Preface to the Postings:

            The following postings are inspired by the course Art and Thought of the Cold War, which is taught at Harvard University by Professor Louis Menand.  Although Menand is a Harvard Professor, he tends to think of himself (as he told me one day during his office hours) as more of a writer than an academic.  In addition to his lecture load, Menand is also a staff-writer for the New Yorker magazine, for which he has written myriad articles over the years.

            As you will notice through the course of my academic blog, Menand tends to recapitulate some of the topics, in which he is particularly well versed.  Some professors encourage students to buy their books, which, when scrutinized, tend to be verbatim transcriptions of lectures.  I have read his two books (The Metaphysical Club and American Studies) and noticed some intersection with the course.  But, Menand’s ideas are recycled from countless articles (not simply two books), giving the appearance that he has just thought up his statements during the course of his lecture.  This improvisation, however, does not detract from his presentation.  Rather, Menand’s effortless understanding of the Economy of Ideas makes each lecture all the more powerful even for his most familiar fan.

            Most of Menand’s scholarly work follows trends in American thought and culture.  His chief motive seems to be what he calls in the Preface to American Studies the “critical massing of conditions that enables a particular way of life to come into being.”  He continues by noting that “the only way to make the past usable is to misinterpret it, which means, strictly speaking, to lose it.”  His book is a reaction against the utility of history, as he strives to put people and events back into their contexts.  His intention is to “make sense, not to discredit.”  And, he explicates his practice with a wonderful analogy that is perfectly befitting for a New Yorker, whose introspection borders on paranoia:

The man on the subway platform looking at the woman with her nose in a book is a critic: he is trying to figure out whether she is really reading, and hasn’t noticed him, or is just pretending to be reading, and, if she is just pretending to be reading whether that is because she hopes he won’t approach her or because she calculates that he will.  If he does approach her, though, on the theory that she is just pretending to be reading, the first thing he will say is, “what are you reading?”  Appearance, mystique, aura, reputation: these are all aspects of things that interest us, and they are as real as anything else.  It is good not to be fooled, but there is a difference between being disenthralled and being disillusioned.  Criticism that denies the subject its surface appeal is unsuccessful criticism, and if something doesn’t seem more interesting after it has been taken apart, then it wasn’t worth taking apart.  The last word—though only the last word—should be one of appreciation.

Menand is always reshuffling the cards and rethinking himself, thus providing a fresh context and perspective on his old ideas.  He understands the fluid progression behind intellectual exchanges.  He understands the cyclic transaction of ideas in society.  And, most importantly, he understands and capitalizes on opportunities to reconstitute his old ideas in entirely new environments.  His old ideas are reborn and truly made anew by the affirming note-taking of a crowded lecture hall.

***

            After taking two classes with this professor, I have come to notice that Menand’s presentation resonates perfectly with his argument.

            The professor files through the front door of the classroom along with his students.  They have all done the same reading (at least, most of the students are capable of “faking it” for an hour).  Each person takes her position—people mostly seat themselves in the same general area of the semi-circular classroom, but I always felt that mobility helped me gain a unique perspective for each lesson.

            Menand stands at the podium.  Then, as if the notion just occurred to him, he saunters over to the blackboard and scribbles a few key names and terms.  He surveys the class.

            His clothing, a collared shirt without the formality of a tie and covered by the jacket of an academic, pretends that it has just been thrown together.  Continued exposure reveals that this look is as deliberately crafted as one of his essays.  His hair has a similar effect.  Erudite grey strands are thin on top but swathe the sides of his head.  His hair is long but never unkempt.  The outgrowth sets it apart from the average coiffeur without being rebellious—each thread is exactly where he intended it to be.

            The lecture begins with quiet ease.  He does not raise his voice.  He does not have to.  The buzz of the students comes to an immediate halt.  Only the pattering of laptop keyboards fills the background with dull white noise. 

            His presentation feels utterly spontaneous.  The evidence for his argument seamlessly wanders from theory to avant-garde artists to pop culture.  Every statement is brilliant, but the connection between each item remains deliberately obscure to hold the audience’s attention—as if this were necessary.  Then, in the final moments of the class a few now-obvious comments link everything together.

            The wandering lecture always takes a turn that would have seemed utterly unlikely at the outset but is impossibly clear by the end.  And, as most students frantically record the lecture’s hermeneutic conclusion, Menand quietly walks out of the class—always out of the side door… never the same way he came in.

            Although I recognize the effect of Menand’s illusion of spontaneity, I do not try to reproduce it.  This blog is a simple recap of each lecture’s content with as much honesty to its intended argument.  While I strive to be accurate, minor errors are unavoidable as each lecture’s barrage of information is difficult to take down in its entirety.  My writing is merely meant to entertain those who would gladly lurk in the background of these lectures but cannot be afforded the luxury.

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