I reached this conclusion upon deciding not to read grand magister of American journalism Bob Woodward's latest installment in the "Why Trump Sucks" book series (reports on which have been dominating my news feed for the past year or so), Fear. Part of this is simply that I need no reminder that the current commander-in-chief is an illiterate, reactive oaf. This is pretty fucking self-evident. And part of the reason that I don't pay attention to my news feed anymore is that I need no further reminders of this, nor do I have much patience for the various encomia to only marginally less repulsive figures (looking at you, Comey).
But political books have, by and large, always been awful, given that they are usually designed to either rouse up the base or address hyper-specific moments rather than engage in the sort of deep, long-term analysis and study of historical, cultural, social, economic, environmental, and indeed political trends that make up any kind of real look at the world in which we live. They seem to come into two types.
- Type 1: The Airport Bookstore Version
This version seemed to be omnipresent in the Bush years, both in its liberal versions (such as those by well-meaning amphibian Michael Moore) and its conservative versions (by Sean Hannity or any other American flag lapel-pinned slug-humans who blather on about freedom while happily taking it in the ass from whatever loathsome authoritarian comes their way). You know the type, with the picture of the smiling pundit on the glossy cover and the supposedly incendiary title, jeremiad prose, and lots of floating-block insets of text with glib asides that make the whole damn thing look like “Talking Points for Dummies,” ideal for the sort of reader who buys books not because they enjoy reading but because it was written by their favorite cable news talking head.
- Type 2: The Insider's Approach
These
books usually have a plain-ish cover and a tasteful font, I guess to
indicate that these are Real Books, and quite often have forewords by
US senators. Extensively footnoted and decorated with fleurons at the
beginning of each chapter, these are longer-form versions of the
sorts of articles that appear in the Atlantic
or National Review
that address specific policy issues, and extrapolate to reach the
conclusion that resolving this one particular issue will, in some
way, fix everything. The authors are largely DC types for whom the
lanyard is the equivalent of a teardrop tattooed under the eye, and
who spend a lot of time talking about “healing America's political
divide,” whatever that means.
What
connects the two, other than the subject matter, is their
intellectual myopia. By failing to examine the breadth of history or
ask the necessary and uncomfortable deep questions about the nature
of the discourse which we conduct, what we are left with are the
hollow cheers and boos of the political class at one very specific
moment in time, and they are painfully out of date within months of
their release.
But
this is to be expected, given the denigrated nature of the public
sphere (although “denigrated” makes it sound like there was a
golden age, which there wasn't, and if you don't believe me, read
Dwight MacDonald's “Masscult and Midcult,” a thorough skewering
of the middlebrow faves of the 1950s). Blowhards and Ted-talkers like
Jordan Peterson, Thomas Friedman, or David Brooks have the right
appearance of authority (elderly white men in suits, frequently
bespectacled) and the right jargon to be anointed as serious
intellectuals by a public that has, by and large, never bothered to
understand the humanities and social sciences in any meaningful way.
Sure, there's a lot of very justified frustration nowadays with the
rise of Internet conspiracy theories and clickbait journalism, but so
many of the same people who get in a tizzy about these things are
just as likely to be taken in by these fucking hucksters.
For
a long time, I felt the need to keep up with these things in the
spirit of being an informed citizen. But then again, I don't go to
Marvel movies because, no matter how big a part they are of the
dialogue at large, I don't care about how the magic man feels sad
even though he's magic. And likewise, I don't care to read some
commentator's painfully oversincere takes on the past week and what
it means for America.
But
when I read a book by David Foster Wallace or Thomas Pynchon or Joan
Didion, then everything becomes crystalline, and it does so because,
while very much of a time, it is ruthless in its analysis. Or
if I do want to read something explicitly political, I'll have a look
at any article in the Jacobin,
which in one issue contains more wisdom, insight, and analysis than
the complete oeuvre of a mediocrity like Chris Hedges or Bill Maher.
And
therein, I think, layeth the path to liberation. Not in any political
sense, mind you, but psychically. To be both more able to comprehend
the world around me more clearly and to engage in a more meaningful
dialogue, I have to turn off the white noise, and while the world is
not necessarily any prettier, it is freer of artifice. And damn, the
clouds are nice this afternoon.
