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Two of them, this time. Pretend there’s no paragraph break. From Adam Gopnik’s review of declinist literature in the 12 September 2011 New Yorker:

Despite their title [of That Used to Be Us], the authors [Thomas Friedman and Michael Mandelbaum] seem, for instance, determined to avoid the obvious point that one American who shares their outlook and ambitions in almost every detail—who hates partisan wrangling, doubts the wisdom of big foreign wars, proposes a faith in a brisk mixture of private enterprise and public guarantees, accepts the priority of rebuilding our infrastructure—is the President of the United States. If he’s been frustrated, it’s not because of some vague “systemic” political paralysis. It’s because, as he has been startled to discover … there is another side, inexorably opposed to these apparently good things. The reason we don’t have beautiful new airports and efficient bullet trains is not that we have inadvertently stumbled upon stumbling blocks; it’s that there are considerable numbers of Americans for whom these things are simply symbols of a feared central government, and who would, when they travel, rather sweat in squalor than surrender the money to build a better terminal. They hate fast trains and efficient airports for the same reason that seventeenth-century Protestant hates the beautiful Baroque churches of Rome when they saw them: they were luxurious symbols of an earthly power they despised. Friedman and Mandelbaum wring their hands at “our” unwillingness to sacrifice our comforts on behalf of our principles, but Americans are perfectly willing to sacrifice their comforts for their ideological convictions. We don’t have a better infrastructure or decent elementary education exactly because many people are willing to sacrifice faster movement between our great cities, or better informed children, in support of their belief that the government should always be given as little money as possible.

The reasons for these feelings are, of course, complex, with a noble reason descending from the Revolutionary War, and its insistence on liberty at all costs, and an ignoble one descending from the Civil War and its creation of a permanent class of white men convinced that they are besieged by an underclass they regard as the subsidized wards of the federal government. (Thus the curious belief that a worldwide real-estate crisis that his the north of Spain and the east of Ireland as hard as the coast of Florida was the fault of money loaned by Washington to black people.) But the crucial point is that this is the result of an active choice, not passive indifference: people who don’t want high-speed rail are not just indifferent to fast trains. They are offended by fast trains, as the New York Post is offended by bike lanes and open-air plazas: these things give too much pleasure to those they hate. They would rather have exhaust and noise and traffic jams, if such things sufficiently annoy liberals. Annoying liberals is a pleasure well worth paying for. As a recent study in the social sciences shows [PDF], if energy use in a household is monitored so that you can watch yourself saving money every month by using less, self-identified conservatives will actually use and spend more, apparently as a way of showing their scorn for liberal pieties…. The kind of outlook that Friedman and Mandelbaum assume is somehow natural to mankind and has been thwarted here recently—a broad-minded view of maximizing future utility—has, from a historical perspective, a constituency so small as to be essentially nonexistent. In the long story of civilization, the moments when improving your lot beats out annoying your neighbor are vanishingly rare.

“‘Getting kind of’?” (This is you talking back at me.) “Try ‘always has been’.”

I know, right? It’s like an advertisement for my own dull self-importance. I should spend more time dishing, or endorsing products and various artworks. But I consume artworks years after the Internet does, because I am cheap. Did you see Source Code? It was kind of great. Also: D’Agata’s About a Mountain.

At any rate, this is from September’s Harper’s, specifically Garret Keizer’s cover story on teaching (all of which is incredibly great, to the point that I may actually sit down and dorkily write Mr. Keizer a letter telling him so):

One of the more remarkable and, I think, telling things about the teaching trade is the number of people who need to believe that you love it. Ever since leaving the classroom in the mid-Nineties and throughout the past year I found people asking if I missed teaching or had plans to take it up again. They didn’t want to know; they wanted to hear me say yes. Some didn’t bother to ask. “I know the pay is not the greatest, but you’re doing what you love”—a sentiment that puts me in mind of the trope of the happy slave. In fact, our word pedagogue derives from a Greek word for a type of slave who led children to school [true! ugh!]. Jim is Huck Finn’s teacher not only in spirit but in accordance with an ancient tradition. This is not to suggest that contemporary teachers are slaves or that I was ever treated like one, only that I am inclined to distrust people who expect me to work for love, or who need a sentimental mythology to gloss over the impossibilities of my job and the daily injustices it lays bare.

It occurs to me that Robin Williams has played this mythic teacher twice. But then again he had to star in both Jack and Bicentennial Man so I guess that’s penance enough.

(Insider for teachers only [everyone else click away], a sentence from elsewhere in the piece: “I did on one or two occasions tell my students they were living in a society that values people of their age, region, and class primarily as cannon fodder, cheap labor, and gullible consumers, and that education could give them some of the weapons necessary to fight back.” Believing in this sentence’s truth makes me feel naive and now I know what faith feels like.)

From David Thomson’s “When Is a Movie Great?” from the July Harper’s:

I love Citizen Kane. I have nothing against it winning [British film magazine Sight & Sound‘s annual best-movie-ever poll] forever, if we must have a best film of all time. (And we don’t; few of us would seriously heed the call for the greatest symphony, novel, painting, building, Indian dinner, or soccer match.) But Kane isn’t a dinosaur, despite its lofty placement. Seventy years after its opening, we still feel the ways in which Orson Welles enlarged the language of film and the scope of its storytelling. Citizen Kane is a tragedy about the evanescence of meaning, and (by today’s standards) a searching inquiry into character and the nature of power in America. When some claimed that last year’s The Social Network was the “new Citizen Kane,” that was an indicator of falling standards and a valiant effort to keep movies “relevant.” The Social Network is a smart, narrow entertainment, full of spite. Citizen Kane is beautiful because it means so much, yet finds that meaning has become a lost world.