The People

Victor Davis Hansen, writing in The Washington Times, has the following commentary:

"Nearly 24 centuries ago, Plato warned not to confuse innate artistic skill with either education or intelligence. The philosopher worried the emotional bond we can forge with good actors might also allow these manipulative mimics too much influence in matters on which they are often ignorant."

He goes on to discuss the same point I make in my post below (#5 of More Random Thoughts, which I wrote before I read his article so as usual I'm perspicacious).

But I don't think it's only their artistic abilities that make actors and rock stars think they know more than we do, it's the fame and the money. Certain people who live their lives in the public spotlight often think they have gained, as a result, lordship over the rest of us.

Does that sound like a clarion call to class warfare? It's not meant to be. I simply object to the fashionably famous who mistake our admiration for their talent as a license to demand our obeisance to their crackpot views about the world.

I stand with all the average nobodies whose voices crack when they sing in church, who sweat profusely at the thought of public speaking and think emoting is something birds do.

We are the artistically untalented. But always remember, we pay the taxes, we fight the wars, we police the streets, we teach the kids, we bag the groceries, we till the fields, we bake the bread. We are, in short, what makes America great

cue Carl Sandburg:

I AM THE PEOPLE, THE MOB

I AM the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget.

When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: “The People,” with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.

The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.