For various reasons, most of the sturm und drang which surrounded Tim Russert's unexpected passing did not draw my active attention, but even an occasional browser of this site cannot be unaware that it stirred up a storm about the propriety of speaking ill of the dead, and at what length from his passing one might politely do so.
Why? Because, best I can tell, Mr. Russert was accused of not being who he presented himself to be in print and on television.
Manners being a constantly evolving social mechanism about which I can pretend to little expertise, I shall leave that discussion aside. Because I did not regularly view Mr. Russert's work, nor read his prose, I can offer nothing, there, too.
But the cult of personality, that I know a little about. Please jump to conclusions with me over the fold.
Here's what I know about the cult of personality, offered only by way of establishing my arete. I have spent most of the last two decades stoking obscure corners of the starmaking machine. Which means I have met people whose names would be familiar, even here, that I have done an insignificant amount of unpaid work as a talking head, that I have a working familiarity with practical aspects of how stories are told to the public.
And here's what I believe, as deeply as I believe anything, for this particular quotation has guided me in many things and in many ways since my canny sixth grade teacher first suggested I read Walden. (A caution: I am not deeply read in Thoreau. I know this book tolerably well, and it had much to do with who I have become. So, too, did The Story of Ferdinand.)
"Nature and human life are as various as our several constitutions. Who shall say what prospect life offers to another? Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant? We should live in all the ages of the world in an hour; ay, in all the worlds of the ages. History, Poetry, Mythology! -- I know of no reading of another's experience so startling and informing as this would be."
For most of these last two decades I have worked with a woman I would have said I know pretty well, for we have been friends, and through much together. Only a few months back when I visited her home and saw several books by Ann Coulter prominently displayed did I come to realize how little I knew about her, though we talked often about music and compost and the most energy-efficient ways she and her husband might build their retirement home.
I would also draw your attention to a provocative book written by Vanderbilt professor Richard A. Peterson titled Creating Country Music: Fabricating Authenticity. And I would remind those of you who survived some degree of formal training in the criticism of literature of an old edict, though it may have fallen now from favor: Don't confuse the artist with the art.
Which has to do, here, with this: We, most of us, don't know Tim Russert, nor Barack Obama, nor Rachel Maddow. Nor John McCain, for that matter. Those few who have actually met them will have formed certain opinions; those who know them well will know better than to reveal much, to break K-fab as the pro wrestlers call it.
We have decided to like some of those people, and not to like others. Most of us would prefer that those decisions be made on the basis of policy considerations, because most of us who come here manifest a fairly high wonk coefficient.
But the body politic is inescapably shaped by celebrity culture. We all are, even if it's only to stare in disbelief while waiting at the checkout stand.
Many months ago I had a conversion experience. I became a supporter of Barack Obama. Oddly enough, he was first suggested to me as a viable candidate by a Cold War fighter pilot, a lifelong small town Republican, who startled me over coffee by suggesting that electing Obama might be the singular way we could change the dynamics in the Middle East, the way America is perceived. Because Obama comes from a coal state, and seemed unwilling then to separate himself from those parochial needs and offer a more balanced, greener national energy policy, I was tepid about him as a presidential candidate.
No matter. I came around because I came one day to realize what Barack Obama is, what our political process has become: He is a symbol. We are voting -- most of us, though few enough who come here regularly! -- for a symbol which reflects how we feel about ourselves, about our country.
(This, sadly enough, explains the election and re-election of George Bush, and many other things. And I will, for the moment, leave aside my strong fear that any candidate who rises to the national stage has already been many times compromised.)
And so I am choosing to vote for hope, for that is what we have to sell to America this season, and it is much needed. I am also voting for the smartest man in the room, for a man whose problem solving skills -- no matter how managed they may or may not be -- reveal a proving, sensitive, subtle mind. But more than anything else I am voting for a symbol of hope.
I do not care if Barack Obama is the man he presents himself to be, not really. I don't care if he has a temper, can't go to his left when he drives to the hoop, nor, even, if he cheats on his wife (though I hope he has sense enough not to).
And I do not care if Tim Russert was the man he presented himself to be.
But I think he was. I think Obama is. I do not believe, particularly in the YouTube age, that public figures can pretend to be something they are not for long. The managers can choose to amplify some traits and to hide others, and sometimes that works. But in the end, I do not care.
The body politic does not vote for policy. It does not vote for detail. It votes for a brand name, for its aspirations, for its hopes and dreams. We have not been asked to dream big dreams for decades, and the offer touches a deep and powerful yearning.
That's enough, for me, for the moment.