Amusing
Ourselves to
Death
Public Discourse
in the Age of
Show Business
Neil Postman
New Introduction by Andrew Postman
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First published in the United States of America by Viking Penguin Inc. 1985
Published in Penguin Books 1986
This edition with an introduction by Andrew Postman published 2006
10 9 8 7 6 5 4
Copyright © Neil Postman, 1985
Introduction copyright © Andrew Postman, 2005
All rights reserved
Grateful acknowledgment is made to The New York Times Company for permission to reprint
from "Combining TV, Books, Computers" by Edward Fiske, which appeared in the August 7,
1984, issue of The New York Times. Copyright © 1984 by The New York Times Company.
A section of this book was supported by a commission from the Annenberg Scholars Program,
Annenberg School of Communications, University of Southern California. Specifically, portions
of chapters six and seven formed part of a paper delivered at the Scholars Conference,
"Creating Meaning: Literacies of Our Time," February 1984.
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE HARDCOVER EDITION AS FOLLOWS.
Postman, Neil.
Amusing ourselves to death.
Bibliography: p. 173.
Includes index.
1. Mass Media—Influence. I. Title.
P94.P63 1986 302.2'34 86-9513
ISBN 0 14 30.3653 X
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Contents
Introduction to the Twentieth Anniversary Edition
In 1985 . . .
xvii
Foreword
xix
Part I
1. The Medium Is the Metaphor
2. Media as Epistemology
3. Typographic America
3
16
30
4. The Typographic Mind
44
5. The Peek-a-Boo World
64
Part II
6. The Age of Show Business
7. "Now . . . This"
83
99
8. Shuffle Off to Bethlehem
114
9. Reach Out and Elect Someone
10. Teaching as an Amusing Activity
11. The Huxleyan Warning
Notes
165
Bibliography
Index
177
173
155
125
142
vii
Introduction to the Twentieth
Anniversary Edition
Now this?
A book of social commentary published twenty years ago?
You're not busy enough writing e-mails, returning calls, downloading tunes, playing games (online, PlayStation, Game Boy),
checking out Web sites, sending text messages, IM'ing, Tivoing,
watching what you've Tivoed, browsing through magazines
and newspapers, reading new books—now you've got to stop
and read a book that first appeared in the last century, not to
mention the last millennium? Come on. Like your outlook on
today could seriously be rocked by this plain-spoken provocation about The World of 1985, a world yet to be infiltrated by
the Internet, cell phones, PDAs, cable channels by the hundreds, DVDs, call-waiting, caller ID, blogs, flat-screens, HDTV,
and iPods? Is it really plausible that this slim volume, with its
once-urgent premonitions about the nuanced and deep-seated
perils of television, could feel timely today, the Age of Computers? Is it really plausible that this book about how TV is turning all public life (education, religion, politics, journalism) into
entertainment; how the image is undermining other forms of
communication, particularly the written word; and how our
bottomless appetite for TV will make content so abundantly
available, context be damned, that we'll be overwhelmed by
"information glut" until what is truly meaningful is lost and
we no longer care what we've lost as long as we're being
amused. . . . Can such a book possibly have relevance to you
and The World of 2006 and beyond?
vii
Introduction to the Twentieth Anniversary Edition
viii
I think you've answered your own question.
I, too, think the answer is yes, but as Neil Postman's son, I'm
biased. Where are we to find objective corroboration that reading Amusing Ourselves to Death in 2006, in a society that worships
TV and technology as ours does, is nearly an act of defiance,
one of those I-didn't-realize-it-was-dark-until-someone-flippedthe-switch encounters with an illuminating intellect? Let's not
take the word of those who studied under my father at New
York University, many of whom have gone on to teach in their
own college (and occasionally high school) courses what he
argues in these pages. These fine minds are, as my father's
was, of a bygone era, a different media environment, and their
biases may make them, as they made him, hostage of another
time, perhaps incapable of seeing the present world as it is
rather than as they'd like it to be. (One man's R rating is another's PG-13.) And just to make a clean slate of it, let's not
rely, either, on the opinions of the numerous readers of the
original edition of Amusing Ourselves to Death (translated into a
dozen languages, including German, Indonesian, Turkish,
Danish and, most recently, Chinese), so many of whom wrote
to my father, or buttonholed him at public speaking events, to
tell him how dead-on his argument was. Their support, while
genuine, was expressed over the last two decades, so some of
it might be outdated. We'll disregard the views of these teachers and students, businesspeople and artists, conservatives and
liberals, atheists and churchgoers, and all those parents. (We'll
also disregard Roger Waters, cofounder of the legendary band
Pink Floyd, whose solo album, Amused to Death, was inspired
by the book. Go, Dad.)
So whose opinion matters?
In rereading this book to figure out what might be said
about it twenty years later, I tried to think the way my father
would, since he could no longer. He died in October 2003, at
age seventy-two. Channeling him, I realized immediately who
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ix
offers the best test of whether Amusing Ourselves to Death is still
relevant.
College kids.
Today's eighteen-to-twenty-two-year-olds live in a vastly
different media environment from the one that existed in
1985. Their relationship to TV differs. Back then, MTV was in
its late infancy. Today, news scrolls and corner-of-the-screen
promos and "reality" shows and infomercials and nine hundred channels are the norm. And TV no longer dominates the
media landscape. "Screen time" also means hours spent in
front of the computer, video monitor, cell phone, and handheld. Multitasking is standard. Communities have been replaced
by demographics. Silence has been replaced by background
noise. It's a different world.
(It's different for all of us, of course—children, young teens,
parents, seniors—but college kids form an especially rich
grouping, poised between innocence and sophistication, respect and irreverence.)
When today's students are assigned Amusing Ourselves to
Death, almost none of them have heard of Neil Postman or
been exposed to his ideas (he wrote more than twenty books,
on such subjects as education, language, childhood, and technology), suggesting that their views, besides being pertinent,
are relatively uncorrupted. I called several of my father's former students who are now teachers, and who teach Amusing
Ourselves to Death in courses that examine some cross-section of
ideas about TV, culture, computing, technology, mass media,
communications, politics, journalism, education, religion, and
language. I asked the teachers what their students thought of
the book, particularly its timeliness. The teachers were kind
enough to share many of their students' thoughts, from papers
and class discussion.
"In the book [Postman] makes the point that there is no reflection time in the world anymore," said a student named
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x
Jonathan. "When I go to a restaurant, everyone's on their cell
phone, talking or playing games. I have no ability to sit by myself and just think." Said Liz: "It's more relevant now. In class we
asked if, now that there's cable, which there really wasn't when
the book was written, are there channels that are not just about
entertainment? We tried to find one to disprove his theory. One
kid said the Weather Channel but another mentioned how they
have all those shows on tornadoes and try to make weather
fun. The only good example we came up with was C-SPAN,
which no one watches." Cara: "Teachers are not considered
good if they don't entertain their classes." Remarked Ben
(whose professor called him the "class skeptic," and who, when
the book was assigned, groaned, "Why do we have to read
this?"): "Postman says TV makes everything about the present—
and there we were, criticizing the book because it wasn't published yesterday." Reginald: "This book is not just about TV."
Sandra: "The book was absolutely on target about the 2004 presidential election campaign and debates." One student pointed
out that Arnold Schwarzenegger announced his candidacy for
the California governorship on The Tonight Show. Maria noted
that the oversimplification and thinking "fragmentation" promoted by TV-watching may have contributed to our Red State/
Blue State polarization. Another noted the emergence of a
new series of "Bible magazines," whose cover format is modeled on teen magazines, with cover lines like "Top 10 Tips to
Getting Closer to God"—"it's religion mimicking an MTV kind
of world," said the student. Others wondered if the recent
surge in children diagnosed with attention deficit disorder was
an indication of a need to be constantly stimulated.
Kaitlin switched her major to print journalism after reading
the book. Andrea would recommend it to anyone concerned
with media ethics. Mike said even those who won't agree with
the book's arguments—as he did not—should still read it, to be
provoked. Many students ("left wingers and right wingers
both," said the professor) were especially taken with my fa-
Introductionto the Twentieth Anniversary Edition
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ther's "Now . . . this" idea: the phenomenon whereby the reporting of a horrific event—a rape or a five-alarm fire or global
warming—is followed immediately by the anchor's cheerfully
exclaiming "Now . . . this," which segues into a story about
Janet Jackson's exposed nipple or a commercial for lite beer,
creating a sequencing of information so random, so disparate
in scale and value, as to be incoherent, even psychotic.
Another teacher remarked that students love how the book is
told—by a writer who's at heart a storyteller. "They love that he
refers to books and people they've heard of," she said. Alison:
"He doesn't dumb it down—he makes allusions to great art and
poetry." Matt said that, ironically, "Postman proves you can be
entertaining—and without a single picture." Of her students'
impressions, one teacher said, "He speaks to them without jargon, in a way in which they feel respected. They feel he's just
having a conversation with them, but inspiring them to think at
the same time." Another professor noted that "kids come to the
conclusion that TV is almost exclusively interested in presenting show business and sensationalism and in making money.
Amazing as it seems, they had never realized that before."
It no doubt appears to you that, after all my grand talk of objectivity, I've stacked the deck in favor of the book's virtue. But
that's honestly the overwhelming reaction—at least among a
slice of Generation Y, a population segment that one can imagine has as many reasons not to like the book as to like it. One
professor said that in a typical class of twenty-five students who
read the book, twenty-three will write papers that either praise,
or are animated by, its ideas; two will say the book was a stupid
waste of time. A 92 percent rating? There's no one who expresses an idea—certainly no politician—who wouldn't take
that number.
Of course, students had criticisms of the book, too. Many
didn't appreciate the assault on television—a companion to
them, a source of pleasure and comfort—and felt as if they
had to defend their culture. Some considered TV their parents'
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culture, not theirs—they are of the Internet—so the book's theses were less relevant. Some thought my father was anti-change,
that he so exalted the virtues fostered by the written word and its
culture, he was not open to acknowledging many of the positive
social improvements TV had brought about, and what a democratic and leveling force it could be. Some disagreed with his assessment that TV is in complete charge: remote control, an
abundance of channels, and VCRs and DVRs all enable you to
"customize" your programming, even to skip commercials. A
common critique was that he should have offered solutions; you
can't put the toothpaste back in the tube, after all, so what now?
And there was this: Yeah, what he said in 1985 had come
startlingly true, we had amused ourselves to death . . . so why
read it?
One professor uses the book in conjunction with an experiment she calls an "e-media fast." For twenty-four hours, each
student must refrain from electronic media. When she announces the assignment, she told me, 90 percent of the students shrug, thinking it's no big deal. But when they realize all
the things they must give up for a whole day—cell phone,
computer, Internet, TV, car radio, etc.—"they start to moan
and groan." She tells them they can still read books. She acknowledges it will be a tough day, though for roughly eight of
the twenty-four hours they'll be asleep. She says if they break
the fast—if they answer the phone, say, or simply have to
check e-mail—they must begin from scratch.
"The papers I get back are amazing," says the professor.
"They have titles like 'The Worst Day of My Life' or 'The Best
Experience I Ever Had,' always extreme. 'I thought I was going
to die,' they'll write. 'I went to turn on the TV but if I did I realized, my God, I'd have to start all over again.' Each student
has his or her own weakness—for some it's TV, some the cell
phone, some the Internet or their PDA. But no matter how
much they hate abstaining, or how hard it is to hear the phone
ring and not answer it, they take time to do things they
Introduction to the Twentieth Anniversary Edition
xiii
haven't done in years. They actually walk down the street to
visit their friend. They have extended conversations. One
wrote, 'I thought to do things I hadn't thought to do ever.' The
experience changes them. Some are so affected that they determine to fast on their own, one day a month. In that course
I take them through the classics—from Plato and Aristotle
through today—and years later, when former students write
or call to say hello, the thing they remember is the media fast."
Like the media fast, Amusing Ourselves to Death is a call to action. It is, in my father's words, "an inquiry . . . and a lamentation," yes, but it aspires to greater things. It is an exhortation to
do something. It's a counterpunch to what my father thought
daily TV news was: "inert, consisting of information that gives
us something to talk about but cannot lead to any meaningful
action." Dad was a lover of history, a champion for collective
memory and what we now quaintly refer to as "civilizing influences," but he did not live in the past. His book urges us to
claim a way to be more alert and engaged. His ideas are still
here, he isn't, and it's time for the reins to be grabbed by those
of a new generation, natives of this brave new world who understand it better.
Twenty years isn't what it used to be. Where once it stood
for a single generation, now it seems to stand for three. Everything moves faster. "Change changed," my father wrote in another book.
A lot has changed since this book appeared. News consumption among the young is way down. Network news and entertainment divisions are far more entwined, despite protests
(some genuine, some perhaps not) by the news divisions.
When Jon Stewart, host of Comedy Central's The Daily Show,
went on CNN's Crossfire to make this very point—that serious
news and show business ought to be distinguishable, for the
sake of public discourse and the republic—the hosts seemed
incapable of even understanding the words coming out of his
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xiv
mouth. The sound bite is now more like a sound nibble, and
it's rare, even petulant, to hear someone challenge its absurd
insubstantiality; "the question of how television affects us has
receded into the background" (Dad's words, not mine, from
1985). Fox News has established itself, and thrived. Corporate
conglomeration is up, particularly among media companies.
Our own media companies don't provide truly gruesome war
images as part of the daily news, but then they didn't do so
twenty years ago either (though forty years ago they did). The
quality of graphics (i.e., the reality quotient) of computer and
video games is way up. Communities exist that didn't, thanks
to the Internet, particularly peer-to-peer computing. A new
kind of collaborative creativity abounds, thanks to the "open
source" movement, which gave us the Linux operating system.
However, other communities are collapsing: Far fewer people
join clubs that meet regularly, fewer families eat dinner together, and people don't have friends over or know their
neighbors the way they used to. More school administrators
and politicians and business executives hanker to wire schools
for computers, as if that is the key to improving American education. The number of hours the average American watches
TV has remained steady, at about four and a half hours a day,
every day (by age sixty-five, a person will have spent twelve
uninterrupted years in front of the TV). Childhood obesity is
way up. Some things concern our children more than they
used to, some not at all. Maybe there's more hope than there
was, maybe less. Maybe the amount is a constant.
Substantive as this book is, it was predicated on a "hook":
that one British writer (George Orwell) with a frightening vision of the future, a vision that many feared would come true,
was mostly off-base, while another British writer (Aldous
Huxley) with a frightening vision of the future, a vision less
well-known and less feared, was scarily on target. My father
argued his point, persuasively, but it was a point for another
time—the Age of Television. New technologies and media are
Introduction to the Twentieth Anniversary Edition
xv
in the ascendancy. Fortunately—and this, more than anything,
is what I think makes Amusing Ourselves to Death so emphatically relevant—my father asked such good questions that they
can be asked of non-television things, of all sorts of transforming developments and events that have happened since 1985,
and since his death, and of things still unformed, for generations to come (though "generations to come" may someday
mean a span of three years). His questions can be asked about
all technologies and media. What happens to us when we become infatuated with and then seduced by them? Do they free
us or imprison us? Do they improve or degrade democracy?
Do they make our leaders more accountable or less so? Our
system more transparent or less so? Do they make us better
citizens or better consumers? Are the trade-offs worth it? If
they're not worth it, yet we still can't stop ourselves from embracing the next new thing because that's just how we're
wired, then what strategies can we devise to maintain control?
Dignity? Meaning? My father was not a curmudgeon about all
this, as some thought. It was never optimism he lacked; it was
certainty. "We must be careful in praising or condemning because the future may hold surprises for us," he wrote. Nor did
he fear TV across the board (as some thought). Junk television
was fine. "The A-Team and Cheers are no threat to our public
health," he wrote. "60 Minutes, Eyewitness News, and Sesame
Street are."
A student of Dad's, a teacher himself, says his own students are
more responsive to Amusing Ourselves to Death, not less, than they
were five or ten years ago. "When the book first came out, it was
ahead of its time, and some people didn't understand its reach,"
he says. "It's a twenty-first century book published in the twentieth century." In 1986, soon after the book was published and had
started to make ripples, Dad was on ABC's Nightline, discussing
with Ted Koppel the effect TV can have on society if we let it control us, rather than vice versa. As I recall, at one juncture, to illustrate his point that our brief attention span and our appetite for
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feel-good content can short-circuit any meaningful discourse,
Dad said, "For example, Ted, we're having an important discussion about the culture but in thirty seconds we'll have to break
for a commercial to sell cars or toothpaste."
Mr. Koppel, one of the rare serious figures on network television, smiled wryly—or was it fatigue?
"Actually, Dr. Postman," he said, "it's more like ten seconds."
There's still time.
Andrew Postman
Brooklyn, New York
November 2005
In 1985 . . .
If you were alert back then, this refresher may be unnecessary,
even laughable. If you were not alert then, this may just be
laughable. But it also may help to clarify references in the book
about things of that moment. In 1985:
The United States population is 240 million. The Cold War is
still on, though Mikhail Gorbachev has just become the Soviet
leader. Ronald Reagan is president. Other major political figures
include Walter "Fritz" Mondale, Democratic presidential nominee the year before; Geraldine Ferraro, his vice-presidential
running mate; and presidential hopefuls/Senators Gary Hart
and John Glenn (the latter a former astronaut). Ed Koch is
mayor of New York City. David Garth is a top media consultant
for political candidates.
Top-rated TV shows include Dynasty, Dallas (though it has
been several years since the drama of "Who Shot J.R.?"
gripped the TV-watching nation), The A-Team, Cheers, and Hill
Street Blues. Dan Rather, Tom Brokaw, and Peter Jennings are
the nightly network news anchors. The MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour is, as The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer years later will be,
public television's respected, low-rated evening news program.
Televangelism is enjoying a heyday: leading practitioners include Jimmy Swaggart, Pat Robertson, Jim Bakker, Billy Graham, Jerry Falwell, Robert Schuller, and Oral Roberts. Howard
Cosell has recently retired after many years as TV's most recognizable sports voice. The show Entertainment Tonight and the
cable network MTV, both born a few years earlier, are runaway
xvii
In 1985 . . .
xviii
successes. Two of the most successful TV commercial campaigns are American Express's series about farflung tourists
losing travelers' checks and Wisk detergent's spot about "ring
around the collar" (about which my father wrote a provocative
and funny essay called "The Parable of the Ring Around the
Collar").
The Mac computer is one year old, USA Today three, People
magazine ten. Dr. Ruth Westheimer hosts a popular radio callin show, offering sex advice with cheer and grandmotherly
frankness. African Americans are known as blacks. Martina
Navratilova is the world's best female tennis player. Trivial Pursuit is a top-selling board game. Certain entertainers to whom
my father refers—e.g., comedians Shecky Greene, Red Buttons,
and Milton Berle, singer Dionne Warwick, TV talk-show host
David Susskind—are past their prime, even then.
A. P.
Foreword
We were keeping our eye on 1984. When the year came and
the prophecy didn't, thoughtful Americans sang softly in praise
of themselves. The roots of liberal democracy had held. Wherever else the terror had happened, we, at least, had not been
visited by Orwellian nightmares.
But we had forgotten that alongside Orwell's dark vision,
there was another—slightly older, slightly less well known,
equally chilling: Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. Contrary to
common belief even among the educated, Huxley and Orwell
did not prophesy the same thing. Orwell warns that we will be
overcome by an externally imposed oppression. But in Huxley's
vision, no Big Brother is required to deprive people of their autonomy, maturity and history. As he saw it, people will come to
love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their
capacities to think.
What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What
Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book,
for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell
feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley
feared those who would give us so much that we would be
reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth
would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be
drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the
orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley rexix
Foreword
xx
marked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and
rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny "failed
to take into account man's almost infinite appetite for distractions." In 1984, Huxley added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting
pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we hate will ruin us.
Huxley feared that what we love will ruin us.
This book is about the possibility that Huxley, not Orwell,
was right.
Part I.
I.
The Medium
Is the Metaphor
At different times in our history, different cities have been the
focal point of a radiating American spirit. In the late eighteenth
century, for example, Boston was the center of a political radicalism that ignited a shot heard round the world—a shot that
could not have been fired any other place but the suburbs of
Boston. At its report, all Americans, including Virginians, became Bostonians at heart. In the mid-nineteenth century, New
York became the symbol of the idea of a melting-pot America—
or at least a non-English one—as the wretched refuse from all
over the world disembarked at Ellis Island and spread over the
land their strange languages and even stranger ways. In the
early twentieth century, Chicago, the city of big shoulders and
heavy winds, came to symbolize the industrial energy and dynamism of America. If there is a statue of a hog butcher somewhere in Chicago, then it stands as a reminder of the time when
America was railroads, cattle, steel mills and entrepreneurial
adventures. If there is no such statue, there ought to be, just as
there is a statue of a Minute Man to recall the Age of Boston, as
the Statue of Liberty recalls the Age of New York.
Today, we must look to the city of Las Vegas, Nevada, as a
metaphor of our national character and aspiration, its symbol a
thirty-foot-high cardboard picture of a slot machine and a chorus girl. For Las Vegas is a city entirely devoted to the idea of
entertainment, and as such proclaims the spirit of a culture in
which all public discourse increasingly takes the form of entertainment. Our politics, religion, news, athletics, education and
3
Amusing Ourselves to Death
4
commerce have been transformed into congenial adjuncts of
show business, largely without protest or even much popular
notice. The result is that we are a people on the verge of amusing ourselves to death.
As I write, the President of the United States is a former Hollywood movie actor. One of his principal challengers in 1984
was once a featured player on television's most glamorous
show of the 1960's, that is to say, an astronaut. Naturally, a
movie has been made about his extraterrestrial adventure. Former nominee George McGovern has hosted the popular television show "Saturday Night Live." So has a candidate of more
recent vintage, the Reverend Jesse Jackson.
Meanwhile, former President Richard Nixon, who once
claimed he lost an election because he was sabotaged by makeup men, has offered Senator Edward Kennedy advice on how to
make a serious run for the presidency: lose twenty pounds. Although the Constitution makes no mention of it, it would appear that fat people are now effectively excluded from running
for high political office. Probably bald people as well. Almost
certainly those whose looks are not significantly enhanced by
the cosmetician's art. Indeed, we may have reached the point
where cosmetics has replaced ideology as the field of expertise
over which a politician must have competent control.
America's journalists, i.e., television newscasters, have not
missed the point. Most spend more time with their hair dryers
than with their scripts, with the result that they comprise the
most glamorous group of people this side of Las Vegas. Although the Federal Communications Act makes no mention of
it, those without camera appeal are excluded from addressing
the public about what is called "the news of the day." Those
with camera appeal can command salaries exceeding one million dollars a year.
American businessmen discovered, long before the rest of us,
that the quality and usefulness of their goods are subordinate to
the artifice of their display; that, in fact, half the principles of
The Medium Is the Metaphor
5
capitalism as praised by Adam Smith or condemned by Karl
Marx are irrelevant. Even the Japanese, who are said to make
better cars than the Americans, know that economics is less a
science than a performing art, as Toyota's yearly advertising
budget confirms.
Not long ago, I saw Billy Graham join with Shecky Green,
Red Buttons, Dionne Warwick, Milton Berle and other theologians in a tribute to George Burns, who was celebrating himself
for surviving eighty years in show business. The Reverend
Graham exchanged one-liners with Burns about making preparations for Eternity. Although the Bible makes no mention of it,
the Reverend Graham assured the audience that God loves
those who make people laugh. It was an honest mistake. He
merely mistook NBC for God.
Dr. Ruth Westheimer is a psychologist who has a popular radio program and a nightclub act in which she informs her audiences about sex in all of its infinite variety and in language once
reserved for the bedroom and street corners. She is almost as
entertaining as the Reverend Billy Graham, and has been
quoted as saying, "I don't start out to be funny. But if it comes
out that way, I use it. If they call me an entertainer, I say that's
great. When a professor teaches with a sense of humor, people
walk away remembering." She did not say what they remember or of what use their remembering is. But she has a point: It's
great to be an entertainer. Indeed, in America God favors all
those who possess both a talent and a format to amuse, whether
they be preachers, athletes, entrepreneurs, politicians, teachers
or journalists. In America, the least amusing people are its professional entertainers.
Culture watchers and worriers—those of the type who read
books like this one—will know that the examples above are not
aberrations but, in fact, clichés. There is no shortage of critics
who have observed and recorded the dissolution of public discourse in America and its conversion into the arts of show business. But most of them, I believe, have barely begun to tell the
1
Amusing Ourselves to Death
6
story of the origin and meaning of this descent into a vast triviality. Those who have written vigorously on the matter tell us,
for example, that what is happening is the residue of an exhausted capitalism; or, on the contrary, that it is the tasteless
fruit of the maturing of capitalism; or that it is the neurotic aftermath of the Age of Freud; or the retribution of our allowing
God to perish; or that it all comes from the old stand-bys, greed
and ambition.
I have attended carefully to these explanations, and I do not
say there is nothing to learn from them. Marxists, Freudians,
LĂ©vi-Straussians, even Creation Scientists are not to be taken
lightly. And, in any case, I should be very surprised if the story I
have to tell is anywhere near the whole truth. We are all, as
Huxley says someplace, Great Abbreviators, meaning that none
of us has the wit to know the whole truth, the time to tell it if
we believed we did, or an audience so gullible as to accept it.
But you will find an argument here that presumes a clearer
grasp of the matter than many that have come before. Its value,
such as it is, resides in the directness of its perspective, which
has its origins in observations made 2,300 years ago by Plato. It
is an argument that fixes its attention on the forms of human
conversation, and postulates that how we are obliged to conduct such conversations will have the strongest possible influence on what ideas we can conveniently express. And what
ideas are convenient to express inevitably become the important content of a culture.
I use the word "conversation" metaphorically to refer not
only to speech but to all techniques and technologies that permit people of a particular culture to exchange messages. In this
sense, all culture is a conversation or, more precisely, a corporation of conversations, conducted in a variety of symbolic modes.
Our attention here is on how forms of public discourse regulate
and even dictate what kind of content can issue from such
forms.
To take a simple example of what this means, consider the
The Medium Is the Metaphor
7
primitive technology of smoke signals. While I do not know
exactly what content was once carried in the smoke signals of
American Indians, I can safely guess that it did not include
philosophical argument. Puffs of smoke are insufficiently complex to express ideas on the nature of existence, and even if they
were not, a Cherokee philosopher would run short of either
wood or blankets long before he reached his second axiom. You
cannot use smoke to do philosophy. Its form excludes the
content.
To take an example closer to home: As I suggested earlier, it is
implausible to imagine that anyone like our twenty-seventh
President, the multi-chinned, three-hundred-pound William
Howard Taft, could be put forward as a presidential candidate
in today's world. The shape of a man's body is largely irrelevant
to the shape of his ideas when he is addressing a public in writing or on the radio or, for that matter, in smoke signals. But it is
quite relevant on television. The grossness of a three-hundredpound image, even a talking one, would easily overwhelm any
logical or spiritual subtleties conveyed by speech. For on television, discourse is conducted largely through visual imagery,
which is to say that television gives us a conversation in images,
not words. The emergence of the image-manager in the political
arena and the concomitant decline of the speech writer attest to
the fact that television demands a different kind of content from
other media. You cannot do political philosophy on television.
Its form works against the content.
To give still another example, one of more complexity: The
information, the content, or, if you will, the "stuff" that makes
up what is called "the news of the day" did not exist—could
not exist—in a world that lacked the media to give it expression. I do not mean that things like fires, wars, murders and
love affairs did not, ever and always, happen in places all over
the world. I mean that lacking a technology to advertise them,
people could not attend to them, could not include them in
their daily business. Such information simply could not exist as
Amusing Ourselves to Death
8
part of the content of culture. This idea—that there is a content
called "the news of the day"—was entirely created by the telegraph (and since amplified by newer media), which made it
possible to move decontextualized information over vast spaces
at incredible speed. The news of the day is a figment of our
technological imagination. It is, quite precisely, a media event.
We attend to fragments of events from all over the world because we have multiple media whose forms are well suited to
fragmented conversation. Cultures without speed-flight media—let us say, cultures in which smoke signals are the most
efficient space-conquering tool available—do not have news of
the day. Without a medium to create its form, the news of the
day does not exist.
To say it, then, as plainly as I can, this book is an inquiry into
and a lamentation about the most significant American cultural
fact of the second half of the twentieth century: the decline of
the Age of Typography and the ascendancy of the Age of Television. This change-over has dramatically and irreversibly shifted
the content and meaning of public discourse, since two media
so vastly different cannot accommodate the same ideas. As the
influence of print wanes, the content of politics, religion, education, and anything else that comprises public business must
change and be recast in terms that are most suitable to television.
If all of this sounds suspiciously like Marshall McLuhan's
aphorism, the medium is the message, I will not disavow the
association (although it is fashionable to do so among respectable scholars who, were it not for McLuhan, would today be
mute). I met McLuhan thirty years ago when I was a graduate
student and he an unknown English professor. I believed then,
as I believe now, that he spoke in the tradition of Orwell and
Huxley—that is, as a prophesier, and I have remained steadfast
to his teaching that the clearest way to see through a culture is
to attend to its tools for conversation. I might add that my interest in this point of view was first stirred by a prophet far more
The Medium Is the Metaphor
9
formidable than McLuhan, more ancient than Plato. In studying the Bible as a young man, I found intimations of the idea
that forms of media favor particular kinds of content and therefore are capable of taking command of a culture. I refer specifically to the Decalogue, the Second Commandment of which
prohibits the Israelites from making concrete images of anything. "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, any
likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the
earth beneath, or that is in the water beneath the earth." I wondered then, as so many others have, as to why the God of these
people would have included instructions on how they were to
symbolize, or not symbolize, their experience. It is a strange
injunction to include as part of an ethical system unless its author
assumed a connection between forms of human communication and
the quality of a culture. We may hazard a guess that a people who
are being asked to embrace an abstract, universal deity would
be rendered unfit to do so by the habit of drawing pictures or
making statues or depicting their ideas in any concrete, iconographic forms. The God of the Jews was to exist in the Word
and through the Word, an unprecedented conception requiring
the highest order of abstract thinking. Iconography thus became
blasphemy so that a new kind of God could enter a culture.
People like ourselves who are in the process of converting their
culture from word-centered to image-centered might profit by
reflecting on this Mosaic injunction. But even if I am wrong in
these conjectures, it is, I believe, a wise and particularly relevant
supposition that the media of communication available to a culture are a dominant influence on the formation of the culture's
intellectual and social preoccupations.
Speech, of course, is the primal and indispensable medium. It
made us human, keeps us human, and in fact defines what human means. This is not to say that if there were no other means
of communication all humans would find it equally convenient
to speak about the same things in the same way. We know
enough about language to understand that variations in the
10
Amusing Ourselves to Death
structures of languages will result in variations in what may be
called "world view." How people think about time and space,
and about things and processes, will be greatly influenced by
the grammatical features of their language. We dare not suppose therefore that all human minds are unanimous in understanding how the world is put together. But how much more
divergence there is in world view among different cultures can
be imagined when we consider the great number and variety of
tools for conversation that go beyond speech. For although culture is a creation of speech, it is recreated anew by every medium of communication—from painting to hieroglyphs to the
alphabet to television. Each medium, like language itself, makes
possible a unique mode of discourse by providing a new orientation for thought, for expression, for sensibility. Which, of
course, is what McLuhan meant in saying the medium is the
message. His aphorism, however, is in need of amendment because, as it stands, it may lead one to confuse a message with a
metaphor. A message denotes a specific, concrete statement
about the world. But the forms of our media, including the
symbols through which they permit conversation, do not make
such statements. They are rather like metaphors, working by
unobtrusive but powerful implication to enforce their special
definitions of reality. Whether we are experiencing the world
through the lens of speech or the printed word or the television
camera, our media-metaphors classify the world for us, sequence it, frame it, enlarge it, reduce it, color it, argue a case for
what the world is like. As Ernst Cassirer remarked:
Physical reality seems to recede in proportion as man's symbolic
activity advances. Instead of dealing with the things themselves
man is in a sense constantly conversing with himself. He has so
enveloped himself in linguistic forms, in artistic images, in mythical symbols or religious rites that he cannot see or know anything
except by the interposition of [an] artificial medium.
2
The Medium Is the Metaphor
11
What is peculiar about such interpositions of media is that
their role in directing what we will see or know is so rarely
noticed. A person who reads a book or who watches television
or who glances at his watch is not usually interested in how his
mind is organized and controlled by these events, still less in
what idea of the world is suggested by a book, television, or a
watch. But there are men and women who have noticed these
things, especially in our own times. Lewis Mumford, for example, has been one of our great noticers. He is not the sort of a
man who looks at a clock merely to see what time it is. Not that
he lacks interest in the content of clocks, which is of concern to
everyone from moment to moment, but he is far more interested in how a clock creates the idea of "moment to moment."
He attends to the philosophy of clocks, to clocks as metaphor,
about which our education has had little to say and clock
makers nothing at all. "The clock," Mumford has concluded,
"is a piece of power machinery whose 'product' is seconds and
minutes." In manufacturing such a product, the clock has the
effect of disassociating time from human events and thus nourishes the belief in an independent world of mathematically
measurable sequences. Moment to moment, it turns out, is not
God's conception, or nature's. It is man conversing with himself
about and through a piece of machinery he created.
In Mumford's great book Technics and Civilization, he shows
how, beginning in the fourteenth century, the clock made us
into time-keepers, and then time-savers, and now time-servers.
In the process, we have learned irreverence toward the sun and
the seasons, for in a world made up of seconds and minutes, the
authority of nature is superseded. Indeed, as Mumford points
out, with the invention of the clock, Eternity ceased to serve as
the measure and focus of human events. And thus, though few
would have imagined the connection, the inexorable ticking of
the clock may have had more to do with the weakening of
God's supremacy than all the treatises produced by the phi-
Amusing Ourselves to Death
12
losophers of the Enlightenment; that is to say, the clock introduced a new form of conversation between man and God, in
which God appears to have been the loser. Perhaps Moses
should have included another Commandment: Thou shalt not
make mechanical representations of time.
That the alphabet introduced a new form of conversation between man and man is by now a commonplace among scholars. To be able to see one's utterances rather than only to hear
them is no small matter, though our education, once again, has
had little to say about this. Nonetheless, it is clear that phonetic
writing created a new conception of knowledge, as well as a
new sense of intelligence, of audience and of posterity, all of
which Plato recognized at an early stage in the development of
texts. "No man of intelligence," he wrote in his Seventh Letter,
"will venture to express his philosophical views in language,
especially not in language that is unchangeable, which is true of
that which is set down in written characters." This notwithstanding, he wrote voluminously and understood better than
anyone else that the setting down of views in written characters
would be the beginning of philosophy, not its end. Philosophy
cannot exist without criticism, and writing makes it possible
and convenient to subject thought to a continuous and concentrated scrutiny. Writing freezes speech and in so doing gives
birth to the grammarian, the logician, the rhetorician, the historian, the scientist—all those who must hold language before
them so that they can see what it means, where it errs, and
where it is leading.
Plato knew all of this, which means that he knew that writing
would bring about a perceptual revolution: a shift from the ear
to the eye as an organ of language processing. Indeed, there is a
legend that to encourage such a shift Plato insisted that his students study geometry before entering his Academy. If true, it
was a sound idea, for as the great literary critic Northrop Frye
has remarked, "the written word is far more powerful than simply a reminder: it re-creates the past in the present, and gives
13
The Medium Is the Metaphor
us, not the familiar remembered thing, but the glittering intensity of the summoned-up hallucination."
All that Plato surmised about the consequences of writing is
now well understood by anthropologists, especially those who
have studied cultures in which speech is the only source of
complex conversation. Anthropologists know that the written
word, as Northrop Frye meant to suggest, is not merely an echo
of a speaking voice. It is another kind of voice altogether, a
conjurer's trick of the first order. It must certainly have appeared that way to those who invented it, and that is why we
should not be surprised that the Egyptian god Thoth, who is
alleged to have brought writing to the King Thamus, was also
the god of magic. People like ourselves may see nothing wondrous in writing, but our anthropologists know how strange
and magical it appears to a purely oral people—a conversation
with no one and yet with everyone. What could be stranger
than the silence one encounters when addressing a question to
a text? What could be more metaphysically puzzling than addressing an unseen audience, as every writer of books must do?
And correcting oneself because one knows that an unknown
reader will disapprove or misunderstand?
I bring all of this up because what my book is about is how
our own tribe is undergoing a vast and trembling shift from the
magic of writing to the magic of electronics. What I mean to
point out here is that the introduction into a culture of a technique such as writing or a clock is not merely an extension of
man's power to bind time but a transformation of his way of
thinking—and, of course, of the content of his culture. And that
is what I mean to say by calling a medium a metaphor. We are
told in school, quite correctly, that a metaphor suggests what a
thing is like by comparing it to something else. And by the
power of its suggestion, it so fixes a conception in our minds
that we cannot imagine the one thing without the other: Light
is a wave; language, a tree; God, a wise and venerable man; the
mind, a dark cavern illuminated by knowledge. And if these
3
Amusing Ourselves to Death
14
metaphors no longer serve us, we must, in the nature of the
matter, find others that will. Light is a particle; language, a
river; God (as Bertrand Russell proclaimed), a differential equation; the mind, a garden that yearns to be cultivated.
But our media-metaphors are not so explicit or so vivid as
these, and they are far more complex. In understanding their
metaphorical function, we must take into account the symbolic
forms of their information, the source of their information, the
quantity and speed of their information, the context in which
their information is experienced. Thus, it takes some digging to
get at them, to grasp, for example, that a clock recreates time as
an independent, mathematically precise sequence; that writing
recreates the mind as a tablet on which experience is written;
that the telegraph recreates news as a commodity. And yet,
such digging becomes easier if we start from the assumption
that in every tool we create, an idea is embedded that goes beyond the function of the thing itself. It has been pointed out, for
example, that the invention of eyeglasses in the twelfth century
not only made it possible to improve defective vision but suggested the idea that human beings need not accept as final
either the endowments of nature or the ravages of time. Eyeglasses refuted the belief that anatomy is destiny by putting
forward the idea that our bodies as well as our minds are improvable. I do not think it goes too far to say that there is a link
between the invention of eyeglasses in the twelfth century and
gene-splitting research in the twentieth.
Even such an instrument as the microscope, hardly a tool of
everyday use, had embedded within it a quite astonishing idea,
not about biology but about psychology. By revealing a world
hitherto hidden from view, the microscope suggested a possibility about the structure of the mind.
If things are not what they seem, if microbes lurk, unseen, on
and under our skin, if the invisible controls the visible, then is it
not possible that ids and egos and superegos also lurk somewhere unseen? What else is psychoanalysis but a microscope of
The Medium Is the Metaphor
15
the mind? Where do our notions of mind come from if not from
metaphors generated by our tools? What does it mean to say
that someone has an IQ of 126? There are no numbers in people's heads. Intelligence does not have quantity or magnitude,
except as we believe that it does. And why do we believe that it
does? Because we have tools that imply that this is what the
mind is like. Indeed, our tools for thought suggest to us what
our bodies are like, as when someone refers to her "biological
clock," or when we talk of our "genetic codes," or when we
read someone's face like a book, or when our facial expressions
telegraph our intentions.
When Galileo remarked that the language of nature is written
in mathematics, he meant it only as a metaphor. Nature itself
does not speak. Neither do our minds or our bodies or, more to
the point of this book, our bodies politic. Our conversations
about nature and about ourselves are conducted in whatever
"languages" we find it possible and convenient to employ. We
do not see nature or intelligence or human motivation or ideology as "it" is but only as our languages are. And our languages
are our media. Our media are our metaphors. Our metaphors
create the content of our culture.
2.
Media as
Epistemology
It is my intention in this book to show that a great mediametaphor shift has taken place in America, with the result that
the content of much of our public discourse has become dangerous nonsense. With this in view, my task in the chapters
ahead is straightforward. I must, first, demonstrate how, under
the governance of the printing press, discourse in America was
different from what it is now—generally coherent, serious and
rational; and then how, under the governance of television, it
has become shriveled and absurd. But to avoid the possibility
that my analysis will be interpreted as standard-brand academic
whimpering, a kind of elitist complaint against "junk" on television, I must first explain that my focus is on epistemology, not
on aesthetics or literary criticism. Indeed, I appreciate junk as
much as the next fellow, and I know full well that the printing
press has generated enough of it to fill the Grand Canyon to
overflowing. Television is not old enough to have matched
printing's output of junk.
And so, I raise no objection to television's junk. The best
things on television are its junk, and no one and nothing is seriously threatened by it. Besides, we do not measure a culture by
its output of undisguised trivialities but by what it claims as
significant. Therein is our problem, for television is at its most
trivial and, therefore, most dangerous when its aspirations are
high, when it presents itself as a carrier of important cultural
conversations. The irony here is that this is what intellectuals
and critics are constantly urging television to do. The trouble
16
Media as Epistemology
17
with such people is that they do not take television seriously
enough. For, like the printing press, television is nothing less
than a philosophy of rhetoric. To talk seriously about television,
one must therefore talk of epistemology. All other commentary
is in itself trivial.
Epistemology is a complex and usually opaque subject concerned with the origins and nature of knowledge. The part of its
subject matter that is relevant here is the interest it takes in
definitions of truth and the sources from which such definitions
come. In particular, I want to show that definitions of truth are
derived, at least in part, from the character of the media of communication through which information is conveyed. I want to
discuss how media are implicated in our epistemologies.
In the hope of simplifying what I mean by the title of this
chapter, media as epistemology, I find it helpful to borrow a
word from Northrop Frye, who has made use of a principle he
calls resonance. "Through resonance," he writes, "a particular
statement in a particular context acquires a universal significance." Frye offers as an opening example the phrase "the
grapes of wrath," which first appears in Isaiah in the context of
a celebration of a prospective massacre of Edomites. But the
phrase, Frye continues, "has long ago flown away from this
context into many new contexts, contexts that give dignity to
the human situation instead of merely reflecting its bigotries."
Having said this, Frye extends the idea of resonance so that it
goes beyond phrases and sentences. A character in a play or
story—Hamlet, for example, or Lewis Carroll's Alice—may
have resonance. Objects may have resonance, and so may
countries: "The smallest details of the geography of two tiny
chopped-up countries, Greece and Israel, have imposed themselves on our consciousness until they have become part of the
map of our own imaginative world, whether we have ever seen
these countries or not."
In addressing the question of the source of resonance, Frye
concludes that metaphor is the generative force—that is, the
1
2
3
Amusing Ourselves to Death
18
power of a phrase, a book, a character, or a history to unify and
invest with meaning a variety of attitudes or experiences. Thus,
Athens becomes a metaphor of intellectual excellence, wherever we find it; Hamlet, a metaphor of brooding indecisiveness;
Alice's wanderings, a metaphor of a search for order in a world
of semantic nonsense.
I now depart from Frye (who, I am certain, would raise no
objection) but I take his word along with me. Every medium of
communication, I am claiming, has resonance, for resonance is
metaphor writ large. Whatever the original and limited context
of its use may have been, a medium has the power to fly far
beyond that context into new and unexpected ones. Because of
the way it directs us to organize our minds and integrate our
experience of the world, it imposes itself on our consciousness
and social institutions in myriad forms. It sometimes has the
power to become implicated in our concepts of piety, or goodness, or beauty. And it is always implicated in the ways we
define and regulate our ideas of truth.
To explain how this happens—how the bias of a medium sits
heavy, felt but unseen, over a culture—I offer three cases of
truth-telling.
The first is drawn from a tribe in western Africa that has no
writing system but whose rich oral tradition has given form to
its ideas of civil law. When a dispute arises, the complainants
come before the chief of the tribe and state their grievances.
With no written law to guide him, the task of the chief is to
search through his vast repertoire of proverbs and sayings to
find one that suits the situation and is equally satisfying to both
complainants. That accomplished, all parties are agreed that
justice has been done, that the truth has been served. You will
recognize, of course, that this was largely the method of Jesus
and other Biblical figures who, living in an essentially oral culture, drew upon all of the resources of speech, including mnemonic devices, formulaic expressions and parables, as a means
of discovering and revealing truth. As Walter Ong points out, in
4
Media as Epistemology
19
oral cultures proverbs and sayings are not occasional devices:
"They are incessant. They form the substance of thought itself.
Thought in any extended form is impossible without them, for it
consists in them."
To people like ourselves any reliance on proverbs and sayings
is reserved largely for resolving disputes among or with children. "Possession is nine-tenths of the law." "First come, first
served." "Haste makes waste." These are forms of speech we
pull out in small crises with our young but would think ridiculous to produce in a courtroom where "serious" matters are to
be decided. Can you imagine a bailiff asking a jury if it has
reached a decision and receiving the reply that "to err is human
but to forgive is divine"? Or even better, "Let us render unto
Caesar that which is Caesar's and to God that which is God's"?
For the briefest moment, the judge might be charmed but if a
"serious" language form is not immediately forthcoming, the
jury may end up with a longer sentence than most guilty defendants.
Judges, lawyers and defendants do not regard proverbs or
sayings as a relevant response to legal disputes. In this, they are
separated from the tribal chief by a media-metaphor. For in a
print-based courtroom, where law books, briefs, citations and
other written materials define and organize the method of finding the truth, the oral tradition has lost much of its resonance—
but not all of it. Testimony is expected to be given orally, on the
assumption that the spoken, not the written, word is a truer
reflection of the state of mind of a witness. Indeed, in many
courtrooms jurors are not permitted to take notes, nor are they
given written copies of the judge's explanation of the law.
Jurors are expected to hear the truth, or its opposite, not to read
it. Thus, we may say that there is a clash of resonances in our
concept of legal truth. On the one hand, there is a residual belief
in the power of speech, and speech alone, to carry the truth; on
the other hand, there is a much stronger belief in the authenticity of writing and, in particular, printing. This second belief
5
Amusing Ourselves to Death
20
has little tolerance for poetry, proverbs, sayings, parables or any
other expressions of oral wisdom. The law is what legislators
and judges have written. In our culture, lawyers do not have to
be wise; they need to be well briefed.
A similar paradox exists in universities, and with roughly the
same distribution of resonances; that is to say, there are a few
residual traditions based on the notion that speech is the primary carrier of truth. But for the most part, university conceptions of truth are tightly bound to the structure and logic of the
printed word. To exemplify this point, I draw here on a personal
experience that occurred during a still widely practiced medieval ritual known as a "doctoral oral." I use the word medieval
literally, for in the Middle Ages students were always examined
orally, and the tradition is carried forward in the assumption
that a candidate must be able to talk competently about his
written work. But, of course, the written work matters most.
In the case I have in mind, the issue of what is a legitimate
form of truth-telling was raised to a level of consciousness
rarely achieved. The candidate had included in his thesis a footnote, intended as documentation of a quotation, which read:
"Told to the investigator at the Roosevelt Hotel on January 18,
1981, in the presence of Arthur Lingeman and Jerrold Gross."
This citation drew the attention of no fewer than four of the five
oral examiners, all of whom observed that it was hardly suitable
as a form of documentation and that it ought to be replaced by a
citation from a book or article. "You are not a journalist," one
professor remarked. "You are supposed to be a scholar." Perhaps because the candidate knew of no published statement of
what he was told at the Roosevelt Hotel, he defended himself
vigorously on the grounds that there were witnesses to what he
was told, that they were available to attest to the accuracy of the
quotation, and that the form in which an idea is conveyed is
irrelevant to its truth. Carried away on the wings of his eloquence, the candidate argued further that there were more than
three hundred references to published works in his thesis and
Media as Epistemology
21
that it was extremely unlikely that any of them would be
checked for accuracy by the examiners, by which he meant to
raise the question, Why do you assume the accuracy of a printreferenced citation but not a speech-referenced one?
The answer he received took the following line: You are mistaken in believing that the form in which an idea is conveyed is
irrelevant to its truth. In the academic world, the published
word is invested with greater prestige and authenticity than the
spoken word. What people say is assumed to be more casually
uttered than what they write. The written word is assumed to
have been reflected upon and revised by its author, reviewed by
authorities and editors. It is easier to verify or refute, and it is
invested with an impersonal and objective character, which is
why, no doubt, you have referred to yourself in your thesis as
"the investigator" and not by your name; that is to say, the
written word is, by its nature, addressed to the world, not an
individual. The written word endures, the spoken word disappears; and that is why writing is closer to the truth than
speaking. Moreover, we are sure you would prefer that this
commission produce a written statement that you have passed
your examination (should you do so) than for us merely to tell
you that you have, and leave it at that. Our written statement
would represent the "truth." Our oral agreement would be only
a rumor.
The candidate wisely said no more on the matter except to
indicate that he would make whatever changes the commission
suggested and that he profoundly wished that should he pass
the "oral," a written document would attest to that fact. He did
pass, and in time the proper words were written.
A third example of the influence of media on our epistemologies can be drawn from the trial of the great Socrates. At the
opening of Socrates' defense, addressing a jury of five hundred,
he apologizes for not having a well-prepared speech. He tells his
Athenian brothers that he will falter, begs that they not interrupt him on that account, asks that they regard him as they
22
Amusing Ourselves to Death
would a stranger from another city, and promises that he will
tell them the truth, without adornment or eloquence. Beginning this way was, of course, characteristic of Socrates, but it
was not characteristic of the age in which he lived. For, as Socrates knew full well, his Athenian brothers did not regard the
principles of rhetoric and the expression of truth to be independent of each other. People like ourselves find great appeal in
Socrates' plea because we are accustomed to thinking of rhetoric as an ornament of speech—most often pretentious, superficial and unnecessary. But to the people who invented it, the
Sophists of fifth-century B.C. Greece and their heirs, rhetoric
was not merely an opportunity for dramatic performance but a
near indispensable means of organizing evidence and proofs,
and therefore of communicating truth.
It was not only a key element in the education of Athenians
(far more important than philosophy) but a preeminent art
form. To the Greeks, rhetoric was a form of spoken writing.
Though it always implied oral performance, its power to reveal
the truth resided in the written word's power to display arguments in orderly progression. Although Plato himself disputed
this conception of truth (as we might guess from Socrates' plea),
his contemporaries believed that rhetoric was the proper means
through which "right opinion" was to be both discovered and
articulated. To disdain rhetorical rules, to speak one's thoughts
in a random manner, without proper emphasis or appropriate
passion, was considered demeaning to the audience's intelligence and suggestive of falsehood. Thus, we can assume that
many of the 280 jurors who cast a guilty ballot against Socrates
did so because his manner was not consistent with truthful matter, as they understood the connection.
The point I am leading to by this and the previous examples is
that the concept of truth is intimately linked to the biases of
forms of expression. Truth does not, and never has, come unadorned. It must appear in its proper clothing or it is not acknowledged, which is a way of saying that the "truth" is a kind
6
Media as Epistemology
23
of cultural prejudice. Each culture conceives of it as being most
authentically expressed in certain symbolic forms that another
culture may regard as trivial or irrelevant. Indeed, to the Greeks
of Aristotle's time, and for two thousand years afterward, scientific truth was best discovered and expressed by deducing the
nature of things from a set of self-evident premises, which accounts for Aristotle's believing that women have fewer teeth
than men, and that babies are healthier if conceived when the
wind is in the north. Aristotle was twice married but so far as
we know, it did not occur to him to ask either of his wives if he
could count her teeth. And as for his obstetric opinions, we are
safe in assuming he used no questionnaires and hid behind no
curtains. Such acts would have seemed to him both vulgar and
unnecessary, for that was not the way to ascertain the truth of
things. The language of deductive logic provided a surer road.
We must not be too hasty in mocking Aristotle's prejudices.
We have enough of our own, as for example, the equation we
moderns make of truth and quantification. In this prejudice, we
come astonishingly close to the mystical beliefs of Pythagoras
and his followers who attempted to submit all of life to the sovereignty of numbers. Many of our psychologists, sociologists,
economists and other latter-day cabalists will have numbers to
tell them the truth or they will have nothing. Can you imagine,
for example, a modern economist articulating truths about our
standard of living by reciting a poem? Or by telling what happened to him during a late-night walk through East St. Louis?
Or by offering a series of proverbs and parables, beginning with
the saying about a rich man, a camel, and the eye of a needle?
The first would be regarded as irrelevant, the second merely
anecdotal, the last childish. Yet these forms of language are certainly capable of expressing truths about economic relationships, as well as any other relationships, and indeed have been
employed by various peoples. But to the modern mind, resonating with different media-metaphors, the truth in economics is
believed to be best discovered and expressed in numbers. Per-
Amusing Ourselves to Death
24
haps it is. I will not argue the point. I mean only to call attention
to the fact that there is a certain measure of arbitrariness in the
forms that truth-telling may take. We must remember that Galileo merely said that the language of nature is written in mathematics. He did not say everything is. And even the truth about
nature need not be expressed in mathematics. For most of human history, the language of nature has been the language of
myth and ritual. These forms, one might add, had the virtues of
leaving nature unthreatened and of encouraging the belief that
human beings are part of it. It hardly befits a people who stand
ready to blow up the planet to praise themselves too vigorously
for having found the true way to talk about nature.
In saying this, I am not making a case for epistemological
relativism. Some ways of truth-telling are better than others,
and therefore have a healthier influence on the cultures that
adopt them. Indeed, I hope to persuade you that the decline
of a print-based epistemology and the accompanying rise of a
television-based epistemology has had grave consequences for
public life, that we are getting sillier by the minute. And that is
why it is necessary for me to drive hard the point that the
weight assigned to any form of truth-telling is a function of the
influence of media of communication. "Seeing is believing" has
always had a preeminent status as an epistemological axiom,
but "saying is believing," "reading is believing," "counting is
believing," "deducing is believing," and "feeling is believing"
are others that have risen or fallen in importance as cultures
have undergone media change. As a culture moves from orality
to writing to printing to televising, its ideas of truth move
with it. Every philosophy is the philosophy of a stage of life,
Nietzsche remarked. To which we might add that every epistemology is the epistemology of a stage of media development.
Truth, like time itself, is a product of a conversation man has
with himself about and through the techniques of communication he has invented.
Since intelligence is primarily defined as one's capacity to
Media as Epistemology
25
grasp the truth of things, it follows that what a culture means by
intelligence is derived from the character of its important forms
of communication. In a purely oral culture, intelligence is often
associated with aphoristic ingenuity, that is, the power to invent
compact sayings of wide applicability. The wise Solomon, we
are told in First Kings, knew three thousand proverbs. In a print
culture, people with such a talent are thought to be quaint at
best, more likely pompous bores. In a purely oral culture, a high
value is always placed on the power to memorize, for where
there are no written words, the human mind must function as a
mobile library. To forget how something is to be said or done is
a danger to the community and a gross form of stupidity. In a
print culture, the memorization of a poem, a menu, a law or
most anything else is merely charming. It is almost always functionally irrelevant and certainly not considered a sign of high
intelligence.
Although the general character of print-intelligence would be
known to anyone who would be reading this book, you may
arrive at a reasonably detailed definition of it by simply considering what is demanded of you as you read this book. You are
required, first of all, to remain more or less immobile for a fairly
long time. If you cannot do this (with this or any other book),
our culture may label you as anything from hyperkinetic to undisciplined; in any case, as suffering from some sort of intellectual deficiency. The printing press makes rather stringent
demands on our bodies as well as our minds. Controlling your
body is, however, only a minimal requirement. You must also
have learned to pay no attention to the shapes of the letters on
the page. You must see through them, so to speak, so that you
can go directly to the meanings of the words they form. If you
are preoccupied with the shapes of the letters, you will be an
intolerably inefficient reader, likely to be thought stupid. If you
have learned how to get to meanings without aesthetic distraction, you are required to assume an attitude of detachment and
objectivity. This includes your bringing to the task what
Amusing Ourselves to Death
26
Bertrand Russell called an "immunity to eloquence," meaning
that you are able to distinguish between the sensuous pleasure,
or charm, or ingratiating tone (if such there be) of the words,
and the logic of their argument. But at the same time, you must
be able to tell from the tone of the language what is the author's
attitude toward the subject and toward the reader. You must, in
other words, know the difference between a joke and an argument. And in judging the quality of an argument, you must be
able to do several things at once, including delaying a verdict
until the entire argument is finished, holding in mind questions
until you have determined where, when or if the text answers
them, and bringing to bear on the text all of your relevant experience as a counterargument to what is being proposed. You
must also be able to withhold those parts of your knowledge
and experience which, in fact, do not have a bearing on the
argument. And in preparing yourself to do all of this, you must
have divested yourself of the belief that words are magical and,
above all, have learned to negotiate the world of abstractions,
for there are very few phrases and sentences in this book that
require you to call forth concrete images. In a print-culture, we
are apt to say of people who are not intelligent that we must
"draw them pictures" so that they may understand. Intelligence
implies that one can dwell comfortably without pictures, in a
field of concepts and generalizations.
To be able to do all of these things, and more, constitutes a
primary definition of intelligence in a culture whose notions of
truth are organized around the printed word. In the next two
chapters I want to show that in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries, America was such a place, perhaps the most printoriented culture ever to have existed. In subsequent chapters, I
want to show that in the twentieth century, our notions of truth
and our ideas of intelligence have changed as a result of new
media displacing the old.
But I do not wish to oversimplify the matter more than is
necessary. In particular, I want to conclude by making three
Media as Epistemology
27
points that may serve as a defense against certain counterarguments that careful readers may have already formed.
The first is that at no point do I care to claim that changes in
media bring about changes in the structure of people's minds or
changes in their cognitive capacities. There are some who make
this claim, or come close to it (for example, Jerome Bruner,
Jack Goody, Walter Ong, Marshall McLuhan, Julian Jaynes,
and Eric Havelock). I am inclined to think they are right, but
my argument does not require it. Therefore, I will not burden
myself with arguing the possibility, for example, that oral people are less developed intellectually, in some Piagetian sense,
than writing people, or that "television" people are less developed intellectually than either. My argument is limited to
saying that a major new medium changes the structure of discourse; it does so by encouraging certain uses of the intellect, by
favoring certain definitions of intelligence and wisdom, and by
demanding a certain kind of content—in a phrase, by creating
new forms of truth-telling. I will say once again that I am no
relativist in this matter, and that I believe the epistemology created by television not only is inferior to a print-based epistemology but is dangerous and absurdist.
The second point is that the epistemological shift I have intimated, and will describe in detail, has not yet included (and
perhaps never will include) everyone and everything. While
some old media do, in fact, disappear (e.g., pictographic writing
and illuminated manuscripts) and with them, the institutions
and cognitive habits they favored, other forms of conversation
will always remain. Speech, for example, and writing. Thus the
epistemology of new forms such as television does not have an
entirely unchallenged influence.
I find it useful to think of the situation in this way: Changes
in the symbolic environment are like changes in the natural
environment; they are both gradual and additive at first, and
then, all at once, a critical mass is achieved, as the physicists
say. A river that has slowly been polluted suddenly becomes
7
Amusing Ourselves to Death
28
toxic; most of the fish perish; swimming becomes a danger to
health. But even then, the river may look the same and one
may still take a boat ride on it. In other words, even when life
has been taken from it, the river does not disappear, nor do all
of its uses, but its value has been seriously diminished and its
degraded condition will have harmful effects throughout the
landscape. It is this way with our symbolic environment. We
have reached, I believe, a critical mass in that electronic media
have decisively and irreversibly changed the character of our
symbolic environment. We are now a culture whose information, ideas and epistemology are given form by television, not
by the printed word. To be sure, there are still readers and there
are many books published, but the uses of print and reading are
not the same as they once were; not even in schools, the last
institutions where print was thought to be invincible. They delude themselves who believe that television and print coexist,
for coexistence implies parity. There is no parity here. Print is
now merely a residual epistemology, and it will remain so,
aided to some extent by the computer, and newspapers and
magazines that are made to look like television screens. Like the
fish who survive a toxic river and the boatmen who sail on it,
there still dwell among us those whose sense of things is largely
influenced by older and clearer waters.
The third point is that in the analogy I have drawn above, the
river refers largely to what we call public discourse—our political, religious, informational and commercial forms of conversation. I am arguing that a television-based epistemology pollutes
public communication and its surrounding landscape, not that
it pollutes everything. In the first place, I am constantly reminded of television's value as a source of comfort and pleasure
to the elderly, the infirm and, indeed, all people who find themselves alone in motel rooms. I am also aware of television's potential for creating a theater for the masses (a subject which in
my opinion has not been taken seriously enough). There are
also claims that whatever power television might have to un-
Media as Epistemology
29
dermine rational discourse, its emotional power is so great that
it could arouse sentiment against the Vietnam War or against
more virulent forms of racism. These and other beneficial possibilities are not to be taken lightly.
But there is still another reason why I should not like to be
understood as making a total assault on television. Anyone who
is even slightly familiar with the history of communications
knows that every new technology for thinking involves a tradeoff. It giveth and taketh away, although not quite in equal measure. Media change does not necessarily result in equilibrium. It
sometimes creates more than it destroys. Sometimes, it is the
other way around. We must be careful in praising or condemning because the future may hold surprises for us. The invention
of the printing press itself is a paradigmatic example. Typography fostered the modern idea of individuality, but it destroyed
the medieval sense of community and integration. Typography
created prose but made poetry into an exotic and elitist form
of expression. Typography made modern science possible but
transformed religious sensibility into mere superstition. Typography assisted in the growth of the nation-state but thereby
made patriotism into a sordid if not lethal emotion.
Obviously, my point of view is that the four-hundred-year
imperial dominance of typography was of far greater benefit
than deficit. Most of our modern ideas about the uses of the
intellect were formed by the printed word, as were our ideas
about education, knowledge, truth and information. I will try
to demonstrate that as typography moves to the periphery of
our culture and television takes its place at the center, the
seriousness, clarity and, above all, value of public discourse
dangerously declines. On what benefits may come from other
directions, one must keep an open mind.
3.
Typographic
America
In the Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, there appears a remarkable quotation attributed to Michael Welfare, one of the
founders of a religious sect known as the Dunkers and a longtime acquaintance of Franklin. The statement had its origins in
Welfare's complaint to Franklin that zealots of other religious
persuasions were spreading lies about the Dunkers, accusing
them of abominable principles to which, in fact, they were utter
strangers. Franklin suggested that such abuse might be diminished if the Dunkers published the articles of their belief and the
rules of their discipline. Welfare replied that this course of action had been discussed among his co-religionists but had been
rejected. He then explained their reasoning in the following
words:
When we were first drawn together as a society, it had pleased
God to enlighten our minds so far as to see that some doctrines,
which we once esteemed truths, were errors, and that others,
which we had esteemed errors, were real truths. From time to
time He has been pleased to afford us farther light, and our principles have been improving, and our errors diminishing. Now we
are not sure that we are arrived at the end of this progression, and
at the perfection of spiritual or theological knowledge; and we fear
that, if we should feel ourselves as if bound and confined by it, and
perhaps be unwilling to receive further improvement, and our
successors still more so, as conceiving what we their elders and
founders had done, to be something sacred, never to be departed
from.1
30
Typographic America
31
Franklin describes this sentiment as a singular instance in the
history of mankind of modesty in a sect. Modesty is certainly
the word for it, but the statement is extraordinary for other reasons, too. We have here a criticism of the epistemology of the
written word worthy of Plato. Moses himself might be interested although he could hardly approve. The Dunkers came
close here to formulating a commandment about religious discourse: Thou shalt not write down thy principles, still less print
them, lest thou shall be entrapped by them for all time.
We may, in any case, consider it a significant loss that we
have no record of the deliberations of the Dunkers. It would
certainly shed light on the premise of this book, i.e., that the
form in which ideas are expressed affects what those ideas will
be. But more important, their deliberations were in all likelihood a singular instance in Colonial America of a distrust of the
printed word. For the Americans among whom Franklin lived
were as committed to the printed word as any group of people
who have ever lived. Whatever else may be said of those immigrants who came to settle in New England, it is a paramount
fact that they and their heirs were dedicated and skillful readers
whose religious sensibilities, political ideas and social life were
embedded in the medium of typography.
We know that on the Mayflower itself several books were included as cargo, most importantly, the Bible and Captain John
Smith's Description of New England. (For immigrants headed
toward a largely uncharted land, we may suppose that the latter
book was as carefully read as the former.) We know, too, that in
the very first days of colonization each minister was given ten
pounds with which to start a religious library. And although
literacy rates are notoriously difficult to assess, there is sufficient
evidence (mostly drawn from signatures) that between 1640
and 1700, the literacy rate for men in Massachusetts and Connecticut was somewhere between 89 percent and 95 percent,
quite probably the highest concentration of literate males to be
found anywhere in the world at that time. (The literacy rate for
2
32
Amusing Ourselves to Death
women in those colonies is estimated to have run as high as 62
percent in the years 1681-1697. )
It is to be understood that the Bible was the central reading
matter in all households, for these people were Protestants who
shared Luther's belief that printing was "God's highest and extremest act of Grace, whereby the business of the Gospel is
driven forward." Of course, the business of the Gospel may be
driven forward in books other than the Bible, as for example in
the famous Bay Psalm Book, printed in 1640 and generally regarded as America's first best seller. But it is not to be assumed
that these people confined their reading to religious matters.
Probate records indicate that 60 percent of the estates in Middlesex County between the years 1654 and 1699 contained
books, all but 8 percent of them including more than the Bible.
In fact, between 1682 and 1685, Boston's leading bookseller
imported 3,421 books from one English dealer, most of these
nonreligious books. The meaning of this fact may be appreciated when one adds that these books were intended for consumption by approximately 75,000 people then living in the
northern colonies. The modern equivalent would be ten million books.
Aside from the fact that the religion of these Calvinist Puritans demanded that they be literate, three other factors account
for the colonists' preoccupation with the printed word. Since
the male literacy rate in seventeenth-century England did not
exceed 40 percent, we may assume, first of all, that the migrants
to New England came from more literate areas of England or
from more literate segments of the population, or both. In
other words, they came here as readers and were certain to believe that reading was as important in the New World as it was
in the Old. Second, from 1650 onward almost all New England
towns passed laws requiring the maintenance of a "reading and
writing" school, the large communities being required to maintain a grammar school, as well. In all such laws, reference is
made to Satan, whose evil designs, it was supposed, could be
3
4
5
6
7
33
Typographic America
thwarted at every turn by education. But there were other reasons why education was required, as suggested by the following
ditty, popular in the seventeenth century:
From public schools shall general
knowledge flow,
For 'tis the people's sacred
right to know.
8
These people, in other words, had more than the subjection
of Satan on their minds. Beginning in the sixteenth century, a
great epistemological shift had taken place in which knowledge
of every kind was transferred to, and made manifest through,
the printed page. "More than any other device," Lewis Mumford wrote of this shift, "the printed book released people from
the domination of the immediate and the local; . . . print made a
greater impression than actual events. . . . To exist was to exist
in print: the rest of the world tended gradually to become more
shadowy. Learning became book-learning." In light of this,
we may assume that the schooling of the young was understood
by the colonists not only as a moral duty but as an intellectual
imperative. (The England from which they came was an island
of schools. By 1660, for example, there were 444 schools in
England, one school approximately every twelve miles. ) And
it is clear that growth in literacy was closely connected to
schooling. Where schooling was not required (as in Rhode Island) or weak school laws prevailed (as in New Hampshire),
literacy rates increased more slowly than elsewhere.
Finally, these displaced Englishmen did not need to print
their own books or even nurture their own writers. They imported, whole, a sophisticated literary tradition from their
Motherland. In 1736, booksellers advertised the availability of
the Spectator, the Tatler, and Steele's Guardian. In 1738, advertisements appeared for Locke's Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Pope's Homer, Swift's A Tale of a Tub and Dryden's
9
10
Amusing Ourselves to Death
34
Fables. Timothy Dwight, president of Yale University, described the American situation succinctly:
11
Books of almost every kind, on almost every subject, are already
written to our hands. Our situation in this respect is singular. As
we speak the same language with the people of Great Britain, and
have usually been at peace with that country; our commerce with
it brings to us, regularly, not a small part of the books with which
it is deluged. In every art, science, and path of literature, we obtain
those, which to a great extent supply our wants.
12
One significant implication of this situation is that no literary
aristocracy emerged in Colonial America. Reading was not regarded as an elitist activity, and printed matter was spread
evenly among all kinds of people. A thriving, classless reading
culture developed because, as Daniel Boorstin writes, "It was
diffuse. Its center was everywhere because it was nowhere.
Every man was close to what [printed matter] talked about.
Everyone could speak the same language. It was the product of
a busy, mobile, public society." By 1772, Jacob Duché could
write: "The poorest labourer upon the shore of the Delaware
thinks himself entitled to deliver his sentiment in matters of religion or politics with as much freedom as the gentleman or
scholar. . . . Such is the prevailing taste for books of every kind,
that almost every man is a reader."
Where such a keen taste for books prevailed among the general population, we need not be surprised that Thomas Paine's
Common Sense, published on January 10, 1776, sold more than
100,000 copies by March of the same year. In 1985, a book
would have to sell eight million copies (in two months) to
match the proportion of the population Paine's book attracted.
If we go beyond March, 1776, a more awesome set of figures is
given by Howard Fast: "No one knows just how many copies
were actually printed. The most conservative sources place the
figure at something over 300,000 copies. Others place it just
1 3
1 4
15
Typographic America
35
under half a million. Taking a figure of 400,000 in a population of 3,000,000, a book published today would have to sell
24,000,000 copies to do as well." The only communication
event that could produce such collective attention in today's
America is the Superbowl.
It is worth pausing here for a moment to say something of
Thomas Paine, for in an important way he is a measure of the
high and wide level of literacy that existed in his time. In particular, I want to note that in spite of his lowly origins, no question has ever been raised, as it has with Shakespeare, about
whether or not Paine was, in fact, the author of the works attributed to him. It is true that we know more of Paine's life than
Shakespeare's (although not more of Paine's early periods), but
it is also true that Paine had less formal schooling than Shakespeare, and came from the lowest laboring class before he arrived in America. In spite of these disadvantages, Paine wrote
political philosophy and polemics the equal in lucidity and vitality (although not quantity) of Voltaire's, Rousseau's, and
contemporary English philosophers', including Edmund Burke.
Yet no one asked the question, How could an unschooled staymaker from England's impoverished class produce such stunning prose? From time to time Paine's lack of education was
pointed out by his enemies (and he, himself, felt inferior because of this deficiency), but it was never doubted that such
powers of written expression could originate from a common
man.
It is also worth mentioning that the full title of Paine's most
widely read book is Common Sense, Written by an Englishman.
The tagline is important here because, as noted earlier, Americans did not write many books in the Colonial period, which
Benjamin Franklin tried to explain by claiming that Americans
were too busy doing other things. Perhaps so. But Americans
were not too busy to make use of the printing press, even if not
for books they themselves had written. The first printing press
in America was established in 1638 as an adjunct of Harvard
1 6
Amusing Ourselves to Death
36
University, which was two years old at the time. Presses were
established shortly thereafter in Boston and Philadelphia without resistance by the Crown, a curious fact since at this time
presses were not permitted in Liverpool and Birmingham,
among other English cities. The earliest use of the press was
for the printing of newsletters, mostly done on cheap paper. It
may well be that the development of an American literature
was retarded not by the industry of the people or the availability
of English literature but by the scarcity of quality paper. As late
as Revolutionary days, George Washington was forced to write
to his generals on unsightly scraps of paper, and his dispatches
were not enclosed in envelopes, paper being too scarce for such
use.
Yet by the late seventeenth century, there was a beginning to
a native literature that turned out to have as much to do with
the typographic bias of American culture as books. I refer, of
course, to the newspaper, at which Americans first tried their
hand on September 25, 1690, in Boston, when Benjamin Harris
printed the first edition of a three-page paper he called Publick
Occurrences Both Foreign and Domestick. Before he came to America, Harris had played a role in "exposing" a nonexistent conspiracy of Catholics to slaughter Protestants and burn London.
His London newspaper, Domestick Intelligence, revealed the
"Popish plot," with the result that Catholics were harshly persecuted. Harris, no stranger to mendacity, indicated in his
prospectus for Publick Occurrences that a newspaper was necessary to combat the spirit of lying which then prevailed in Boston
and, I am told, still does. He concluded his prospectus with the
following sentence: "It is suppos'd that none will dislike this
Proposal but such as intend to be guilty of so villainous a
crime." Harris was right about who would dislike his proposal.
The second issue of Publick Occurrences never appeared. The
Governor and Council suppressed it, complaining that Harris
had printed "reflections of a very high nature," by which
they meant that they had no intention of admitting any impedi17
18
19
20
21
Typographic America
37
ments to whatever villainy they wished to pursue. Thus, in the
New World began the struggle for freedom of information
which, in the Old, had begun a century before.
Harris' abortive effort inspired other attempts at newspaper
publication: for example, the Boston News-Letter, published in
1704, generally regarded as the first continuously published
American newspaper. This was followed by the Boston Gazette
(in 1719) and the New-England Courant (in 1721), whose editor,
James Franklin, was the older brother of Benjamin. By 1730,
there were seven newspapers published regularly in four colonies, and by 1800 there were more than 180. In 1770, the New
York Gazette congratulated itself and other papers by writing (in
part):
'Tis truth (with deference to the college)
Newspapers are the spring of Knowledge,
The general source throughout the nation,
Of every modern conversation.
22
At the end of the eighteenth century, the Reverend Samuel Miller boasted that the United States had more than two-thirds the
number of newspapers available in England, and yet had only
half the population of England.
In 1786, Benjamin Franklin observed that Americans were so
busy reading newspapers and pamphlets that they scarcely had
time for books. (One book they apparently always had time for
was Noah Webster's American Spelling Book, for it sold more
than 24 million copies between 1783 and 1843.) Franklin's
reference to pamphlets ought not to go unnoticed. The proliferation of newspapers in all the Colonies was accompanied by the
rapid diffusion of pamphlets and broadsides. Alexis de Tocqueville took note of this fact in his Democracy in America, published
in 1835: "In America," he wrote, "parties do not write books to
combat each other's opinions, but pamphlets, which are circulated for a day with incredible rapidity and then expire." And
23
24
2 5
38
Amusing Ourselves to Death
he referred to both newspapers and pamphlets when he observed, "the invention of firearms equalized the vassal and the
noble on the field of battle; the art of printing opened the same
resources to the minds of all classes; the post brought knowledge alike to the door of the cottage and to the gate of the
palace."
At the time Tocqueville was making his observations of
America, printing had already spread to all the regions of the
country. The South had lagged behind the North not only in the
formation of schools (almost all of which were private rather
than public) but in its uses of the printing press. Virginia, for
example, did not get its first regularly published newspaper, the
Virginia Gazette, until 1736. But toward the end of the eighteenth century, the movement of ideas via the printed word was
relatively rapid, and something approximating a national conversation emerged. For example, the Federalist Papers, an outpouring of eighty-five essays written by Alexander Hamilton,
James Madison, and John Jay (all under the name of Publius)
originally appeared in a New York newspaper during 1787 and
1788 but were read almost as widely in the South as the North.
As America moved into the nineteenth century, it did so as a
fully print-based culture in all of its regions. Between 1825 ...
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