What has gotten into George Packer? In Blood of the Liberals he undertook a wrenching examination of American liberalism's agonies and ironies; and in The Assassin's Gate and his play Betrayed, he bore searing, humbling witness to the ordeals of Americans and Iraqis who wouldn't have written for themselves.
Yet Packer's New Yorker account of "The Fall of Conservatism" gives us only voices of people who make their livings making phrases that describe and influence that vast majority of Americans who don't make their livings that way.
Since I, too, turn phrases for money and political deliverance, I count it a gift of the gods. But I was always under the impression that writers in a democracy should help non-writing people to speak for themselves, not just have them spoken about.
That should be so even in the New Yorker, which exists to present the American people to bemused collectors of unearned income and Steuben glass and to the intelligent recent college graduate who for some reason wants to be like them and is therefore seeking "the most comfortable and least compromising attitude he can assume toward capitalist society without being forced into actual conflict," as the critic Robert Warshow once wrote about the typical reader of... yes, the New Yorker.
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