I’ve realized I have a problem with writing this blog, apart from lack of time and a general aversion to the genre. What should I write about? The natural impulse is to write about what I’m thinking about, what I’m working on. But there are two reasons against this: (i) I don’t want to write poor formulations of ideas that need a lot more space and time to formulate well, and (ii) I don’t want to put my new ideas into the blogosphere where they can become anybody’s property but mine. So I need to write about something less central to my intellectual concerns–but that just isn’t very appealing. I end up writing about things that have caught my fancy recently or that I think might be helpful to people (boring!). Or else I just talk about tennis, which is fine by me but not perhaps of interest to most readers of this “intellectual” blog. I can say that I gave my last lecture of the semester yesterday, which is why I felt free today to do a bit of blogging, pointless though it may be.
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It had been dawning on me that it was a defect in my tennis game that I wasn’t getting to the ball early enough, in time to set up properly and hit with control (the strokes themselves were okay). Watching Melanie Oudin play brought this home to me: she uses her feet to fine-tune her shot, making sure she gets into perfect position–and she’s very quick. Well, we are both the same height (with a slight difference in age), so I decided to try to copy her. Using my ball machine I practiced a drill in which I had to run to the ball, get planted, and hit the ball with good balance and preparation, not rushing the shot. I did 70 of these with backhand slice, 70 with topspin, and 70 with forehand drive–all in the beating sun. Not easy. Then I played my trainer today, David. I could feel the difference in my game right away: being ready in good time to make the stroke (“the readiness is all,” as Hamlet says, obviously thinking of tennis). For the first time in the three years I’ve been playing him I beat him in a game to eleven (11/9)–and he’s a very good player who doesn’t like to lose. “Today you made a breakthrough,” he said. So, Melanie, thanks for the lesson.
Meanwhile, there are no family resemblance concepts, the world is made of mystery meat, motion is an illusion, and the essence of man is self-disgust (to be continued…).
I’m just writing this now to signal my return and test my new site. I just finished the semester, having spent much of it teaching philosophy of sport and tennis (“tennis” here does not come within the scope of “philosophy”–I was teaching my students how to play tennis, not philosophize about it).
Our new president has literary and athletic skills. Not only can he write and speak eloquently and grammatically (his inauguration speech was meticulously crafted); he is also a fluent mover on the basketball court, with good coordination and ball sense. His predecessor was notoriously clumsy around language; he spoke as if language were a disease from which he was trying to recover (I’ve often wondered how bad his spelling and grammar are). His athletic activities seem confined to jogging and mountain-biking, neither of which require much in the way of skill or talent. His father can play tennis reasonably and the son must have been exposed to the game as a youngster–yet you never hear of George W. on the court. I suspect his athletic preferences reflect a simple lack of (a) talent and (b) dedication. There is thus a striking difference of skill in the two presidents–in language and in athletics. I suspect this tells us a lot about both men–about their natural abilities, their capacity for hardwork and focus, their level of confidence, their treatment of others. Obama, as a ball player, had to learn to work with others; Bush just churned away on his own. Obama grasped and exploited the power of language; Bush seems to hate language, or at least not to be on its good side. Above all, I see in Obama all the virtues of carefully acquired skill–intellectual and athletic. In Bush I saw clumsiness and indolence.
Most Americans have no trouble believing that God exists, but they are uncertain about whether an American ruling class exists. They seem to think the idea of a ruling class is restricted to European aristocracies of yore and assorted eastern potentates of today. InThe American Ruling Class Lewis Lapham takes a wry trip across America, ostensibly to educate two fresh-faced graduates about the ways of power and privilege. Some of their interlocutors express puzzlement about the very idea of a ruling class in America, while others seize on the phrase with palpable disdain for anyone who has doubts about the concept. The result of these conversations is instructive and sobering; I was particularly struck by the sheer difficulty of living in America on a standard working wage—the kind a waiter might expect to earn. Clearly, some people earn too little, while others “earn” too much. Surely there can be no serious doubt that a minority of the population commands more power per capita than the majority: some people own disproportionately large amounts and have access to political power that is commensurate to their wealth. If that is what we mean by a ruling class, then there indubitably exists one in America.
But the matter is a bit more complicated than the filmmakers allow. First, the American ruling class, unlike old aristocracies, is not hereditary: you can become a member of it without being born into it. As many commentators in this film observe, it is possible to join the class from outside of it: an education at a prestigious university, along with some charm and ability, can earn you entry to, say, a Wall Street brokerage. This is very different from the British ruling class, say, which cannot invite you to join it (not that it would want to). So there is an element of meritocracy in the American version, which
mitigates the charge of injustice that is rightly brought against hereditary wealth and power (though having rich parents in America is definitely a step in the right direction).
Secondly, and the point is entirely ignored in this otherwise excellent film, the wealth and power of the minority in America depends very largely on pleasing the relatively underprivileged majority. If you are the CEO of a corporation that makes stuff, you have to make stuff that the majority wants to buy—even if that majority is poorly off. You can’t afford not to care what the majority feels like buying and doing. This holds for all consumer goods and services except the luxury end of the market. The demands of the multitude therefore set the parameters for the prosperity of the elite. And the multitude also determines the kind of general culture that prevails in America—food, entertainment, etc. The masses may not have much power on a per capita basis, but they certainly have enormous power as a totality, through sheer force of numbers. Accordingly, the ruling class of America might with some justice be identified as the relatively poor majority, since they determine who among the oligarchs succeeds in the marketplace (Bill Gates couldn’t have done it unless people wanted what he had to sell). In other words, the working class is really the ruling class, while the upper class is pathetically subservient to their interests and preferences.
My point is not that working people are better off than people who earn a lot more; on a per capita basis there lives are nowhere near as good. But the sheer number of them, combined with a democratic form of capitalism, gives them more power as a class than any other class. True, they have no lobbyists in Washington pushing their agenda, but their combined purchasing power is what ultimately makes the rich richer. The preferences of the majority have decisive power in determining the content of the culture. (This is why the business class is so intent on manipulating the majority: they know they depend on the majority to maintain their privilege.)
The right thing to say, absent a political ax to grind, is that America has many ruling classes, depending upon what we mean by the term and what the power in question is the power to do. In some respects, even the humble teacher or academic constitutes the ruling class, since she has the power to determine how people shall be educated. The people who run the media also rule the dissemination of information, so have more power in that respect than anyone else. And so on. The simple binary opposition of The American Ruling Class fails to capture this complexity—however right it is about the unjust concentration of wealth in the hands of some at the expense of others. The film contrives to give the impression that what is wrong with America is that too much power lies in the hands of a privileged minority; but from another perspective the problem is rather that culture and policy are too tied to what the majority likes and values (food, television, music, etc). I’d say that the problem is the symbiosis between these two groups: the elite is beholden to the masses to maintain its power, because of the omnipresence of the market, while the masses are deprived of a decent share of the wealth created by their work and market behavior. The ruling class of America is really the elite-proletarian complex—the interdependence of business oligarchs and the consuming masses.
I’ve just finished reading Rose George’s The Big Necessity, about toilets and human waste (euphemism alert!)–as part of my interest in the emotion of disgust. I’d strongly recommend Aurel Kolnai’s monograph “On Disgust” as a philosophical treatment of the subject; it contains some excellent phenomenological work with some important conceptual distinctions (far better than most of what passes for work on the emotions in current analytical philosophy). But Ms. George brings out the medical/cultural/political aspects of the problem of our disgusting bodies–what to do with and about all the shit we produce. The effects on health of inadequate toilets in the “turd world” (Naipaul) are catastrophic, but the sheer unpleasantness of living near human excrement is also appalling. Yet most people don’t want to have to think about it, because of the distastefulness of the topic: no celebrity wants to hitch herself to the shit bandwagon. Our general repression of matters disgusting prevents us facing up to a serious health problem. If we are the “god that shits” (E. Becker), then we are in full flight from ourselves. I even wonder whether religion itself and the whole idea of a god is produced by our self-disgust.