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THE MAGAZINE: From the October 17 Issue

The Culture of Celebrity

Let us now praise famous airheads.

Oct 17, 2005 | By Joseph Epstein

CELEBRITY AT THIS MOMENT IN America is epidemic, and it's spreading fast, sometimes

seeming as if nearly everyone has got it. Television provides celebrity dance contests, celebrities

take part in reality shows, perfumes carry the names not merely of designers but of actors and

singers. Without celebrities, whole sections of the New York Times and the Washington Post

would have to close down. So pervasive has celebrity become in contemporary American life

that one now begins to hear a good deal about a phenomenon known as the Culture of Celebrity.

The word "culture" no longer, I suspect, stands in most people's minds for that whole congeries

of institutions, relations, kinship patterns, linguistic forms, and the rest for which the early

anthropologists meant it to stand. Words, unlike disciplined soldiers, refuse to remain in place

and take orders. They insist on being unruly, and slither and slide around, picking up all sorts of

slippery and even goofy meanings. An icon, as we shall see, doesn't stay a small picture of a

religious personage but usually turns out nowadays to be someone with spectacular grosses. "The

language," as Flaubert once protested in his attempt to tell his mistress Louise Colet how much

he loved her, "is inept."

Today, when people glibly refer to "the corporate culture," "the culture of poverty," "the culture

of journalism," "the culture of the intelligence community"--and "community" has, of course,

itself become another of those hopelessly baggy-pants words, so that one hears talk even of "the

homeless community"--what I think is meant by "culture" is the general emotional atmosphere

and institutional character surrounding the word to which "culture" is attached. Thus, corporate

culture is thought to breed selfishness practiced at the Machiavellian level; the culture of

poverty, hopelessness and despair; the culture of journalism, a taste for the sensational combined

with a short attention span; the culture of the intelligence community, covering-one's-own-

behind viperishness; and so on. Culture used in this way is also brought in to explain unpleasant

or at least dreary behavior. "The culture of NASA has to be changed," is a sample of its current

usage. The comedian Flip Wilson, after saying something outrageous, would revert to the refrain

line, "The debbil made me do it." So, today, when admitting to unethical or otherwise wretched

behavior, people often say, "The culture made me do it."

As for "celebrity," the standard definition is no longer the dictionary one but rather closer to the

one that Daniel Boorstin gave in his book The Image: Or What Happened to the American

Dream: "The celebrity," Boorstin wrote, "is a person who is well-known for his well-

knownness," which is improved in its frequently misquoted form as "a celebrity is someone

famous for being famous." The other standard quotation on this subject is Andy Warhol's "In the

future everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes," which also frequently turns up in an

improved misquotation as "everyone will have his fifteen minutes of fame."

But to say that a celebrity is someone well-known for being well-known, though clever enough,

doesn't quite cover it. Not that there is a shortage of such people who seem to be known only for

their well-knownness. What do a couple named Sid and Mercedes Bass do, except appear in

bold-face in the New York Times "Sunday Styles" section and other such venues (as we now call

them) of equally shimmering insignificance, often standing next to Ahmet and Mica Ertegun,

also well-known for being well-known? Many moons ago, journalists used to refer to royalty as

"face cards"; today celebrities are perhaps best thought of as bold faces, for as such do their

names often appear in the press (and in a New York Times column with that very name, Bold

Face).

The distinction between celebrity and fame is one most dictionaries tend to fudge. I suspect

everyone has, or prefers to make, his own. The one I like derives not from Aristotle, who didn't

have to trouble with celebrities, but from the career of Ted Williams. A sportswriter once said

that he, Williams, wished to be famous but had no interest in being a celebrity. What Ted

Williams wanted to be famous for was his hitting. He wanted everyone who cared about baseball

to know that he was--as he believed and may well have been--the greatest pure hitter who ever

lived. What he didn't want to do was to take on any of the effort off the baseball field involved in

making this known. As an active player, Williams gave no interviews, signed no baseballs or

photographs, chose not to be obliging in any way to journalists or fans. A rebarbative character,

not to mention often a slightly menacing s.o.b., Williams, if you had asked him, would have said

that it was enough that he was the last man to hit .400; he did it on the field, and therefore didn't

have to sell himself off the field. As for his duty to his fans, he didn't see that he had any.

Whether Ted Williams was right or wrong to feel as he did is of less interest than the distinction

his example provides, which suggests that fame is something one earns--through talent or

achievement of one kind or another--while celebrity is something one cultivates or, possibly, has

thrust upon one. The two are not, of course, entirely exclusive. One can be immensely talented

and full of achievement and yet wish to broadcast one's fame further through the careful

cultivation of celebrity; and one can have the thinnest of achievements and be talentless and yet

be made to seem otherwise through the mechanics and dynamics of celebrity-creation, in our day

a whole mini-(or maybe not so mini) industry of its own.

Or, another possibility, one can become a celebrity with scarcely any pretense to talent or

achievement whatsoever. Much modern celebrity seems the result of careful promotion or great

good luck or something besides talent and achievement: Mr. Donald Trump, Ms. Paris Hilton,

Mr. Regis Philbin, take a bow. The ultimate celebrity of our time may have been John F.

Kennedy Jr., notable only for being his parents' very handsome son--both his birth and good

looks factors beyond his control--and, alas, known for nothing else whatsoever now, except for

the sad, dying-young-Adonis end to his life.

Fame, then, at least as I prefer to think of it, is based on true achievement; celebrity on the

broadcasting of that achievement, or the inventing of something that, if not scrutinized too

closely, might pass for achievement. Celebrity suggests ephemerality, while fame has a chance

of lasting, a shot at reaching the happy shores of posterity.

Oliver Goldsmith, in his poem "The Deserted Village," refers to "good fame," which implies that

there is also a bad or false fame. Bad fame is sometimes thought to be fame in the present, or

fame on earth, while good fame is that bestowed by posterity--those happy shores again. (Which

doesn't eliminate the desire of most of us, at least nowadays, to have our fame here and hereafter,

too.) Not false but wretched fame is covered by the word "infamy"--"Infamy, infamy, infamy,"

remarked the English wit Frank Muir, "they all have it in for me"--while the lower, or pejorative,

order of celebrity is covered by the word "notoriety," also frequently misused to mean

noteworthiness.

Leo Braudy's magnificent book on the history of fame, The Frenzy of Renown, illustrates how

the means of broadcasting fame have changed over the centuries: from having one's head

engraved on coins, to purchasing statuary of oneself, to (for the really high rollers--Alexander the

Great, the Caesar boys) naming cities or even months after oneself, to commissioning painted

portraits, to writing books or having books written about one, and so on into our day of the

publicity or press agent, the media blitz, the public relations expert, and the egomaniacal blogger.

One of the most successful of public-relations experts, Ben Sonnenberg Sr., used to say that he

saw it as his job to construct very high pedestals for very small men.

Which leads one to a very proper suspicion of celebrity. As George Orwell said about saints, so

it seems only sensible to say about celebrities: They should all be judged guilty until proven

innocent. Guilty of what, precisely? I'd say of the fraudulence (however minor) of inflating their

brilliance, accomplishments, worth, of passing themselves off as something they aren't, or at

least are not quite. If fraudulence is the crime, publicity is the means by which the caper is

brought off.

IS THE CURRENT HEIGHTENED INTEREST in the celebrated sufficient to form a culture--a

culture of a kind worthy of study? The anthropologist Alfred Kroeber defined culture, in part, as

embodying "values which may be formulated (overtly as mores) or felt (implicitly as in

folkways) by the society carrying the culture, and which it is part of the business of the

anthropologist to characterize and define." What are the values of celebrity culture? They are the

values, almost exclusively, of publicity. Did they spell one's name right? What was the size and

composition of the audience? Did you check the receipts? Was the timing right? Publicity is

concerned solely with effects and does not investigate causes or intrinsic value too closely. For

example, a few years ago a book of mine called Snobbery: The American Version received what

I thought was a too greatly mixed review in the New York Times Book Review. I remarked on my

disappointment to the publicity man at my publisher's, who promptly told me not to worry: It

was a full-page review, on page 11, right-hand side. That, he said, "is very good real estate,"

which was quite as important as, perhaps more important than, the reviewer's actual words and

final judgment. Better to be tepidly considered on page 11 than extravagantly praised on page 27,

left-hand side. Real estate, man, it's the name of the game.

We must have new names, Marcel Proust presciently noted--in fashion, in medicine, in art, there

must always be new names. It's a very smart remark, and the fields Proust chose seem smart, too,

at least for his time. (Now there must also be new names, at a minimum, among movie stars and

athletes and politicians.) Implicit in Proust's remark is the notion that if the names don't really

exist, if the quality isn't there to sustain them, it doesn't matter; new names we shall have in any

case. And every sophisticated society somehow, more or less implicitly, contrives to supply

them.

I happen to think that we haven't had a major poet writing in English since perhaps the death of

W.H. Auden or, to lower the bar a little, Philip Larkin. But new names are put forth nevertheless-

-high among them in recent years has been that of Seamus Heaney--because, after all, what kind

of a time could we be living in if we didn't have a major poet? And besides there are all those

prizes that, year after year, must be given out, even if so many of the recipients don't seem quite

worthy of them.

Considered as a culture, celebrity does have its institutions. We now have an elaborate celebrity-

creating machinery well in place--all those short-attention-span television shows (Entertainment

Tonight, Access Hollywood, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous); all those magazines (beginning

with People and far from ending with the National Enquirer). We have high-priced celebrity-

mongers--Barbara Walters, Diane Sawyer, Jay Leno, David Letterman, Oprah--who not only live

off others' celebrity but also, through their publicity-making power, confer it and have in time

become very considerable celebrities each in his or her own right.

Without the taste for celebrity, they would have to close down the whole Style section of every

newspaper in the country. Then there is the celebrity profile (in Vanity Fair, Esquire,

Gentlemen's Quarterly; these are nowadays usually orchestrated by a press agent, with all touchy

questions declared out-of-bounds), or the television talk-show interview with a star, which is

beyond parody. Well, almost beyond: Martin Short in his parody of a talk-show host remarked to

the actor Kiefer Sutherland, "You're Canadian, aren't you? What's that all about?"

Yet we still seem never to have enough celebrities, so we drag in so-called "It Girls" (Paris

Hilton, Cindy Crawford, other supermodels), tired television hacks (Regis Philbin, Ed

McMahon), back-achingly boring but somehow sacrosanct news anchors (Walter Cronkite, Tom

Brokaw). Toss in what I think of as the lower-class punditi, who await calls from various

television news and chat shows to demonstrate their locked-in political views and meager

expertise on major and cable stations alike: Pat Buchanan, Eleanor Clift, Mark Shields, Robert

Novak, Michael Beschloss, and the rest. Ah, if only Lenny Bruce were alive today, he could do a

scorchingly cruel bit about Dr. Joyce Brothers sitting by the phone wondering why Jerry

Springer never calls.

MANY OF OUR CURRENT-DAY CELEBRITIES float upon "hype," which is really a

publicist's gas used to pump up and set aloft something that doesn't really quite exist. Hype has

also given us a new breakdown, or hierarchical categorization, of celebrities. Until twenty-five or

so years ago great celebrities were called "stars," a term first used in the movies and

entertainment and then taken up by sports, politics, and other fields. Stars proving a bit drab,

"super-stars" were called in to play, this term beginning in sports but fairly quickly branching

outward. Apparently too many superstars were about, so the trope was switched from astronomy

to religion, and we now have "icons." All this takes Proust's original observation a step further:

the need for new names to call the new names.

This new ranking--stars, superstars, icons--helps us believe that we live in interesting times. One

of the things celebrities do for us is suggest that in their lives they are fulfilling our fantasies.

Modern celebrities, along with their fame, tend to be wealthy or, if not themselves beautiful, able

to acquire beautiful lovers. Their celebrity makes them, in the view of many, worthy of worship.

"So long as man remains free," Dostoyevsky writes in the Grand Inquisitor section of The

Brothers Karamazov, "he strives for nothing so incessantly and painfully as to find someone to

worship." If contemporary celebrities are the best thing on offer as living gods for us to worship,

this is not good news.

But the worshipping of celebrities by the public tends to be thin, and not uncommonly it is nicely

mixed with loathing. We also, after all, at least partially, like to see our celebrities as frail, ready

at all times to crash and burn. Cary Grant once warned the then-young director Peter

Bogdanovich, who was at the time living with Cybill Sheppard, to stop telling people he was in

love. "And above all," Grant warned, "stop telling them you're happy." When Bogdanovich

asked why, Cary Grant answered, "Because they're not in love and they're not happy. . . . Just

remember, Peter, people do not like beautiful people."

Grant's assertion is borne out by our grocery press, the National Enquirer, the Star, the Globe,

and other variants of the English gutter press. All these tabloids could as easily travel under the

generic title of the National Schadenfreude, for more than half the stories they contain come

under the category of "See How the Mighty Have Fallen": Oh, my, I see where that bright young

television sitcom star, on a drug binge again, had to be taken to a hospital in an ambulance! To

think that the handsome movie star has been cheating on his wife all these years--snakes loose in

the Garden of Eden, evidently! Did you note that the powerful senator's drinking has caused him

to embarrass himself yet again in public? I see where that immensely successful Hollywood

couple turn out to have had a child who died of anorexia! Who'd've thought?

How pleasing to learn that our own simpler, less moneyed, unglamorous lives are, in the end,

much to be preferred to those of these beautiful, rich, and powerful people, whose vast publicity

has diverted us for so long and whose fall proves even more diverting now. "As would become a

lifelong habit for most of us," Thomas McGuane writes in a recent short story in the New Yorker

called "Ice," "we longed to witness spectacular achievement and mortifying failure. Neither of

these things, we were discreetly certain, would ever come to us; we would instead be granted the

frictionless lives of the meek."

Along with trying to avoid falling victim to schadenfreude, celebrities, if they are clever, do well

to regulate the amount of publicity they allow to cluster around them. And not celebrities alone.

Edith Wharton, having published too many stories and essays in a great single rush in various

magazines during a concentrated period, feared, as she put it, the danger of becoming "a

magazine bore." Celebrities, in the same way, are in danger of becoming publicity bores, though

few among them seem to sense it. Because of improperly rationed publicity, along with a

substantial helping of self-importance, the comedian Bill Cosby will never again be funny. The

actress Elizabeth McGovern said of Sean Penn that he "is brilliant, brilliant at being the kind of

reluctant celebrity." At the level of high culture, Saul Bellow used to work this bit quite well on

the literary front, making every interview (and there have been hundreds of them) feel as if given

only with the greatest reluctance, if not under actual duress. Others are brilliant at regulating

their publicity. Johnny Carson was very intelligent about carefully husbanding his celebrity,

choosing not to come out of retirement, except at exactly the right time or when the perfect

occasion presented itself. Apparently it never did. Given the universally generous obituary

tributes he received, dying now looks, for him, to have been an excellent career move.

Careful readers will have noticed that I referred above to "the actress Elizabeth McGovern" and

felt no need to write anything before or after the name Sean Penn. True celebrities need nothing

said of them in apposition, fore or aft. The greatest celebrities are those who don't even require

their full names mentioned: Marilyn, Johnny, Liz, Liza, Oprah, Michael (could be Jordan or

Jackson--context usually clears this up fairly quickly), Kobe, Martha (Stewart, not Washington),

Britney, Shaq, J-Lo, Frank (Sinatra, not Perdue), O.J., and, with the quickest recognition and

shortest name of all--trumpets here, please--W.

ONE HAS THE IMPRESSION that being a celebrity was easier at any earlier time than it is

now, when celebrity-creating institutions, from paparazzi to gutter-press exposés to television

talk-shows, weren't as intense, as full-court press, as they are today. In the Times Literary

Supplement, a reviewer of a biography of Margot Fonteyn noted that Miss Fonteyn "was a star

from a more respectful age of celebrity, when keeping one's distance was still possible." My own

candidate for the perfect celebrity in the twentieth century would be Noël Coward, a man in

whom talent combined with elegance to give off the glow of glamour--and also a man who

would have known how to fend off anyone wishing to investigate his private life. Today, instead

of elegant celebrities, we have celebrity criminal trials: Michael Jackson, Kobe Bryant, Martha

Stewart, Robert Blake, Winona Ryder, and O.J. Simpson. Schadenfreude is in the saddle again.

American society in the twenty-first century, received opinion has it, values only two things:

money and celebrity. Whether or not this is true, vast quantities of money, we know, will buy

celebrity. The very rich--John D. Rockefeller and powerful people of his era--used to pay press

agents to keep their names out of the papers. But today one of the things money buys is a place at

the table beside the celebrated, with the celebrities generally delighted to accommodate, there to

share some of the glaring light. An example is Mort Zuckerman, who made an early fortune in

real estate, has bought magazines and newspapers, and is now himself among the punditi,

offering his largely unexceptional political views on the McLaughlin Group and other television

chat shows. Which is merely another way of saying that, whether or not celebrity in and of itself

constitutes a culture, it has certainly penetrated and permeated much of American culture

generally.

Such has been the reach of celebrity culture in our time that it has long ago entered into academic

life. The celebrity professor has been on the scene for more than three decades. As long ago as

1962, in fact, I recall hearing that Oscar Cargill, in those days a name of some note in the English

Department of NYU, had tried to lure the then-young Robert Brustein, a professor of theater and

the drama critic for the New Republic, away from Columbia. Cargill had said to Brustein, "I'm

not going to bulls--t you, Bob, we're looking for a star, and you're it." Brustein apparently wasn't

looking to be placed in a new constellation, and remained at Columbia, at least for a while

longer, before moving on to Yale and thence to Harvard.

The academic star, who is really the academic celebrity, is now a fairly common figure in what

the world, that ignorant ninny, reckons the Great American Universities. Richard Rorty is such a

star; so is Henry Louis Gates Jr. (who as "Skip" even has some celebrity nickname-recognition);

and, at a slightly lower level, there are Marjorie Garber, Eve Sedgwick, Stanley Fish, and

perhaps now Stephen Greenblatt. Stanley Fish doesn't even seem to mind that much of his

celebrity is owed to his being portrayed in novels by David Lodge as an indefatigable, grubby

little operator (though Lodge claims to admire Fish's happy vulgarity). Professors Garber and

Sedgwick seem to have acquired their celebrity through the outrageousness of the topics they've

chosen to write about.

By measure of pure celebrity, Cornel West is, at the moment, the star of all academic stars, a

man called by Newsweek "an eloquent prophet with attitude." (A bit difficult, I think, to imagine

Newsweek or any other publication writing something similar of Lionel Trilling, Walter Jackson

Bate, Marjorie Hope Nicolson, or John Hope Franklin.) He records rap CDs and appears at

benefits with movie stars and famous athletes. When the president of Harvard spoke critically to

West about his work not constituting serious scholarship (as if that had anything to do with

anything), it made front-page news in the New York Times. When West left Harvard in

indignation, he was instantly welcomed by Princeton. If West had been a few kilowatts more the

celebrity than he is, he might have been able to arrange for the firing of the president of the

university, the way certain superstars in the National Basketball Association--Magic Johnson,

Isiah Thomas, Larry Bird, Michael Jordan--were able, if it pleased them, to have their coaches

fired.

Genuine scholarship, power of ratiocination glowing brightly in the classroom, is distinctly not

what makes an academic celebrity or, if you prefer, superstar. What makes an academic

celebrity, for the most part, is exposure, which is ultimately publicity. Exposure can mean

appearing in the right extra-academic magazines or journals: the New York Review of Books, the

London Review of Books, the Atlantic Monthly; Harper's and the New Republic possibly qualify,

as do occasional cameo performances on the op-ed pages of the New York Times or the

Washington Post. Having one's face pop up on the right television and radio programs--PBS and

NPR certainly, and enough of the right kinds of appearances on C-SPAN--does not hurt. A

commercially successful, much-discussed book helps hugely.

So does strong public alignment with the correct political causes. Harvey Mansfield, the political

philosopher at Harvard, is a secondary academic celebrity of sorts, but not much in demand,

owing to his conservatism; Shelby Steele, a black professor of English who has been critical of

various aspects of African-American politics, was always overlooked during the days when

universities knocked themselves out to get black professors. Both men have been judged

politically incorrect. The underlying and overarching point is, to become an academic celebrity

you have to promote yourself outside the academy, but in careful and subtle ways.

ONE MIGHT ONCE HAVE ASSUMED that the culture of celebrity was chiefly about show

business and the outer edges of the arts, occasionally touching on the academy (there cannot be

more than twenty or so academic superstars). But it has also much altered intellectual life

generally. The past ten years or so have seen the advent of the "public intellectual." There are

good reasons to feel uncomfortable with that adjective "public," which drains away much of the

traditional meaning of intellectual. An intellectual is someone who is excited by and lives off and

in ideas. An intellectual has traditionally been a person unaffiliated, which is to say someone

unbeholden to anything but the power of his or her ideas. Intellectuals used to be freelance, until

fifty or so years ago, when jobs in the universities and in journalism began to open up to some

among them.

Far from being devoted to ideas for their own sake, the intellectual equivalent of art for art's

sake, the so-called public intellectual of our day is usually someone who comments on what is in

the news, in the hope of affecting policy, or events, or opinion in line with his own political

position, or orientation. He isn't necessarily an intellectual at all, but merely someone who has

read a few books, mastered a style, a jargon, and a maven's authoritative tone, and has a clearly

demarcated political line.

But even when the public intellectual isn't purely tied to the news, or isn't thoroughly political,

what he or she really is, or ought to be called, is a "publicity intellectual." In Richard A. Posner's

interesting book Public Intellectuals, intellectuals are in one place ranked by the number of

media mentions they or their work have garnered, which, if I am correct about publicity being at

the heart of the enterprise of the public intellectual, may be crude but is not foolish. Not

knowledge, it turns out, but publicity is power.

The most celebrated intellectuals of our day have been those most skillful at gaining publicity for

their writing and their pronouncements. Take, as a case very much in point, Susan Sontag. When

Susan Sontag died at the end of last year, her obituary was front-page news in the New York

Times, and on the inside of the paper it ran to a full page with five photographs, most of them

carefully posed--a variety, it does not seem unfair to call it, of intellectual cheesecake. Will the

current prime ministers of England and France when they peg out receive equal space or pictorial

coverage? Unlikely, I think. Why did Ms. Sontag, who was, let it be said, in many ways the pure

type of the old intellectual--unattached to any institution, earning her living (apart from

MacArthur Foundation and other grants) entirely from her ideas as she put them in writing--why

did she attract the attention she did?

I don't believe Susan Sontag's celebrity finally had much to do with the power or cogency of her

ideas. Her most noteworthy idea was not so much an idea at all but a description of a style, a

kind of reverse or anti-style, that went by the name of Camp and that was gay in its impulse.

Might it have been her politics? Yes, politics had a lot to do with it, even though when she

expressed herself on political subjects, she frequently got things mightily askew: During the

Vietnam war she said that "the white race is the cancer of human history." As late as the 1980s,

much too late for anyone in the know, she called communism "fascism with a friendly face"

(what do you suppose she found so friendly about it?). To cheer up the besieged people of

Sarajevo, she brought them a production of Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot. She announced

in the New Yorker that the killing of 3,000 innocent people on 9/11 was an act that America had

brought on itself. As for the writing that originally brought her celebrity, she later came to

apologize for Against Interpretation, her most influential single book. I do not know any people

who claim to have derived keen pleasure from her fiction. If all this is roughly so, why, then, do

you suppose that Susan Sontag was easily the single most celebrated--the greatest celebrity--

intellectual of our time?

With the ordinary female professor's face and body, I don't think Ms. Sontag would quite have

achieved the same celebrity. Her attractiveness as a young woman had a great deal to do with the

extent of her celebrity; and she and her publisher took that (early) physical attractiveness all the

way out. From reading Carl Rollyson and Lisa Paddock's biography Susan Sontag: The Making

of an Icon, one gets a sense of how carefully and relentlessly she was promoted by her publisher,

Roger Straus. I do not mean to say that Sontag was unintelligent, or talentless, but Straus,

through having her always dramatically photographed, by sending angry letters to the editors of

journals where she was ill-reviewed, by bringing out her books with the most careful

accompanying orchestration, promoted this often difficult and unrewarding writer into something

close to a household name with a face that was ready, so to say, to be Warholed. That Sontag

spent her last years with Annie Leibowitz, herself the most successful magazine photographer of

our day, seems somehow the most natural thing in the world. Even in the realm of the intellect,

celebrities are not born but made, usually very carefully made--as was, indubitably, the celebrity

of Susan Sontag.

ONE OF THE MAJOR THEMES in Leo Braudy's The Frenzy of Renown is the fame and

celebrity of artists, and above all writers. To sketch in a few bare strokes the richly complex

story Braudy tells, writers went from serving power (in Rome) to serving God (in early

Christendom) to serving patrons (in the eighteenth century) to serving themselves, with a careful

eye cocked toward both the contemporary public and posterity (under Romanticism), to serving

mammon, to a state of interesting confusion, which is where we are today, with celebrity

affecting literature in more and more significant ways.

Writers are supposed to be aristocrats of the spirit, not promoters, hustlers, salesmen for their

own work. Securing a larger audience for their work was not thought to be their problem. "Fit

audience, though few," in John Milton's phrase, was all right, so long as the few were the most

artistically alert, or aesthetically fittest. Picture Lord Byron, Count Tolstoy, or Charles

Baudelaire at a lectern at Barnes & Noble, C-SPAN camera turned on, flogging (wonderful

word!) his own most recent books. Not possible!

Some superior writers have been very careful caretakers of their careers. In a letter to one of his

philosophy professors at Harvard, T.S. Eliot wrote that there were two ways to achieve literary

celebrity in London: One was to appear often in a variety of publications; the other to appear

seldom but always to make certain to dazzle when one did. Eliot, of course, chose the latter, and

it worked smashingly. But he was still counting on gaining his reputation through his actual

writing. Now good work alone doesn't quite seem to make it; the publicity catapults need to be

hauled into place, the walls of indifference stormed. Some writers have decided to steer shy from

publicity altogether: Thomas Pynchon for one, J.D. Salinger for another (if he is actually still

writing or yet considers himself a writer). But actively seeking publicity was thought for a writer,

somehow, vulgar--at least it was until the last few decades.

Edmund Wilson, the famous American literary critic, used to answer requests with a postcard

that read:

Edmund Wilson regrets that it is impossible for him to: Read manuscripts, Write articles or

books to order, Make statements for publicity purposes, Do any kind of editorial work, Judge

literary contests, Give interviews, Conduct educational courses, Deliver lectures, Give talks or

make speeches, Take part in writers congresses, Answer questionnaires, Contribute or take part

in symposiums or "panels" of any kind, Contribute manuscripts for sale, Donate copies of his

books to Libraries, Autograph books for strangers, Allow his name to be used on letterheads,

Supply personal information about himself, Supply photographs of himself, Supply opinions on

literary or other subjects.

A fairly impressive list, I'd say. When I was young, Edmund Wilson supplied for me the model

of how a literary man ought to carry himself. One of the things I personally found most

impressive about his list is that everything Edmund Wilson clearly states he will not do, Joseph

Epstein has now done, and more than once, and, like the young woman in the Häagen-Dazs

commercial sitting on her couch with an empty carton of ice cream, is likely to do again and

again.

I tell myself that I do these various things in the effort to acquire more readers. After all, one of

the reasons I write, apart from pleasure in working out the aesthetic problems and moral

questions presented by my subjects and in my stories, is to find the best readers. I also want to

sell books, to make a few shekels, to please my publisher, to continue to be published in the

future in a proper way. Having a high threshold for praise, I also don't in the least mind meeting

strangers who tell me that they take some delight in my writing. But, more than all this, I have

now come to think that writing away quietly, producing (the hope is) good work, isn't any longer

quite sufficient in a culture dominated by the boisterous spirit of celebrity. In an increasingly

noisy cultural scene, with many voices and media competing for attention, one feels--perhaps

incorrectly but nonetheless insistently--the need to make one's own small stir, however pathetic.

So, on occasion, I have gone about tooting my own little paper horn, doing book tours,

submitting to the comically pompous self-importance of interviews, and doing so many of the

other things that Edmund Wilson didn't think twice about refusing to do.

"You're slightly famous, aren't you, Grandpa?" my then eight-year-old granddaughter once said

to me. "I am slightly famous, Annabelle," I replied, "except no one quite knows who I am." This

hasn't changed much over the years. But of course seeking celebrity in our culture is a mug's

game, one you cannot finally hope to win. The only large, lumpy kind of big-time celebrity

available, outside movie celebrity, is to be had through appearing fairly regularly on television. I

had the merest inkling of this fame when I was walking along one sunny morning in downtown

Baltimore, and a red Mazda convertible screeched to a halt, the driver lowered his window,

pointed a long index finger at me, hesitated, and finally, the shock of recognition lighting up his

face, yelled, "C-SPAN!"

I was recently asked, through email, to write a short piece for a high price for a volume about the

city of Chicago. When I agreed to do it, the editor of the volume, who is (I take it) young, told

me how very pleased she was to have someone as distinguished as I among the volume's

contributors. But she did have just one request. Before making things final, she wondered if she

might see a sample of my writing. More than forty years in the business, I thought, echoing the

character played by Zero Mostel in The Producers, and I'm still wearing the celebrity equivalent

of a cardboard belt.

"Every time I think I'm famous," Virgil Thomson said, "I have only to go out into the world." So

it is, and so ought it probably to remain for writers, musicians, and visual artists who prefer to

consider themselves serious. The comedian Richard Pryor once said that he would deem himself

famous when people recognized him, as they recognized Bob Hope and Muhammad Ali, by his

captionless caricature. That is certainly one clear criterion for celebrity. But the best criterion I've

yet come across holds that you are celebrated, indeed famous, only when a crazy person

imagines he is you. It's especially pleasing that the penetrating and prolific author of this remark

happens to go by the name of Anonymous.