In Song of Myself, Walt Whitman asks a question that has been repeated by many contemporary Americans: “Why should I venerate and be ceremonious?” When egalitarians rule the cultural roost, veneration is to be eliminated like nuclear energy, and candor—interpreted as not revealing personal wants—is the one trait that can excuse all personal faults. “Tell it like it is”—a cliché whose time has fortunately passed—is recalled as a criticism of most conventional ceremonies from the 1960s to the present.
While I would argue this distaste for veneration is now more extreme than it was in earlier periods, it is nonetheless an American tradition that goes back to the nineteenth-century transcendentalists, who associated tributes with deceit, circumlocution, and external appearances. A ritual deceremonialization often took the form of opposing authority, institutions, tradition, and tributes, although it had its positive side in the elevation of the common man and a romance with nature. Veneration of the past was the obstacle that stood in the way of liberation. It is what Huckleberry Finn and Holden Caulfield agreed on even though they spoke with different generational voices, and it is the one slim thread that ties Hawthorne’s fables to Charles Reich’s jean-clad Con III hippies.
What Tom Wolfe and Christopher Lasch described as contemporary narcissism is in part related to the dislike of trumpery and tradition. It is what one does for oneself at this moment that counts. Obviously, it would be impossible to consider tributes when one doesn’t have the time or the patience to do anything other than engage in self-fulfillment, which in its own unique way is fast becoming an unconventional rite at odds with conventions. The neo-narcissist is so concerned with realizing his potential that he reflexively avoids being locked into roles and commitments, much less bringing attention to the accomplishments of others.
The result of this disregard is that lives, even special lives, have no special meaning; they simply happen: there is no way of distinguishing between benchmark moments in history and any other time. The ties to an organic past are severed, setting us adrift in a sea of relative values. In the act of opposing formal tribute, we have undermined history; in our pursuit of equality, we have lost gallantry; in our self-concern, we have lost courtliness; in our desire for televised entertainment, we have lost the ceremony of dinner conversation. There are more people who make excuses for those who refuse to pay tribute to others, but in the process our sense of decency is diminished and we cannot stand firm against that “fierce and riotous blaze”—Hawthorne’s phase—around us.
In Tributes, Irving Louis Horowitz, the retired professor of sociology and political science at Rutgers University and author of The Decomposition of Sociology (1994), among many other books, engages us in a conversation with social thinkers who influenced his perspective. While he does not always agree with the scholars he describes, he notes—most generously in my view—”that civility and decency in human discourse” is not possible “if we select ideological purity as a litmus test for evaluating the work of others.” Figures as different as Russell Kirk and C. Wright Mills, for example, are treated with respect and unfailing fairness.
This is a book of great power; it evoked memories of distant days and tears for those I miss. It is hard to know what these people have in common other than crossing into I. L. Horowitz’s intellectual sphere. These creative talents may not be household names, but each in his idiosyncratic way was a creative force forging what we might loosely call the social theory of the twentieth century.
As Horowitz notes, reading these profiles allows one to engage in “this endlessly wonderful game of coming to terms with ourselves.” Horowitz clearly understands that paying tribute to others forces us to consider our likes and dislikes and offers order to a discordant universe. These thinkers parade through the corridors of history, opening and closing doors, and occasionally allow a light to burst into our mental lives that shatters illusions and frees us from the shadows of mythology.
Horowitz says this book is not autobiographical; he has published a childhood memoir entitled Daydreams and Nightmares. Yet as I see it, he has now written an inadvertent biographical statement, a recognition of the important voices that spoke to him directly and indirectly. He notes that Tributes is “a way to put myself in a world beyond myself.” Surely these people helped to shape him, and just as surely the act of selection reveals a great deal about I. L. Horowitz, the scholar and man.
While it would be impossible in the confines of this review to consider the fifty profiles Horowitz presents, I have selected two people I know well to explain: C. Wright Mills and Peter Shaw.
Mills was sui generis; brilliant, acerbic, erratic, and, in the end, deeply ideological. Professor Horowitz notes accurately that near the end of his days Mills the radical became Mills the polemicist. I remember saying to him in a moment of audacity that his one-dimensional treatment of the United Fruit Company in Listen Yankee! was inconsistent with the evidence. With a wave of his hand I was dismissed, along with a comment that he had “a point to make.” Indeed he did, but it was a dangerous point and a point that offered intellectual ammunition for Castro sympathizers.
Peter Shaw by contrast was a level-headed polymath; gifted, enthusiastic, and careful in his assertions. One friend we had in common called Peter “the Fred Astaire of intellectuals.”
I. L. Horowitz is quite right in contending that Peter’s life merits celebration. Although he was not a trained social theorist, Peter stepped beyond the boundaries of literary criticism—his chosen field—and wrote poignantly on topics as varied as social dancing and cultural degradation.
If Mills grew antipathetic to American goals as he aged, Peter became increasingly fascinated with the roots of American discourse and habits. While Mills could be curt and crusty, Peter was invariably kind and gentlemanly. Nothing gave Peter greater satisfaction than being able to help a friend. He cared not a wit about credit or acclaim. Seeing others succeed was more than sufficient reward.
Horowitz quotes John Adams, who said, “I must think myself independent, as long as I live. The feeling is essential to my existence.” That, curiously enough, is an epitaph for both Peter Shaw and C. Wright Mills, and for many of the other distinguished scholars and authors Horowitz chose to profile.
Near the end of this interesting book, Horowitz tells of the encounter between Ludwig Wittgenstein and Karl Popper, an encounter related by two journalists with the BBC and repeated by many others. Although what took place has entered the realm of mythology where various interpretations abound, one ten-minute engagement had the capacity to enlarge epistemological considerations of the past century.
Popper put forward a series of philosophical problems which Wittgenstein summarily dismissed. When Wittgenstein challenged Popper for an example of moral rule, Popper replied by invoking the claim, “Thou shalt not threaten visiting lecturers with pokers.” Supposedly Wittgenstein, who had been waving the poker, “threw the poker down and stormed out of the room, banging the door behind him.”
To his credit, Horowitz recognizes that the most important issue raised in this tale is the nature of knowledge as such. Surely solipsism and a touch of hubris are evident in the various renditions of Wittgenstein’s Poker, and just as surely the positivist (Wittgenstein) and questioner of scientific truth (Popper) viewed epistemological questions differently. To claim truth for either stance would be absurd; after all, it is the search that intoxicates even if the goal is elusive.
Let me return to Walt Whitman’s question: “Why should I venerate?” In the act of veneration, in paying tribute, we learn about our traditions. In the selection of those we choose to venerate, we learn about ourselves.
I. L. Horowitz has performed yet another valuable service in a career filled with achievement. He has given us a peek into his world and I, for one, am grateful to meet and revisit his advisers and friends. He ends on this telling note: “No higher purpose can be obtained than this fusion of who we are and how others made our existence possible and meaningful.” Amen.