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Promised Land

Works that reflect America's aims and desires.

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“The Federalist Papers” gave clear public voice to ideals of the US Constitution; “The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin” chartered a uniquely American character out of ideas about thrift and self-reliance – notions given contrapuntal piquancy and charge in Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden.”

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Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” galvanized America’s conscience with respect to slavery; Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn” illustrated the deformations of character and experience caused by that peculiar institution, while W.E.B. Dubois’s “The Souls of Black Folk” offered a glimpse of intellectual emancipation, and the spiritual exercises we would need to achieve it.

Lewis and Clark’s “Journals” mapped not only American territory, but the peculiar mix of ambition and poker-faced empiricism with which we relate to the wider world, while Mary Antin’s “The Promised Land,” nearly forgotten today, shaped the narrative of immigrants drawn to the power, wealth, and freedom America seems to offer.

Later, as our immigrant tendencies estranged us from one another, authors like Dale Carnegie and Benjamin Spock offered substitutes for the community and attention of bygone days.

Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People” expressed America’s brutal utilitarianism, a vision of people as means rather than ends; Spock’s “Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care” offered consolation to parents who lacked the pan-generational wisdom of their grandparents.

Parini concludes with Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road,” which charted the long-burning fallout of all this alienation and materialism, and Betty Friedan’s “Feminine Mystique,” a fierce and brittle lens that focused the righteous resentment of the excluded and lit the way for change.

Finding a collective destiny in books
Admitting that American history offers a catalog of delusion and error, Parini nonetheless concludes that we have a “collective destiny, which our forebears have consciously shaped” – a destiny charted and documented in these books. While gently learned and gracefully composed, Parini’s essays come dangerously close to the too-satisfying sensation that everything has worked out as it should, that history has a meaning that reveals itself, however capriciously or haphazardly, in the fullness of time.

But this is no more true of books than it is of history. Books are often understood in very different lights in different times; the ecocritical force that “Walden” has for us today, for instance, would have mystified its first readers.

Perhaps chief among the capacities of great books is a quality shared by America itself: a tricky talent for self-reinvention.

Matthew Battles is a freelance writer in Jamaica Plain, Mass.


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