Eminent Americans Daniel Oppenheimer

Back on the ‘pod this week is Naomi Kanakia, author of the just released novel The Default World. We talk about Vekhi, a 1909 collection of essays from ex- and never-Marxist Russian intellectuals; Thomas Chatterton Williams, the dissident Black liberal writer; internecine battles in the trans woman world; why Naomi and I try (and fail) to stay out of bullshit culture war discussions; why we may go too easy on the right because we don’t really expect much from them; why everyone is so angry; and how all we really need is love.


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Two quick opening notes on this episode of the Eminent Americans podcast:
* According to some post by some guy that I read somewhere once, most podcasts don’t make it past 20 episodes. This is episode 21, which I take to mean not only that I’m more stubborn and self-absorbed than all those sub-21-ep scrubs—who have appropriately realized by episode 20 that the world doesn’t need another podcaster in it—but that this is surely one of those tipping point situations where if you make it past 20, then the next few hundred are all but assured. So I’ll be in your life for a while, or at least until you unsubscribe.
* This is the second episode in a row in which I flamboyantly refuse to pay any attention to the text that my guest has selected as our topic of conversation. I should probably reconsider my approach to these State of the Discourse episodes.
* The opening clip is from Beanie Siegel’s “The Truth.”
My guest on this episode of the podcast is James Livingston, professor emeritus of history at Rutgers and the author of, among other books, The World Turned Inside Out: American Thought and Culture at the End of the 20th Century and Origins of the Federal Reserve System: Money, Class, and Corporate Capitalism, 1890-1913. He's currently hard at work on a new book on pragmatism, provisionally titled The Intellectual Earthquake: How Pragmatism Changed the World, 1898-2008.
The Mark Edmundson essay we discuss is “Truth Takes a Vacation: Trumpism and the American philosophical tradition.” James’s response to it, published on his Substack newsletter Politics, Letters, Persons, is “Pragmatism: An Old Name for a New Kind of Nihilism?”
Here’s how the AI software Claude describes our conversation. It’s basically accurate, but I feel as though it fails to capture the unique essence of our charm and brilliance.
This conversation is between Daniel Oppenheimer, the host of the podcast Eminent Americans, and his guest James Livingston, an intellectual historian and professor emeritus at Rutgers University. The main focus of their discussion is pragmatism, the philosophical tradition associated with thinkers like William James, Charles Sanders Peirce, and Richard Rorty.
Livingston argues that pragmatism is still very relevant to American culture and politics. He sees it as a perspective that dismantles traditional dualisms and binary oppositions in favor of more fluid, constructed notions of truth. A key pragmatist idea they discuss is that truths are made by humans rather than existing independently, and that facts cannot be separated from the values and purposes that shape them.
They then apply this pragmatist lens to the current polarized political climate in the US. Livingston suggests that the contemporary right-wing, characterized by the "MAGA nation," is motivated by a desire to defend traditional hierarchies and values like male supremacy that are threatened by more egalitarian social changes. He and Oppenheimer debate whether directly confronting this regressive impulse is necessary and desirable.
While Oppenheimer is skeptical that heightened politicization and polarization is productive, Livingston argues it is clarifying essential conflicts in American society around issues like racism and sexism. However, they agree that approaching political opponents with empathy and an attempt to understand the experiences and values motivating them is important.
Throughout, they reflect on the role of intellectuals and the nature of progress. The conversation showcases the continued relevance of pragmatist ideas for making sense of truth, politics and social change in the United States today.


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I first encountered Alec Ounsworth back in 2005 or 2006, when I was an arts writer for the Valley Advocate, an alt weekly in western Massachusetts that now, like so many other alt weekles, exists only in zombie form.
The National was playing at the Iron Horse, Northampton’s storied small music venue, and I got tickets to go see them. Opening for them was Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, the band that Ounsworth had founded and fronted not too long before. I had a vague sense of who they were, and that they were hip, but I didn’t know the degree to which they’d blown up since the tour was booked with them as merely an opening act.
In the interim they’d gotten bigger—more able to attract fans—than The National. The show was packed for their set, and then when they were done most of it emptied out. I’d never seen something like that before in my life, and haven’t since (why if you’ve already paid for a ticket would you leave when you could get more good music!?).
Since then, Ounsworth has made an excellent career for himself (he still tours under the band name, but it’s entirely his operation; band members are hired for shows when needed), which is to say that he’s had his ups and downs. He’s no longer bigger than The National, and hasn’t had a hit on the charts in a while. He continues, however, to be able to book and sell out shows in the U.S., Europe, and Japan. He supports himself and his family as a musician. He collaborates with other fancy people in the industry. As I suggest to him in our conversation, he now seems to have “just the right level of fame,” where he can do most of what he wants but can also live a very regular, non-celebrity-esque life.
I connected with Alec in a more individual way a few years ago when I was hawking my book on Dave Hickey and looking for eminent people who were Hickey fans who could maybe be persuaded to blurb or otherwise offer some kind of promotional boost to the book (this is how I ended up with the Steven Soderbergh blurb, along with some inside knowledge about Soderbergh’s taste in gifs). Ounsworth was one such fan. I managed to reach him and send him a copy of my book; in turn, he sent me a lovely vinyl copy of his 2021 album New Fragility.
We talk about the arc of his career, the continuing wisdom of his choice to stay independent of record labels throughout, the art of evolving as a musician without pandering, the challenge of parenting as a touring musician, and various others things. It’s a good conversation.
One quick note about an aspect of the conversation that is slightly misleading. The opening premise is that we will discuss Jason Farago’s article on the challenge of AI to music, “A.I. Can Make Art That Feels Human. Whose Fault Is That?” We don’t really do that, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m bored of AI. You probably are too.
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Stella Tsantekidou begins her essay "I too am an unfuckable hate nerd" with the kind of inside-outside two-step that characterizes much of the writing on The Human Carbohydrate, her very compelling Substack newsletter. She's at a party in London talking to another writer. The topic is a recent piece they've both read on the phenomenon of the "unfuckable hate nerd," that very 21st century type who populates the nether regions of the internet, marinating in resentment and fury and impotence, taking out his unquenchable hate on the women of the world, particularly those with the gall to think they have opinions worth considering. Stella writes:
My issue with that article is that it misses how many women feel like unfuckable hate nerds too. [The other writer] looked at me unconvinced, as people often do when I try to explain to them my affinity for incels and other basement dwelling online weirdos. Coming out of my mouth it sounds like I am fishing for compliments, trying to get my audience to state the obvious. How could I be an unfuckable hate nerd?
Then the sexy hammer drops. A photo of Stella:
She's hot, in other words. How could this very attractive, apparently well connected woman feel a connection to these terrible, and terribly unattractive, men? The answer, as in much of Stella's writing, is that she's been on both sides of the glass. Born and raised in a small city in Greece, in unremarkable middle class circumstances, she moved to London for college with no connections and no organic insight into the hierarchies and mores that structured British society. Now she's part of the elite political class in the UK, moving back and forth between jobs in government and the advocacy world, with a regular gig doing TV political commentary on the side.In 2024, she's quite good looking and socially successful. As a kid, though, she was a bona fide reject, greasy and awkward and the victim of rather relentless bullying by her classmates. And not weak-ass American-style bullying, but hardcore second world haven't gotten the memo that we don't do that kind of thing anymore bullying. "When I say I was bullied," she writes, "I mean that for six years, on a daily basis, I was reminded that if my peers could exterminate me like a cockroach cornered with an aerosol, they would. ... The boys would push me down the stairs, throw my rucksack out the window, spit on me, call me names no self-respecting heterosexual teenage girl could ever bear to hear directed at her from the lips of boys without contemplating suicide or at least complete voluntary social isolation. ... the only attention I was receiving from boys was to be reminded of how repulsive they all found me. They regularly wondered out loud why I didn’t kill myself."
Stella knows what it's like, in other words, to stew with hate for both oneself and others, to wish the worst things in the world upon others who seem to have more fortune while also desperately seeking and wanting their approval and affection. She knows what it feels like to feel ugly and powerless. "In my heart," she writes, "there is always an unfuckable hate nerd. This is the part of me that takes intense, nostalgic pleasure every time I sense as much as an atom of bullying energy coming my way. It feeds my inner unfuckable hate nerd who is still struggling to accept her new position on the food chain."The final turn in her essay is back toward the fact of her current life in possession of young female attractiveness and what she can see, in no small part thank to the benefit of her early struggles, are its dangers and the relatively short half life of its power. Stells and I talk about these issues; the broad arc of her academic and professional journey from Greece to the U.K. to the U.S. (where she worked on the 2016 Bernie Sanders campaign) and back to the U.K.; reactionary feminism; and the complex legacy of her parents, among many other things. It's a great conversation.
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Our text for today’s episode is “John Thompson, b. 1941,” a short eulogy essay by the writer Kiese Laymon in which he reflects on the special affection that not just he but also his “aunts, mother and grandmother” felt for Thompson and his Georgetown basketball team when Laymon was growing up. The coach was more than just a winning coach; he was an avatar of Black America, and a symbol of Black excellence and paternal strength and solidity. Laymon writes:
From a distance, I saw Thompson as representative, our imaginary coach who was once a decorated player, who backed up Bill Russell for the champion Boston Celtics. That decorated player who backed up Bill Russell was once a scared Black child, like every Black child I’d met in the universe, just longing to have a fair shot at gracefully winning and graciously losing.
…Thompson’s national championship and his subsequent loss in 1985 made real for me the representative possibilities and consequences of publicly winning and losing in America while Black. Though Thompson was our imaginary coach, in this eerie way we were his real team. If Thompson lost, and Georgetown lost, it felt as if my race lost. Even at 9 I knew there should have been more Black coaches in all the sports I watched since nearly all the best players were Black. I knew that there was nothing as joyful as publicly beating white Americans in anything simply because white Americans were allowed to play, cheat, coach, referee, own and win whether they actually showed up or not.
My guests on the show today are Laymon himself, professor of English and creative writing at Rice University and author of, among other books, the essay collection  How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America, the novel Long Division, and the memoir Heavy; and Jason Sokol, professor at history the university of New Hampshire and author of, among other books, There Goes My Everything: White Southerners in the Age of Civil Rights and The Heavens Might Crack The Death and Legacy of Martin Luther King Jr.
Two personal notes about this episode: Jason is my oldest friend on the planet. We went to pre-school together and have been close friends since. And Jason and Kiese were friends at Oberlin College, where they played basketball together and talked ideas, history, race, and the rest. As you’ll hear on the episode, they haven’t spoken since they graduated, so this is a bit of a reunion.
The audio clip at the beginning is from the song “Georgetown Press,” by Wale.
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Reading List
* The Lure of Divorce, by Emily Gould
* Goulded Cages, by Phoebe Maltz Bovy
* The Sad Young Literary Man Is Now a Middle-Aged Dad, by Elizabeth Weil
* Can polyamory save this marriage? by Phoebe Maltz Bovy
My guest on today’s episode, which is part of my ongoing double secret probationary special series on the state of the discourse late winter/early spring 2024, is New York born, Toronto-based writer Phoebe Maltz Bovy.
I reached out to Phoebe after reading her short post on Substack about the recent big, long, splashy essay by Emily Gould about Gould’s descent into bipolar-induced mania, her separation from her husband (writer Keith Gessen), their eventual hard-won reconciliation, and the complex ways in which her feminist analyses of the problems in their marriage were much less useful and clarifying than they initially seemed.
Phoebe writes:
Gould … steeps herself in the men-are-bastards literature of the past years/decades, and concludes, “This was not quite the way I felt.”
I cannot emphasize enough, having read many such items for researching-straight-women purposes, what a tremendous break this is from business as usual. Because if you’re a 40ish straight or straightish woman, you’re meant to feel one thing.
Gould tries to funnel her angst-and-then-some into the expected feminist narrative, but is stymied by her realizations that she’s done a lot of bad things, and that her husband, too, is a person. She looks at the facts on the ground and isn’t able to blame the patriarchy for her own messy blend of mental illness and bad choices.
Phoebe and I talk about Gould and Gessen, the unglamorous realities of the writing life, how much cultural capital is worth compared to actual capital, and Phoebe’s review of the recent polyamory memoir by Molly Roden Winter.
Phoebe Maltz Bovy is the author of The Perils of “Privilege” (2017). She is a senior editor at the Canadian Jewish News, a co-host of the Feminine Chaos podcast, author of the Substack newsletter Close-reading the Reruns, columnist for the Globe and Mail, and writer for various other publications of note.
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