .”

And so on. Nowadays the journey a man makes to escape from his own rusty bedsprings is a long one, and in every coppice lurks a development commission.

BLENDING IN

1/13/45

THE GERMANS
, who do things well up to a certain point, made two serious mistakes in their latest attempt to land saboteurs in this country. They picked Maine, which was one mistake. And they dressed the lads in topcoats, which was another. Maine people, as young Master Hodgkins pointed out, don't wear topcoats in winter. In that cold climate the topcoat has long been recognized as a fraudulent garment—open at the sleeves, open at the neck, open at the bottom, drafty as a north chamber. The spies were immediately spotted as “from away.”

The coast of Maine, viewed from a chart, must have seemed to the Germans the perfect place to put someone ashore—a long coastline, rocky, wooded, and difficult. But the people who live in the villages on Maine's coast are members of the oldest bureau of investigation in existence—they have the eyes, the ears, and the curiosity of hunters and fishers, and whatever or whoever comes ashore or goes afloat, man, bird, or beast, in whatever kind of weather, is duly noted and entered in the book of days.

 

Probably Germans like to do things the hard way. They get a kick out of running a submarine into an American bay in a snowstorm and unloading a couple of spy-school graduates carrying invisible ink, who later turn up at a table in Leon & Eddie's. A more sensible, and much simpler, way to get saboteurs into this country would be to parachute them down into Bryant Park at high noon, in fancy clothes, from a plane trailing a streamer advertising a Broadway show. The cops would chalk it up to press-agentry, and after the spies had satisfied a couple of autograph hounds, they could walk away and proceed to the serious business of blowing up the Kensico Dam and releasing the lions from the Zoo.

PULPWOOD

9/4/48

WE WERE BAITING
a flounder hook with a clam belly the other afternoon when we looked up and saw an LCT
*
entering the cove. For an instant we thought perhaps things had started up all over again, but when the captain dropped anchor and cut his engine, we could hear a baby cry and, as the craft swung to the wind, could see that there were no tanks aboard. An hour or two later, when the tide served, the anchor came up and the boat headed for the beach—straight at a pile of pulpwood. The ramp rattled down, a truck appeared from the woods, and in short order the landing craft was being loaded with pulpwood, presumably for the nearest paper mill, which is owned by Time, Inc. The operation continued for about an hour. When the tide turned, the ramp came up. The captain backed away and anchored again in deep water. Darkness and mosquitoes enfolded the gaunt black hull. We noticed that, like some of the sentences in
Time,
she lay stern to the wind.

Early next morning the craft hit the beach again and resumed loading pulpwood. It was an awesome sight, this tentacle of empire reaching out into so remote and quiet a spot; and it was a fearsome sound, the throbbing engines of an old, dead war furnishing the paper for new conquests in the magazine field. Awesome or not, the LCT proved a handy rig for loading pulpwood, and a pleasant visitor in the cove. We got one flounder. Luce got, we should judge, about sixty cord.

LATE AUGUST

9/3/49

FOR US THE PRETTIEST DAY
in all the long year is the day that comes unexpectedly at the end of August in the country. It is a cool day, freshly laundered (as though straight from the Bendix
*
of the gods), when the airs, the light, and a new sound from the grasses give the world a wholly changed character. On this day, summer, languishing but not really sick, receives her visitors with a certain deliberateness—a pretty girl who knows she doesn't need to stay in bed. The yellow squash illuminates the aging vine, the black-billed cuckoo taps out his hollow message in code (a series of three dots), and zinnias stand as firm and quiet as old valorous deeds. This is the day the farmer picks up the first pullet egg, a brown and perfect jewel in the grass; the day a car stops and a man gets out and tacks up a poster advertising the county fair. You couldn't get us to swap this one day for any six other days.

CHANGE OF SEASON

10/13/51

THE CHANGE-OF-SEASON EDITOR
of
Time
sat down the other day, closed his eyes, opened them again, and wrote his mood piece on the coming of autumn to the U. S. The piece was headed “Stain in the Air.” “Autumn,” said
Time,
“came to the U. S. last week with a souse of wet snow on Denver, a spatter of cold rain on South Dakota's Black Hills, a chill wind in Chicago that moved on to New York. . . . It was a time of transition and suspension. Along New England's shores, the squeak of a fisherman's oars against thole pins sounded lonely and clear in the fog of early morning. . . . On the Pacific Coast, nights had turned cold. . . . In Texas river bottoms the sweet gum trees were tinged with yellow.” Then followed a quick estimate of UStemper
*
at applefall, ending, “In the uneasy air of 1951's autumn, a sense of wrong stained the air like smog.”

This piece, ranging so widely and concluding so sadly, de-pressed us, and we felt wave after wave of Wrongsense lapping at our shingle. But right in the middle of feeling so bad we realized that, by a lucky chance, we were in an excellent position to check one of
Time'
s items—the one about the squeak of a fisherman's oars against thole pins along New England's shores. We just happened to
be
on a New England shore; furthermore, the hour was early and the morning was foggy. Cocking our ears, we soon picked up the sounds made by a departing fisherman. What we heard, of course, was first the scraping of the conventional galvanized rowlock in its galvanized socket, then, a few moments later, the crisp explosions of a six-cylinder Chevrolet conversion, whose cheerful pistons were soon delivering more thrusts per minute than there are thole pins in all of Maine. The collapse of this single
Time
item when checked against the facts restored our sense of well-being, and we went in to breakfast wondering whether those Texas sweet-gum trees were tinged with yellow or with robin's-egg blue.