Whatever happened to wit?
Once upon a time, a century ago, smart Americans delighted in the apt quip. At the Algonquin Round Table, cocky mockers honed their repartee to durable perfection. Dorothy Parker (“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”); Robert Benchley (“The free-lance writer is one who is paid per piece or per word or perhaps”); George S. Kauffman (“I like terra firma; the more firma, the less terra”). Groucho Marx, who steered clear of the Algonquin crowd, left an arsenal of zingers (“I never forget a face, but in your case I’ll be glad to make an exception” may be my favorite). Mencken abounds in the quotable (“Every decent man is ashamed of the government he lives under”). Even deadpan President Coolidge aimed the occasional dart (“If you don’t say anything, you won’t be called on to repeat it”).
Why so little snappy snarking today? Plenty of barking, barfing, jeering, sneering. Half of Congress should have their mouths rinsed with soap. The Nameless One mangles syntax as he does everything. (He’s against syntax as he is all taxes, tariffs much better, really great.) Who crafts their critiques memorably? (“The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue,” said Parker.)
Literate discourse depends on literate listeners. Ours is an age of gestures, railing, videos. Wit is elegant, refined, and requires silence to reverberate. Like fencing, to which it’s often likened (as in “rapier wit”), it’s an elegant pastime for a courtly and confident time. Made-for-TV diction is swift, blunt, and crude. We slug with slogans, which are mostly lies. (“The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary,” said Mencken, and it’s only gotten worse.)
A word guy, I sigh for an epoch when careful utterance was creditable, when folks listened to what others said. No doubt I romanticize – Paradise was ever a never-never-land – but our present moment feels qualitatively thuggish, cruel, dangerous. You and I care for exact expression; otherwise, we would not be together here. We are not alone, but we sure are lonely. I’ve given up listening to politicians’ palaver except to marvel at its reliable duplicity: why waste attention on liars?
Civility depends on respectful attention. It means trying to say what you mean as candidly and convincingly as you can. It means assuming, in advance, that others’ words will be worth hearing. That communication, that communion, has vanished from public discourse. Even good folks must turn clowns to seize our notice.
Plus, we’ve lost our sense of humor. This happens in war. We may laugh at – Jon Stewart is a maestro of mockery, one of many – but we do not laugh with. Funny means bashing others’ heads with frying pans, as in old cartoons. Have we outgrown, I can’t help wondering, the innocence of communal hilarity. When last did you feel truly jolly?
The foregoing lament reeks of impotence, even to its author, as antiquated as antimacassars, lace-making, spats. Only old fuddy-duddies pine for good old days that were never that good. Chin up, Carll, buck up, resign yourself to your moment, get cracking!
I would if I could. Only I can’t shake this apocalyptic dread. I wake trembling that we are sliding into a morass of misunderstanding because we’re losing respect for words. Careful saying promotes civility, thus civilization. Grunts and howls are the eloquence of brutes.