Against better judgment, mind wandering on an Amtrak train last week, I clicked on an Atlantic essay. Published in October of last year, Rose Horowitch’s “The Elite College Students Who Can’t Read Books,” was an evergreen that could’ve run at any time in the past decade, but compared to the hopeful doomsday political click-bait of most Atlantic sludge, this was worthwhile, peppered with anecdotes from professors who’ve thrown up their hands at the declining cultural literacy among the country’s future “elite.”
Whenever I encounter a similar article, I think back to an experience in the spring of 1993. I was in NYC’s Penn Station, buying an LIRR ticket to Huntington to meet a bunch of old classmates from Huntington High School, class of 1973. On line, I was pretty sure a familiar face was right ahead of me. Turned out to be true: Fritz and I did a quick double-take, recognized each other, offered the obligatory “You haven’t changed much,” and slipped into a bar for a couple of beers and smokes to catch up.
A so-so student in high school (and attending a “party” school in Colorado where the skiing and babes were top-caliber), he’d gone on to work at Bear Stearns—and with some fast shuffling, got another position after Bear collapsed in 2008—an arduous job that entailed a lot of traveling and high-level schmoozing of prospective clients across the country, dining at top restaurants, taking in ballgames and dinner-theater shows, the whole traveling salesman (though more lucrative) shtick. We were both attired in the style of the era (pre-Casual Friday), and though I tut-tutted to myself that Fritz was wearing a double-breasted suit with a button-down shirt, I administered five lashes across my back for unwarranted snobbery.
Anyway, as the conversation wound down on the train—there’s only so much to say to a guy you haven’t seen in 20 years—Fritz settled in with a paperback copy of Tama Janowitz’s Slaves of New York, while I lumbered on with a re-read of Norman Mailer’s Armies of the Night. Because that’s what people with a modicum of intelligence and curiosity did. Second-nature. Fritz lived in California, and when opening his briefcase to retrieve a photo of his wife and young son, I noticed two other books and several magazines. There was no way he’d “raw-dog” a flight back to Marin County.
Horowitch spoke to Nicholas Dames, a Columbia University professor who’s taught “Literature Humanities” since 1998. She writes: “Twenty years ago, Dames’s classes had no problem engaging in sophisticated discussions of Pride and Prejudice one week and Crime and Punishment the next. Now his students tell him up front that the reading load feels impossible. It’s not just the frenetic pace; they struggle to attend to small details while keeping track of the overall plot.”
She continues: “At the prep school that I graduated from five years ago, I took a Jane Austen class my senior year. I read only a single Austen novel.” (Maybe that’s why she writes for the Atlantic!) A professor told Horowitch that some smart-aleck students “see reading books as akin to listening to vinyl records—something that a small subculture may still enjoy, but that’s mostly a relic from an earlier time.”
Undoubtedly. The article was confined to the lack of reading, but I wonder if “elite” college students who are, say, pre-meds, skim over the weighty biology texts in favor of Instagram and TikTok; that’s frightening, just as future lawyers in this country—a scuzzy profession to start with—might say fuck it to studying Clarence Darrow, Joseph McCarthy’s “red scare” or the Pentagon Papers.
When I began freshman year in 1973, as an English major, after several days of boozy “orientation,” classes started and I was assigned Middlemarch and Tristram Shandy, with essays on each due for completion in five days. My roommate and I grumbled but got cracking, in addition to the work of three other courses. Because it’s what you did, no questions asked, and it was the norm at mid-level to prestigious universities.
The picture above is of my brother Jeff, seven years old in North Plainfield, New Jersey, out for a jaunt, likely after reading “the funnies” and sports in one of the dailies at the house. He was a lifelong reader, and went on to win a scholar/athlete full-ride scholarship at Brown University in 1962. A different era: one week at Brown and my parents got a call that Jeff was “caught” with a beer can on campus and his scholarship was in jeopardy. Jeff bowed down to the Discipline Committee and all was forgiven. The rest of us at home were relieved since our mom was in crisis mode for two days and very grumpy.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Samuel Beckett’s Molloy, Truman Capote’s The Grass Harp, James Jones’ From Here to Eternity, C.S. Lewis’ Prince Caspian and Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us are published; Nat King Cole’s “Too Young” tops Billboard charts for the year, with Patti Page’s “Tennessee Waltz” not far behind; Lonnie Donegan introduces skiffle to the UK; Tommy Hilfiger is born and Harold Ross dies; The Thing From Another World is released; NATO accepts Greece and Turkey and members; MLB signs a six-year deal for TV and radio rights to the All-Star game; the New York Knicks lose the NBA finals; and Australia wins the Davis Cup.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023