The Library of Congress today named Juan Felipe Herrera, professor emeritus of creative writing at the University of California at Riverside, the next U.S. poet laureate. Herrera is the author of 28 books of poetry, novels for young adults and collections for children. In a statement, James H. Billington, the librarian of Congress, said, “I see in Herrera’s poems the work of an American original -- work that takes the sublimity and largesse of 'Leaves of Grass' and expands upon it. His poems engage in a serious sense of play -- in language and in image -- that I feel gives them enduring power. I see how they champion voices and traditions and histories, as well as a cultural perspective, which is a vital part of our larger American identity.”
Herrera will be the first Latino to hold the position of poet laureate.
Reading the Emancipation Proclamation for the first time is an unforgettable experience. Nothing prepares you for how dull it turns out to be. Ranking only behind the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution in its consequences for U.S. history, the document contains not one sentence that has passed into popular memory. It was the work, not of Lincoln the wordsmith and orator, but of Lincoln the attorney. In fact, it sounds like something drafted by a group of lawyers, with Lincoln himself just signing off on it.
Destroying an institution of systematic brutalization -- one in such contradiction to the republic’s professed founding principles that Jefferson’s phrase “all men are created equal” initially drew protests from slave owners -- would seem to require a word or two about justice. But the proclamation is strictly a procedural document. The main thrust comes from an executive order issued in late September 1862, “containing, among other things, the following, to wit: ‘That on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free….’”
Then -- as if to contain the revolutionary implications of that last phrase -- the text doubles down on the lawyerese. The proclamation itself was issued on the aforesaid date, in accord with the stipulations of the party of the first part, including the provision recognizing “the fact that any State, or the people thereof, shall on that day be, in good faith, represented in the Congress of the United States by members chosen thereto at elections wherein a majority of the qualified voters of such State shall have participated, shall, in the absence of strong countervailing testimony, be deemed conclusive evidence that such State, and the people thereof, are not then in rebellion against the United States.”
In other words: “If you are a state, or part of a state, that recognizes the union enough to send representatives to Congress, don’t worry about your slaves being freed right away and without compensation. We’ll work something out.”
Richard Hofstadter got it exactly right in The American Political Tradition (1948) when he wrote that the Emancipation Proclamation had “all the moral grandeur of a bill of lading.” It is difficult to believe the same author could pen the great memorial speech delivered at Gettysburg a few months later -- much less the Second Inaugural Address.
But to revisit the proclamation after reading Edna Greene Medford’s Lincoln and Emancipation (Southern Illinois University Press) is also a remarkable experience -- a revelation of how deliberate, even strategic, its lawyerly ineloquence really was.
Medford, a professor of history at Howard University, was one of the contributors to The Emancipation Proclamation: Three Views (Louisiana State University Press, 2006). Her new book is part of SIUP’s Concise Lincoln Library, now up to 17 volumes. Medford’s subject overlaps with topics covered by earlier titles in the series (especially the ones on race, Reconstruction and the Eighteenth Amendment) as well as with works such as Eric Foner’s The Fiery Trial: Abraham Lincoln and American Slavery (Norton, 2010).
Even so, Medford establishes her own approach by focusing not only on Lincoln’s ambivalent and changing sense of what he could and ought to do about slavery (a complex enough topic in its own right) but also on the attitudes and activities of a heterogeneous and dispersed African-American public with its own priorities.
For Lincoln, abolishing the institutionalized evils of slavery was a worthy goal but not, as such, an urgent one. As of 1860, his primary concern was that it not spread to the new states. After 1861, it was to defeat the slaveholders’ secession -- but without making any claim to the power to end slavery itself. He did support efforts to phase it out by compensating slave owners for manumission. (Property rights must be respected, after all, went the thinking of the day.) His proposed long-term solution for racial conflict was to send the emancipated slaves to Haiti, Liberia, or someplace in Central America to be determined.
Thanks in part to newspapers such as The Weekly Anglo-African, we know how free black citizens in the North responded to Lincoln, and it is clear that some were less than impressed with his antislavery credentials. “We want Nat Turner -- not speeches,” wrote one editorialist; “Denmark Vesey -- not resolutions; John Brown -- not meetings.” Especially galling, it seems, were Lincoln’s plans to reimburse former slave owners for their trouble while uprooting ex-slaves from land they had worked for decades. African-American commentators argued that Lincoln was getting it backward. They suggested that the ex-slaves be compensated and their former masters shipped off instead.
To boilMedford’s succinct but rich narrative down into something much more schematic, I’ll just say that Lincoln’s cautious regard for the rights of property backfired. Frederick Douglass wrote that the slaves “[gave] Mr. Lincoln credit for having intentions towards them far more benevolent and just than any he is known to cherish…. His pledges to protect and uphold slavery in the States have not reached them, while certain dim, undefined, but large and exaggerated notions of his emancipating purpose have taken firm hold of them, and have grown larger and firmer with every look, nod, and undertone of their oppressors.” African-American Northerners and self-emancipating slaves alike joined the Union army, despite all the risks and the obstacles.
The advantage this gave the North, and the disruption it created in the South, changed abolition from a moral or political concern to a concrete factor in the balance of forces -- and the Emancipation Proclamation, for all its uninspired and uninspiring language, was Lincoln’s concession to that reality. He claimed the authority to free the slaves of the Confederacy “by virtue of the power in me vested as Commander-in-Chief, of the Army and Navy of the United States in time of actual armed rebellion against the authority and government of the United States, and as a fit and necessary war measure for suppressing said rebellion.”
Despite its fundamentally practical motivation and its avoidance of overt questions about justice, the proclamation was a challenge to the American social and political order that had come before. And it seems to have taken another two years before the president himself could spell out its implications in full, in his speech at the Second Inaugural. The depth of the challenge is reflected in the each week's headlines, though to understand it better you might want to read Medford's little dynamite stick of a book first.
You don’t often come across references to “the moral sciences” these days, unless you read a lot of biographies of well-educated Victorians, and maybe not even then. The term covers economics, psychology, anthropology and other fields in what are now usually called the social sciences. I’m not sure when the one gave way to the other. If the older expression sounds odd to the modern ear, that’s probably because anything called a science now implicitly rests on a fundamental distinction between fact and value.
A science sticks to “is” rather than “ought” -- or it ought to, anyway. (Whether or not the fact/value dichotomy is valid or coherent is a long discussion in itself.) Stjepan Mestrovic, a professor of sociology at Texas A&M University, does not overtly challenge the principle of value-free social science in The Postemotional Bully (SAGE). He uses concepts and distinctions from the canon of classical social theory to interpret contemporary cultural and behavioral trends.
But the ideas he draws on carry a certain amount of residue from the era of the moral sciences, while the phenomena he analyzes (the happy-face sadism at Abu Ghraib, for example) are too disturbing for studied neutrality to seem like anything but complicity.
George Orwell provides the book with its point of departure. “What,” Orwell asked in an article from 1946 that Mestrovic quotes, “is the special quality in modern life that makes a major human motive out of the impulse to bully others? If we could answer that question -- seldom asked, never followed up -- there might occasionally be a bit of good news on the front page of your morning paper.”
Sociology’s founding fathers never tackled the question, as such. But they did create a whole array of fundamental concepts about how the social system emerging over the past two hundred-odd years (often called modernity, a.k.a. capitalism, industrial society, mass society and related aliases) differed from the smaller-scale, slower-moving patterns of life that had gone before. And so Mestrovic can draw on Ferdinand Tonnies’s contrast between Gemeinschaft (community: organic, strong bonds, face-to-face relationships prevail) and Gesellschaft (society: change and dislocation common, regular contact with strangers, many interactions involve an exchange of money). Or on David Riesman’s interpretation of American society as moving from an inner-directed era (during which the sense of personal identity was shaped by values absorbed from parents and authorities) to one that is other-directed (the individual “is group oriented, conformist and changes values constantly to fit into norms and values that are in constant flux,” in Mestrovic’s words).
Other theorists and concepts also enter the discussion, but here it might be best to look in the general direction that the author steers them. An overarching schema of recent decades posits a sort of three-stage movement from a traditional order -- the Gemeinschaft, more or less -- to modern society, where the inner-directed people, at least, functioned with a sense of individual identity and established obligations, despite the alienation and other distractions of the Gesellschaft, including the antics of the other-directed. And beyond that? The postmodern condition, of course, which is endlessly defined and disputed without even reaching a plurality (much less a consensus) as to its meaning.
As an alternative, Mestrovic proposed his concept of “postemotional society” in the 1990s. An awkward expression, it has the sole virtue of allowing its creator to avoid sinking into the postmodernist quicksand without a trace. Perhaps the clearest way to explain postemotionality is to treat it as an extension and updating of Riesman’s characterization of other-directedness. The other-directed person relies on a peer group, rather than a deeply rooted and stringent superego, in determining what’s important and how to behave. Those accepted standards, in turn, often reflect current trends in film, advertising and mass media. By contrast Mestrovic’s postemotional type takes his or her cues from a culture more volatile and ephemeral than anything Riesman, writing in the early 1950s, could have imagined.
Postemotionality is -- for want of a more elegant way of putting it -- hyper-other-directed. It involves relationships that are “not intimate but also not alien.” The individual is “plugged and hooked into his or her electronic screen devices… pretend[ing] to be ‘in touch’ with others and the world” yet in reality “trapped in an electronic solitary confinement.”
But the condition is more than a symptom of the new digital order. In an insight combining Emil Durkheim’s thoughts on the division of labor with Donald Rumsfeld’s doctrine of manpower deployment (“People are fungible. You can have them here or there”), Mestrovic stresses that workplaces and institutions are increasingly prone to “the reduction of the human being as a fungible asset” that is “replaceable and interchangeable.” This aspect of the argument remains underdeveloped, but seems to echo recent discussions of precarity in employment. At the same time, society “aims much of its mechanical, intellectual, artificial and productive powers at the task of systematically faking community and its traits: the managed heart, fake sincerity, false kindness,” and so on, creating “new hybrid forms of emotional life that are neither entirely fake nor sincere.”
And beneath the forced smile -- that emblem of a “social life based upon dead emotions from the best” -- there lurks a considerable potential for cruelty. The author quotes Veblen’s remark that in modern society “simple aggression and unrestrained violence in great measure give place to shrewd practices and chicanery, as the best-approved method of accumulating wealth.”
But the process is not irreversible. The book takes up three cases of contemporary brutalization, postemotional style -- Abu Ghraib, the prolonged and ultimately fatal beating of an unresisting prisoner in an American jail, and a soldier driven to suicide by racial slurs and physical torture. I’ll forgo any discussion of them beyond noting that in each case, nobody within the chain of command was held accountable, the perpetrators’ rationalizations were more or less accepted by the court, and little or no punishment followed.
Add to that the prevailing tone of “screen culture” -- indignation, rage, contempt, malice and a certain cheerful callousness -- and the case can be made that Mestrovic has identified a real tendency, at least in American culture. I doubt the expression “postemotional” will ever catch on, though. It’s just the new normal.
“If you spend much time in libraries,” the late Northrop Frye wrote at the start of an essay from 1959, “you will probably have seen long rows of dark green books with gold lettering, published by Macmillan and bearing the name of Frazer.” These were the collected works of the Victorian classicist and anthropologist Sir James Frazer, author of The Golden Bough (15 volumes) and a great deal else besides.
Frye’s remarks -- originally delivered as a talk on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s radio network -- were aimed for a much broader public than would have read his then-recent book Anatomy of Criticism, which made its author the most-cited name in Anglophone literary studies until at least the early 1980s. (Frye was professor emeritus of English at Victoria College, University of Toronto, when he died in 1991.) He told listeners that it would require “a great many months of hard work, without distractions, to read completely through Frazer.”
And the dedicated person making the effort probably wouldn’t be an anthropologist. The discipline’s textbooks “were respectful enough about him as a pioneer,” Frye wrote, “but it would have taken a Geiger counter to find much influence of The Golden Bough in them.”
And yet Frazer’s ideas about myth and ritual and his comparative approach to the analysis of symbolism exercised an abiding fascination for other readers -- in part through the echoes of them audible in T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” but also thanks to Frazer’s good sense in preparing an abridged edition of The Golden Bough in one stout volume that it was entirely possible to finish reading in no more than a year.
If you spend much time in libraries these days -- wandering the stacks, that is, rather than sitting at a terminal -- you might have seen other long rows of dark green books with gold lettering, published by the University of Toronto Press and bearing the name of Frye.
The resemblance between The Collected Works of Northrop Frye (in 30 volumes) and the Frazerian monolith is almost certainly intentional, though not the questions such a parallel implies: What do we do with a pioneer whose role is acknowledged and honored, but whose work may be several degrees of separation away from where much of the contemporary intellectual action is? Who visits the monument now? And in search of what?
Part of the answer may be found in Essays on Northrop Frye: Word and Spirit, a new collection of studies by Robert D. Denham, professor emeritus of English at Roanoke College. The publisher named on the title page is Iron Mountain Press of Emory, Va., which appears not to have a website; the listing for the book on Amazon indicates that it is available through CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, a print-on-demand service.
Denham has written or edited more than 30 books by or about Frye, including several volumes of notebooks, diaries, letters and works of fiction in the Collected Works, for which he also prepared the definitive edition of Anatomy of Criticism. The second of the three sections in Word and Spirit (as I prefer to call the new book) consists of essays on the Anatomy, examining Frye’s ideas about rhetoric and the imagination and brandishing them in the face of dismissive remarks by Frederick Crews and Tzvetan Todorov.
Frye’s relative decline as a force to be reckoned with in literary theory was already evident toward the end of his life; at this point the defense of Frygian doctrine may seem like a hopelessly arrière-garde action. (“Frygian” is the preferred term, by the way, at least among the Frygians themselves.) But the waning of his influence at the research-university seminar level is only part of the story, and by no means the most interesting part. The continuing pedagogical value of the Anatomy is suggested by how many of Frye’s ideas and taxonomies have made their way into Advanced Placement training materials. Anyone trying to find a way around in William Blake’s poetic universe can still do no better than to start with Frye’s first book, Fearful Symmetry (1947). Before going to see Shakespeare on stage, I’ve found it worthwhile to see what Frye had to say about the play. Bloggers periodically report reading the Anatomy, or Frye’s two books about the Bible and literature, and having their minds blown.
Northrop Frye is the rare case of a literary theorist whose critical prose continues to be read with interest and profit by people who are not engaged in producing more of the stuff. In the talk on Frazer, he noted that The Golden Bough appealed to artists, poets and “students of certain aspects of religion” -- which seems, on the whole, like a fair guess at the makeup of Frye’s own posthumous constituency.
What’s been lacking is the single-volume, one-stop survey of the Frygian landscape. The Collected Works have complicated things -- not just by being vast and intimidating (and too expensive for most of individuals to afford) but by adding thousands of pages of unpublished material to the already imposing mass of Frye’s work.
Denham is as responsible for adding new turns to the labyrinth as anyone. He is the scholar dedicated enough to have solved the riddle of the great man’s handwriting. Most of the lectures and papers in Essays on Northrop Frye: Word and Spirit draw on the private papers, which are of considerably more than biographical interest. Frye used his notebooks to think out loud and to explain himself to himself, working out the links among the work he’d published and things he wanted to write.
They reveal elements of his inner life that remained unstated, or at most implicit, in Frye’s public writings -- for example, his studies in Buddhist and Hindu thought. He also explored the whole gamut of esoteric and mystical writings from the Corpus Hermeticum and Nicolas of Cusa (respectable) to Madame Blavatsky and Aleister Crowley (shady but undeniably fascinating) to titles such as The Aquarian Conspiracy and Cosmic Trigger: The Final Secret of the Illuminati (“kook books,” as Frye called them). Connections existed between this material and his scholarship (you can’t study Blake or Yeats for long without picking up some Gnosticism and theosophy) but Frye also needed to understand his own religious beliefs and occasional experiences of the ineffable. He was interested in the cosmological side of the literary imagination, but also compelled to figure out his own place in the cosmos.
The drives were mutually reinforcing. But references to these interests in his published work were few and far between, and often enough too oblique to notice. With Denham’s close knowledge of Frye’s writings (scholarly and subterranean alike) Word and Spirit seems like the book that’s been necessary for some while -- the thread that can take readers into the depths of the Frygian labyrinth. So on those grounds, I can recommend it -- without guaranteeing you’ll find the way back out again.