We Have Met the Enemy

...and he is us. The wisdom of Pogo Possum was never more applicable than in this commentary about America's youth and why they are so incredibly stupid and disaffected:

Boogers, Flatulence, and Potty Jokes as Literature

Last semester I asked one of my classes of freshman college students what was the last book they had read which was not a textbook. (I already know that they don't bother reading the textbook.) The answers were disappointing by not surprising. Most of them had no answer at all. They simply don't read. They have never been taught to read. They have never been exposed to interesting literature. They don't view reading as a pleasurable or profitable pastime.

I was fortunate in my education. Reading came naturally to me. My parents encouraged me to read, questioned my about books and topics, challenged me to find out about things I was interested in, and never stood in the way of what my choices might be. When a topic piqued my interest, I read everything I could find in the school library or the Chicago Public Library branch down the street from our apartment.

When I found out about Sgt. Preston of the Yukon, I read all the adventure books about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I dreamed of a red tunic, lanyard secured revolver and Smokey Bear hat.
When I saw my first Lassie movie, I found a dozen books about heroic collies. Fascination with tropical fish and a desire for a more entertaining aquarium than a round globe and a dime store goldfish led to consumption of a dozen books on fresh water tropicals. I could discuss tetras and gouramis and beta splendens with the best of them. Bubbly colored water, smoky concoctions in test tubes and flasks with Bunsen burners led me to chemistry hobbyist books. Airplanes, model trains and trout fishing dreams took me to other areas.

Through it all there was the escapism of fiction. Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, Ivanhoe and Lancelot, Long John Silver and Blackbeard were entertaining and fun. By the time I was in the seventh and eighth grade, I was sneaking into the adult stacks and bringing home racier tomes. Best-sellers like Peyton Place and the Caine Mutiny and classic eroticism by Henry Miller and Anais Nin were sandwiched between more acceptable subjects on my dresser top.

But, here is the WSJ telling us that the publishing eggheads believe that putting low-brow crap in front of young men is going to encourage them to read more. Somehow there is no way I can believe that is going to create the next generation of Faulkners and Hemingways.