The Lonely Crowd

by David Riesman

  Certainly, it is ambition that strikes us as an outstanding trait of the heroes of boys’ literature in the era of inner-direction. Moreover, it is an ambition with which the child reader can identify, even if the particular goal—to fight Indians or find the treasure or North Pole or swim icy rivers or detect crime—is at the moment a remote one; that is, the reader could in fantasy emulate the moral qualities of the hero, such as his bravery and his self-control. Thus, while these heroes, like the modern heroes, almost invariably won, the reader was encouraged to be concerned not only with the final victorious outcome but with the inner struggles that preceded it and made it possible.

  It is sometimes loosely said that the comic strip merely continues this older set of themes in a new medium, but the fact is that the themes change and the identifications change even more. Where, as often happens, children prefer comics in which the hero is not man but Superman or Plastic Man, possessing obviously unique powers, identification languishes: no amount of willpower, no correspondence course with Lionel Strongfort, will turn one into Superman even in the wildest flight of fantasy. And such flights of fantasy appear to be less available today. Exposed to ever more sophisticated media, the children are too hep for “unrealistic” daydreams; at the movies they soon learn the fine points and will criticize a Western because the hero fired seven shots running from his six-shooter. The media in turn encourage this realism with their color effects and sound effects, which exceed by far the realism of petty detail which Defoe and his successors strove for. The characters in much fiction of the era dependent on inner-direction were props—stereotypes of the sort indicated in the preceding section. In Jules Verne, for instance, it is the adventures, the mechanical details, not the characters, that are sharply delineated; the latter are loose-fitting uniforms into which many boys could fit themselves. The imaginative, tenebrous illustrations of an artist like Howard Pyle also left openings for identification on the part of the reader who wanted to picture himself as the hero.

  Little of this looseness of fit remains for the imagination of the modern reader or listener to fill in. Though comic-strip and comic-book characterization is, if anything, less sharp, externals are pinned down conclusively: every detail of costuming and speech is given. This is the more necessary because, with so many mass-media heroes competing for attention, their portrayers must engage in marginal differentiation in search of their trade-mark. Bodies by Milton Caniff must be as instantly recognizable as bodies by Fisher.

  There is paradox in the reception of this realism. On the one hand, every additional brush stroke of the comic-strip artist rules out identifications for millions; the small-breasted girl, for example, may find only disapproval for herself in the comics. On the other hand, the same realism is one source of the fear of being conspicuous in our little Supergirl cited at the chapter head. If she were Superman, she would be instantly recognizable. She would lack the privacy of narcissism permitted the reader of an earlier day who could gloat over the fact that he was M. Vidocq or Sherlock Holmes—only nobody knew it.

  These generalizations need not be pushed too far. There are children—at least one has heard of them—who identify with Superman, or, more easily, with Terry or the Saint. Nor is it out of the question to identify, at the same time, on one level of consciousness with the hero and on another level with the person he rescues. And while the heroes of the comics are ageless, having discovered the secret of eternal youth, the growing child can move from one hero to another who better fits his own changing needs and aspirations. These counter-tendencies are encouraged by the gadgetry—Superman cloaks, and so on—that relates children to their radio, movie, and comic-book heroes. But it would be a mistake to assume that each wearer of a Superman cloak identifies with Superman; he may only be a fan, wearing his hero’s colors.

  Perhaps it is also significant that the comic book compresses into a few minutes’ reading time a sequence which, in the earlier era, was dragged out in many pages of print. Think of the Count of Monte Cristo’s years in jail, his suffering, his incredible patience, his industry and his study of the abbÉ’s teaching; both his gain and his vengeance are moralized by these prolongations, and he is an old man when, after many chapters, he wins. By contrast, the comic-book or radio-drama hero wins almost effortlessly; the very curtailment of the telling time itself makes this more apparent. To be sure, like his movie counterpart, this hero does frequently get beaten up, but this adds to excitement, not to morality or inner change, and helps justify an even worse beating administered to the crooks.

  Still another aspect of this change is worth looking at If one does not identify with the winner but is at the very same time preoccupied with the process of winning itself, as the best handle by which one grasps a story, one is prepared for the role of consumer of others’ winnings. One is prepared, that is, for the adult role of betting on the right horse, with no interest in the jockey or horse or knowledge of what it takes to be either. The content of the identification is impoverished to the point where virtually the only bond between reader and hero is the fact of the hero’s winning. The spectator—the same holds for a quiz game, a sport contest, and, as we shall see, a political contest—wants to become involved with the winner simply in order to make the contest meaningful: this hope of victory makes the event exciting, while the game or contest or story is not appreciated for its own sake.

  The victory of the hero, then, is only ostensibly a moral one. To be sure, vestiges of older moralities hang on, often as conventions enforced by censorship or the fear of it. But morality in the sense of a literary character’s development, rather than morality in the sense of being on the side of law and right, is not explored in the story. Consequently, morality tends to become an inference from winning. Just as in a whodunit all appear guilty until they are retroactively cleared by finding the real killer, so the victory of the hero retroactively justifies his deeds and misdeeds. “Winner take all” becomes a tautology.

  TOOTLE: A MODERN CAUTIONARY TALE

  Parents are sometimes apt to assume that comic books and the radio, as the cheapest and most widespread media, are the principal vehicles of these newer attitudes and values and that, in a home barricaded against Roy Rogers and Steve Canyon, these patterns of audience response would also be excluded. The fact is, however, that many important themes of other-direction are introduced into the socializing and informative books of the non-comic variety which middle- and upper-middle-class children are given—conversely, these “educative” books are probably not without influence on the more socially conscious radio and comicbook artists. A whole range of these media teaches children the lesson given parents and teachers in many recent works on child development. The slant of that lesson is suggested by a passage from a book in use by teachers and PTA groups:

  The usual and desirable developmental picture is one of increasing self-control on the part of the individual children, of increasingly smooth social or play technics, and of an emergence at adolescence or early adulthood of higher forms of cooperation. The adolescent should have learned better “to take it” in group activity, should have developed an improved, though not yet perfect, self-control, and should have real insight into the needs and wishes of others.8

  Tootle the Engine (text by Gertrude Crampton, pictures by Tibor Gergely) is a popular and in many ways charming volume in the “Little Golden Books” series. It is a cautionary tale even though it appears to be simply one of the many books about anthropomorphic vehicles—trucks, fire engines, taxicabs, tugboats, and so on—that are supposed to give a child a picture of real life. Tootle is a young engine who goes to engine school, where two main lessons are taught: stop at a red flag and “always stay on the track no matter what.” Diligence in the lessons will result in the young engine’s growing up to be a big streamliner. Tootle is obedient for a while and then one day discovers the delight of going off the tracks and finding flowers in the field. This violation of the rules cannot, however, be kept secret; there are
telltale traces in the cowcatcher. Nevertheless, Tootle’s play becomes more and more of a craving, and despite warnings he continues to go off the tracks and wander in the field. Finally the engine schoolmaster is desperate. He consults the mayor of the little town of Engineville, in which the school is located; the mayor calls a town meeting, and Tootle’s failings are discussed—of course Tootle knows nothing of this. The meeting decides on a course of action, and the next time Tootle goes out for a spin alone and goes off the track he runs right into a red flag and halts. He turns in another direction only to encounter another red flag; still another—the result is the same. He turns and twists but can find no spot of grass in which a red flag does not spring up, for all the citizens of the town have cooperated in this lesson.

  Chastened and bewildered he looks toward the track, where the inviting green flag of his teacher gives him the signal to return. Confused by conditioned reflexes to stop signs, he is only too glad to use the track and tears happily up and down. He promises that he will never leave the track again, and he returns to the roundhouse to be rewarded by the cheers of the teachers and the citizenry and the assurance that he will indeed grow up to be a streamliner.

  The story would seem to be an appropriate one for bringing up children in an other-directed mode of conformity. They learn it is bad to go off the tracks and play with flowers and that, in the long run, there is not only success and approval but even freedom to be found in following the green lights.9 The moral is a very different one from that of Little Red Riding Hood. She, too, gets off the track on her trip to the grandmother; she is taught by a wolf about the beauties of nature—a veiled symbol for sex. Then, to be sure, she is eaten—a terrifying fate—but in the end she and grandmother both are taken from the wolf’s belly by the handsome woodchopper. The story, though it may be read as a cautionary tale, deals with real human passions, sexual and aggressive; it certainly does not present the rewards of virtue in any unambiguous form or show the adult world in any wholly benevolent light. It is, therefore, essentially realistic, underneath the cover of fantasy, or, more accurately, owing to the quality of the fantasy.

  There is, perhaps, a streak of similar realism in Tootle. There the adults play the role we have described earlier: they manipulate the child into conformity with the peer-group and then reward him for the behavior for which they have already set the stage. Moreover, the citizens of Engineville are tolerant of Tootle: they understand and do not get indignant. And while they gang up on him with red flags they do so for his benefit, and they reward him for his obedience as if they had played no hand in bringing it about. Yet with all that, there is something overvarnished in this tale. The adult world (the teachers) is not that benevolent, the citizenry (the peer-group) not that participative and cooperative, the signals are not that clear, nor the rewards of being a streamliner that great or that certain. Nevertheless, the child may be impressed because it is all so nice—there is none of the grimness of Red Riding Hood. There is, therefore, a swindle about the whole thing—a fake like that the citizens put on for Tootle’s benefit. At the end Tootle has forgotten that he ever did like flowers anyway—how childish they are in comparison with the great big grown-up world of engines, signals, tracks, and meetings!

  AREAS OF FREEDOM

  We have discussed the social situation in which the mass media of today are absorbed by their child readers. We have seen the effects of this situation on the process by which the reader identifies with the protagonists and their roles. We have stressed especially the ambiguously competitive nature of these identifications which on the one hand emphasize winning and on the other hand stringently limit all emotional identifications by the code of the peer-group.

  If this were all, we would have to conclude that the peer-group, as one of the mediating agencies in child readership and listening, is simply open to manipulation by the professional storytellers. But I want to raise very briefly the alternative possibility: namely, that the peer-group may have a relatively independent set of criteria which helps it maintain not only marginal differentiation but even a certain leeway in relation to the media. It is conceivable that, in those peer-groups which succeed in feeding back styles and values to the mass media, there is some feeling of achievement, of having one’s contribution recognized. To be sure, the feeling of having been invaded and chased by popularity or unpopularity off one’s island of individuation will also be present, and the total outcome may depend on whether the peer-group feels the mass media to be in pursuit of it or whether the group enjoys playing follow the leader, when it is the leader.

  In all probability it is rare enough that a youthful peer-group forces the mass media—and hence other peer-groups—to follow its lead. Far more frequent will be the peer-group’s opportunity to establish its own standards of criticism of the media. Groups of young hot-jazz fans, for instance, have highly elaborate standards for evaluating popular music, standards of almost pedantic precision. We must go further, then, and ask whether there may be areas of privacy which children learn to find inside a superficial adjustment to the peer-group and under the cover of a superficial permeability to the mass media. In other words, we must re-explore the assumption made so far that the other-directed child is almost never alone, that by six or seven he no longer talks to himself, invents songs, or dreams unsupervised dreams.

  We are aware that children who have been brought up on the radio can shut out its noise like those automatic devices that are dreamed up to silence commercials. Perhaps such children can also shut out the noise of the peer-group, even while they are contributing to it. Moreover, the comics themselves may be not only a part of peer-group consumption patterns but on occasion a refuge from the peer-group and a defiance against that official adult world which abhors the comics. We shall return in Part III to the question whether the mass media can foster autonomy as well as adjustment, independence from the peer-group as well as conformity to it.

  V

  THE INNER-DIRECTED ROUND OF LIFE

  In

  Memory of

  Thomas Darling, Esq.

  who died Nov. 30, 1789 ———

  A Gentleman of strong mental powers,

  well improved with science and literature,

  ——— to the study of philosophy,

  habituated to contemplation and reading

  ——— in moral reasoning,

  of deep penetration and sound judgment,

  respected for modesty and candor,

  benignity and self command

  in his intercourse with mankind

  honest and benevolent,

  amiable in all the relations of social life

  and filled a variety of public offices

  with fidelity and dignity

  eminent abilities as statesman and judge

  an early professor of Christianity

  its steady friend, ornament, and defender

  with a rational and firm faith in his God

  and Savior: he knew no other master.

  A GRAVESTONE INSCRIPTION IN A NEW HAVEN CEMETERY

  The oldest historical types in America, in terms of the scheme set forth in this book, are a few still partially tradition-directed people such as some of the French Canadians of the northeast, the delta Negroes, and the Mexican “wetbacks” of Texas. These groups survive from societies and social classes whose modes of conformity were etablished in a phase of high population growth potential. The next oldest type, the inner-directed, survive from the period of transitional population growth in America and abroad. They are still dominant in many regions and many occupations, even in the cities. They are also probably the most numerous type, if we include among them not only those whose inner-direction is clear and unequivocal but also many working-class people who aspire to be inner-directed but are actually unable to adjust either to inner-directed or to other-directed modes of conformity. Finally, the newest type, the other-directed, are the product of the changes in the agents of character formation discussed
in the three preceding chapters—changes most pronounced in the big cities and among the upper income groups.

  In this and the following two chapters we shall explore in more detail the way in which the shift of the American population curve into the phase of incipient decline corresponds to a change in the texture of adult work and play. Other-directed character types are produced not only by influences affecting the parents and other early character-forming agents but also by institutions that shape or reshape the character of adults who grew up in an environment more undilutedly inner-directed. While children are the pioneers of the characterological frontiers of population, it is the adults who, even in a child-centered culture, run the engines, rig the signals, write the books and comics, and play politics and other grown-up games.

  An inscription such as the one at the head of this chapter reminds us of the exemplary types of men who flourished in an era depending on inner-direction. Not all of them, of course, were as good as Mr. Darling is said to have been; we must not equate inner-direction with conscience direction. A scoundrel who knows what he aims for can be as unequivocally inner-directed as a Godfearing puritan. Yet as we turn now to recapture the flavor of an era that is near enough to be thought familiar and not far enough away to be fully understood, it is well to think of a man who knew no other master than his God.