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December 1, 1959

Up at 7:10. Coffee, a potato patty, a little orange juice. Picked up Sebastian, dropped off Vicky at Witherspoon School, and drove into New York City, arriving at office at 9:30. Parked car in front of office and received a ticket. A $5 fine, I believe. Sebastian then drove it away and will probably take it back to Princeton tonight. A young Turkish travel agent, related to Mehmet Misirli, visited me. His name is Ulmsar, a small Tartar, pleasant, very dark, speaks English well. He is here a week. Mehmet wrote asking me to lend him money should he need it. He did. I sent him $50 by mail when he first arrived and gave him $50 today. He was having difficulty finding things to do in New York City, so I gave him a copy of the New Yorker and Kate Simon's guide to New York City. He was vastly relieved to have his problem eased. (And he advises others how to travel and where? These Turks. How they manage to exist in the modern world sometimes baffles me. They are a nation of infantry privates, with some sergeants. Not a bad thing sometimes. Yet I cannot say I dislike them. On the contrary. I like them, as people, the way I like to eat. They have good in them. One could imagine better, but there they are.)

He brought me a gift of 5 Byzantine gold coins, thinned with the centuries. I gave him 3 shirts, a scarf and 2 ties to give to Mehmet, another friend, and Siva. We rode up to the St. Moritz in a cab; there he was to lunch with George Taylor.

Then I joined a group of about thirty men for lunch at the Metropolitan Club, most of them from foundations and the UN, in honor of Francis Wilcox, Assistant Secretary of State for International Organizations Affairs. Arnold Zurcher and Marshall Dimock were hosts, with the aim of providing Wilcox with a distinguished backdrop for presenting himself to view as a potential candidate for a professorship in government and directorship of an international affairs center that the university has been trying to get off the drawing boards for a couple of years. Wilcox spoke nicely but not profoundly after a lunch of prime steak and good drinks. (I took a Vodka martini.) Carroll Newsom and George Stoddard were on hand. I talked mainly with Galpin, Gant, Zurcher, Tom Adam, Wilcox, and Rhoten Smith.



DECEMBER 1, 1959

Speaker - Dr. Francis O. Wilcox, Assistant Secretary of State for International Organization Affairs

Professor Thomas Adam, Department of Political Science, New York University

Mr. Joseph Allen, Administrator of Scholarship Program, Alfred P. Sloan Foundation

Mr. F. Emerson Andrews, Director, Foundation Library Center

Mr. Dana S. Creel, Director, Rockefeller Brothers Fund

Dr. Alfred de Grazia, Professor of Government and Executive Director, Center of Applied Social Research, New York University

Mr. Philippe de Seynes , Under secretary for Economics and Social Affairs, United Nations

Professor Marshall E. Dimock, All-University Head, Department of Government, New York University

Mr. Perrin C. Galpin, President, Belgian-American Educational Foundation, Inc.

Dr. George F. Gant, Program Director, Overseas Development, South and Southeast Asia, Ford Foundation

Mr. Maxwell Hahn, Executive Vice President and Secretary, Field Foundation, Inc.

Mr. Roberto M. Heurtematte, Commissioner for Technical Assistance, United Nations

Mr. Howard Johnson, Assistant to the Chairman of the board, United States Steel Corporation

Mr. James F. Kenney, Secretary-Treasurer, Alfred P. Sloan Foundation

Mr. John McDiarmid, Senior Director of the Office of the Executive Chairman of the Technical Assistance Board, United nations

Mr. Laurence Michelmore, Deputy Director of Office of Personnel, United States

Mr. Chakravarthi V. Narasimhan, Under Secretary for Special Political Affairs, United Nations

Mr. Carroll V. Newsom, President, New York University

Mr. Arthur David Kemp Owen, Executive Chairman, Technical Assistance Board, United Nations

Mr. Thomas Parran, President, Avalon Foundation

Mr. John M. Russell, Vice President, John and Mary R. Markle Foundation

Dr. Rhoten A. Smith, Professor of Government, New York University, and Director, Citizenship Clearing House

Mr. Constantin A. Stavropoulos, Legal Counsel, United Nations

Dr. George D. Stoddard, Executive Vice President, New York University

Professor Ralph A. Straetz, Department of Political Science, New York University

Dr. Kenneth W. Thompson, Associate Director for the Social Sciences, Rockefeller Foundation

Mr. Frederick J Tickner, Deputy Director, Office for Public Administration, United Nations

Mr. W. Homer Turner, Executive Director, U.S. Steel Foundations, Inc.

Mr. D. B. Vaughan, Director of General Services, United Nations

Dr. Francis O.Wilcox, Assistant Secretary of State for International Organization Affairs, Department of State

Dr. Arnold J. Zurcher, Executive Director, Alfred P. Sloan Foundation

Mr. Raymond P. Sloan, Vice President, Alfred P. Sloan Foundation, and Professor, School of Public Health, Columbia University


December 6, 1959


Awoke at 9:45, the latest in years. A warm, dark, damp day. I dreamt of belonging to a club, one of whose members each year would be chosen by lot for execution by the others. I had been chosen, prior to the time of the dream. We were all friendly. There was no true animosity. My fraternal executioners were both patient and persistent. I should not evade the sentence, they constantly urged. I had joined freely. I did not hate them, but I was very upset at the thought of being put to death, the means being apparently immaterial and indeed I had no true physical fear. I tried every means of escaping. I was never so closely guarded or mistreated that I could not try. But my clean-cut, competent friends were skilled and fleet. There were specialists among them who outrun me. They had a dismaying way of turning up after I had strained every nerve to outwit them, calmly taking me into custody. As we were returning to the execution on one occasion, we encountered a policeman who was guarding a swift, dark stream, "Watch that you don't go near the stream," he said. "It has a fast current and is full quick sands." "This is for me," I thought, knowing what a good swimmer I was, and without a moment's hesitation, I dove into the water. I had to laugh at my pursuers. They had no chance. I floated and swam for several hundred yards, sticking occasionally in the quick sands, but always pulling myself free. Then the stream passed between the walls of houses such as line a steeply narrow brook in some ancient Italian or Algerian villages. The way was dark. A narrow flight of stairs led up the side of one set of stone houses, and I pulled myself up on them. I crept up the stairs, looking for a passageway that could let me through to the outside road. I put my head into one small window, disturbing a couple in a lover's embrace. They moved to help me but actually closed the window against me. Other windows were shut or too small. Finally I moved uncertainly into one room but when I came out I met my pursuers who seemed to have been warned of my whereabouts.

At another time I found myself haranguing a crowd as I was being led away by my captors. Only one man in the crowd made approving guttural sounds as I urged the people to force my liberation. Then it seemed that he was only a planted agent, who went his way finally, ending the farce of my appeal to the mob.

I was never put away, however, and ended the dream pitched on to the pavement of a street where I had leapt as my airplane crashed into the buildings of a city. I had been seated in its tail, my captors alongside, when suddenly the plane began to take off. They hadn't intended this, as their faces clearly showed, and I exulted as the great machine, lined with passengers, lumbered swiftly towards a take-off. But I also knew immediately that whoever was driving, whether it was Mike Nalbandian or some other friend or supporter, would have to crash the huge machine into the buildings. I quickly strapped on my safety-belt, letting it be twisted, for there was not a second to waste. When the plane struck finally I jumped out the tail as far as I could to avoid the explosion and could not tell whether my club members had survived before I awakened. I'm sure they did. They are so true to what I've known. People are nice; they murder you when you try to escape their niceness. You say "All I want is to be something, to be true, to be myself. I volunteered. I know I did. I wanted to do good. I wanted people to join me and to be with them in our mutual glory[?]." But that is impossible. Join, and perish! Yet be alone and perish miserably, without fraternal good-will and rites!

Spent the day in small talks and tasks. Children (Carl, Paul, Chris, and John) unusually rambunctious and annoying. Jill to church with Cathy, Vicky, Paul, and John. Jess complaining, Carl convalescing, I backsliding. A poor uninspired day.

Tuesday, 8 December, 1959

en route "The Mayflower"

Providence to New York City

9:30 AM

Yesterday was the anniversary of "Pearl Harbor Day." So Teg Grundahl informed me at 7:15 AM yesterday as he drove me to Princeton Junction and asked me what I had been doing when news of the sudden attack came. I told most of the truth. I had been listening to the New York Philharmonic Orchestra concert on the radio, Jill with me, in Chicago. It was at 5479 University Avenue. Jill had a place elsewhere but we were together most of the time. We were enjoying a quiet day, very much aware of the crisis but as little suspecting its precipitation into full warfare as our unfortunate troops on the islands.

Arrived 9:20 at my office at New York University. Had Mary Fran phone Scofield to come in right away. Since I had to leave for Providence before 10 AM. He was quick to arrive and told me of his trip to Washington and North Carolina University. A useful trip but no exciting possibilities, unless I should pump some out of him in further conversation. (Possibilities, like happiness, have to be made as much as found.) One sharp disappointment: The Outdoor Recreation Commission staff has not planned to include the center in its list of project contractors.

En route to the air terminal through the blustering snow, I decided to call Laurence Rockefeller's Assistant, Gustafson, before leaving town to express our chagrin. Gus was concerned and made an appointment with Laurence for Friday. I judge we'll talk of several things. Perhaps I can ask his support for the great experiment center on camping, a bigger and better thing by far than a research project for the commission.

The plane ride to Providence was disgustingly turbulent. We were one of a very few planes to be moving at La Guardia. The wind on the ground must have been at thirty knots, for our plane shivered on the ground as if it were aloft, and our take-off into the wind occurred after the briefest of runs. We were in and out of clouds all the short distance, knocking about in all directions. Seated in the tail of the small Constellation gave me full benefit of the sensations, and I sickened to the point where just before landing I was holding a paper bag, ready to heave into it.

An hour later, restored to health by scotch and soda, I could enjoy my return to the Spaghetti Place. Al Saglio was in charge. Big Dominick, grizzled and always so formidable, was cooking in the window. He is wreathed in smiles, unusual to his dour Sicilian nature, whenever I appear in Providence. His cooking gets worse over the years though. The spaghetti is hardly ever al dente, and he has fallen into the abominable American practice of piling a sea of sauce over the pasta. All the waiters were on hand; it is comforting to see how little the Spaghetti House has changed since I taught at Brown and began to visit it. Al or someone else has always just won or lost a horse race bet. One or two of the city's prominent citizens are always to be found at the bar, whisky-tight, New England-tight, friendly, sharp. The service is great, the food good. Mike booms out and guzzles. Tom Yatman is in and out, quietly belting his whiskies. Al Gulota, the City assessor and friend of Frank Gamino is in, quite a drinker too. (We talked of an arrangement to represent Gamino in Turkey. With Tom it was to set up a meeting with Noyes, the New York City builders and Realtors on my idea of a new social science research building at New York University.)

At 3:30 we were with Eddie Higgins and Johnny Noti. Eddie is the communication center for the Rhode Island Democratic Party now. He is backing Noti for Governor, and it appears that Noti will be the next Governor, since Rhode Island is normally Democratic and Del Sesto is a good but not great Governor. We agreed that a general research and action research program for the city-state of Rhode Island should be set up and financed by the State. Noti will deliver the first public message, which Mike will prepare. Johnny will also have introduced legislation in January for the studies. Then the committee or Commission will utilize New York University as the prime contractor, and we will bring in the best Brown people and others locally who are helpful. The program might cost a half-million dollars. Noti as Governor would ultimately make a permanent action research arm from it.

At 5:30 to the Ming Garden, whose bar is second only to the Spaghetti Place's for my bibulous friends. Yatman was there, introduced me to two cronies. Then to the Spaghetti Place where we drank more and talked with Barry Brown, Editorial Chief of the Providence Journal, and his wife Roberta, a lively, attractive woman who is presently heading a state office for problems of the aged. I know she and Jill, who has been editing Monsignor O' Grady's studies on the aged, will get along well. We decided to meet, in any event, to write a musical comedy about the two women who are in Jail in California for having born children while under court injunction versus having extra-marital relations. The women apparently live well on all the dependency benefits given them per capita child, having half a dozen of different fathers each. I find this an appropriately ridiculous conclusion to a decade or more of serious and angry debate over the alleged delinquency-inducing tendencies of the federal-state program of aid to dependent children. Women like these can infuriate rigid, puritanical, cost-conscious, anti-governmental people as no other thing can. Roberta was looping when we left her. She had four large martinis in the hour we were together. And they were "on their way to a cocktail party." Later I read an article by Barry on a proper stance towards Russia, in the morning paper, and I found it very well done and intelligent.

We ate dinner with Betty at Mike's home. Chicken, wheat pilaf, stuffing, good red wine, coffee. I went upstairs and talked with Karnig. I studied his latest paintings, and bought a little still life from him for $50.00. He said he would also draw one of his marvelous intricate, curlicued birds for my bookmark. Perhaps we can arrange an exhibition of his work in Princeton this spring. His oils seem not to be improving, save in texture, but one out of four of them is quite good. His technique and talent are excellent. He is starved for ideas and refuses to say anything to the world, save perhaps "merde." He has done about 300 oils since he began to use the medium around 1947. He never does his beautiful murderous etchings anymore. What enormous benefit would come from him if he weren't so hopelessly anarchistic/misanthropic.

About 10 PM, Ares Bogosian and Alden Jenkins showed up. They live around Boston and drove down to discuss business affairs with me. We decided to try to use Metron corporation as a vehicle for getting and carrying research and consulting business. Jenkins seemed pleased to have our association. I hope that he can do something with it. Metron is doing nothing now, and was designed by me for this sort of association. Jenkins and Mike drank heavily, I sipped along. To bed at 2.

Before leaving, I paused for a minute to see Mike's mother, who is dying of cancer of the liver. She is handsome, emaciated, the jaundice giving her a polynesian color. Poor wonderful lady. I kissed her. She said, half-smiling. "This is no use. I want to die. My life is finished." I said, "I am sorry to hear you say that." She said, "Hurry, don't miss your train." I said, "Don't make any hasty decisions. Wait till I return." We smiled and I left.


December 13,1959

11:30 AM

On Friday I went into New York City, originally with the intention of seeing Laurence Rockefeller but ultimately with the effect of lunching with Bill Harvey and Peter Van Doren of New York University Press and dinning with Harold Lasswell. Laurence Rockefeller was tied up and a meeting was put off to a near occasion. I hope to interest him in sponsoring a great experimental center for outdoor camping and recreation activities. The idea is elaborated in a memorandum that I prepared, and I think I shall not send him a copy of it. I would rather trust to a positive action developing from an informal relation. I'm sorry in this case as in so many others not to be disinterested in advocating the center, because it is strongly desired by New York University and will of course help my personal position there, but it seems nowadays that hommes d'affaires are condemned to relations that are almost entirely functional.

The best we can make of life is to fashion the functional to be intelligent and agreeable. That is, no question that people are selling to each other, but how and what are more important questions. Indeed, apart from the closest familial relations, mobility must be a factor in relations - in a rich man's eyes, the relation should bring "new ideas," a quantifiable thing so far as possible, and fame or power or, let us say, accomplishment - a word covering fame, power, a wind in the face, admiration of one's few peers ( a respect- and role-group category, not an aristocracy). In truth, I am at a loss as to whom I would see if my external world were not functionally oriented. My neighbors: they have usually been functional (i.e., intelligentsia) or stupid. Political acquaintances : but politics is par excellence treating people in instrumental terms and feeling warmth of relations grow out of co-advancing or co-suffering in political struggle. Pure scholarship: again functional if one, as one often does, chooses among scholars those who "interest" him, give him "the best ideas," educate oneself. Lovers: but what is a love affair without the couch and what is more functional than the passionate intimacy of physical embrace? Our immediate family: what more complete functionalism can there be? That its myriad relations are of good, of bad, of selfish needs, and of disinterested altruism, cannot conceal the statistical functionalism overall. We may believe our intimate family is non-instrumental, but what we are in truth thinking is that the great model of relations is a total one, not a partial one, and that a partial or specialized relation must be functional, i.e., selfish, i.e., bad, etc. But no, not at all, the partial or special or temporary relation is statistically in trouble. Each relation has too few cases to generalize - that is, the wealth of contacts of the intimate family add to a total feeling that may serve to cover and submerge the individual unsatisfactory and selfish relations. Several feints, impulses, and contacts in an outside relation, if not successful, lead one to believe that it is because of the naked functionalism that we feel badly and that the root of the evil is people trying to get something from one another. I recall telling Jill that I was embarrassed at wanting to talk business with Brayton Wilbur early in our acquaintanceship and visiting him for that purpose; she said, "No, you are adding to his life too; he knows no one as academically bright as you are." Perhaps she was right, I thought. I've talked with Brayton of many things, of the mental difficulties of one of his daughters, for instance, in what appeared to be a consoling and helpful way. An exchange can be shown. But to some, at least, it is continually painful to consider whether one is asking for more than one gives.

I conclude that "getting something from it" is a dimension of all relations and two criteria are the ethical measure that we seek: we must want and conceive the other person to benefit roughly as much as ourselves from the relation, and what we seek should be a good. A vast proportion of all relations will involve perforce errors of judgment, but we should not therefore abandon functionalism or condemn it. We moderns are no longer in the position of men of old who might passively accept (and therefore be non-instrumental) the social, economic, and political lot accorded them. The stupid squire of 1700 who sported with his neighbors, treated his help paternalistically, and went out of his way to see no one except his lord, should not be credited with a healthy, non-functional ideology - that is the way that life was - nor should his canons be used for our age. The type, like the Tietjens of Ford Madox Ford, who incarnated the medieval and would call the merchant-trader a contemptible pusher, conveys no meaning as a social type to the modern age. His vocabulary is sometimes employed by people today who think as he did for different reasons. We number many negativists, beatniks, resisters of movement, adult thumbsuckers - I have to sketch with a quick, rash pen - who are fundamentally dismayed by social and personal movement. I sympathize with them; the despair of senseless motion, the false starts, the unhappy liaisons, the shudders of thousands of faces, books, pictures, TV impressions can be felt by every sensitive person. Every intimation of rebuff, of not receiving value from me, hurts me. Yet I see no way out save through asking only what is given as a matter of course to anyone - which, expanded, means that the world must stand still and that all human relations and thoughts should be randomly given and randomly received ("bread cast upon the waters," ah, if we only knew what was "bread") - or through living upon oneself like Proust, feeding from past rebuffs and successes of human relations. Our new environment no longer stupefies us as the old did, waking peasants, and lords who were really peasants, but it threatens us with a new stupefaction as life can be converted to a whirligig of contacts that produce a new glazed-eye peasantry. We should, using our two criteria, and blessed with strong egos, carefully and politely move through our sensationalist world, matching what we can offer to what others can receive, and what we need to what others can give us. With luck, a sufficiently numerous group of acquaintanceships will evolve into friendships, as old areas of communion are enlarged and new ones discovered. Finally, into a condition of love, as loss of areas of mutual interest, a shift of ideas, a clash of desires, and an irregularity of contact no longer control the relation, which has the absolute, statistical, but homogenized character that could be called "non-functional."

At lunch, Harvey and Van Doren offered to publish our Survey of Welfare in America in September, given press copy in January. Very well. It's to be about 425 pages in print. I promised to obtain a $1500 subsidy for its publication. I am relieved to have the manuscript placed. I am not proud of it. It should be useful, but is by its nature a largely descriptive book. Only its organization is original, more so than meets the eye. Some of the materials are fresh. The juxtaposition of many kind of welfare will stimulate reflection. The book may help increase the number of civic activists.

We drank heavily at lunch. I was still feeling somewhat drugged from vodka when, after two hours at the office. I joined Lasswell and Sebastian at the University Club. At 6 o'clock, Bus left for another engagement, and Lasswell and I carried on to 10 PM. We ate at Giovanni's, one of the finest restaurants in New York. Their hors d'oeuvres are most varied but far from the insipidity of the smorgasbord - three small fish pieces, one chicken salad, small beets, two chopped mixed grasses and leaves. Pompano with butter sauce of almonds. Lemon tart. Vino Soave di Verona, Grappa at the quiet homelike bar below. Lasswell was explaining, not without a touch of alcoholic exuberance, that his blood chemistry brings about the rapid absorption and nullification of alcohol. I must admire his ability to consume and told him so. He said that a couple of rare occasions in his life he deliberately disgorged when guzzling excessively, and felt well afterwards.

However, despite the many comments and compliments upon our repast, our attention was directed principally to clarifying and moving to realize Lasswell's concept of a social planetarium. It is strange that Lasswell should tout this idea so warmly and yet have written only a few paragraphs about it. He says that the idea came to him during the war and he had thought at first that it might guide the building of American exhibits abroad. He spoke to a few people about it and exchanged perhaps a few letters on the subject. It was until Friday evening obviously an idea in a poor state of development. Bus and I recalled Lasswell's idea while discussing my desire to build a large structure to house social research groups at New York University. Why not incorporate Lasswell's social planetarium idea in the building, giving fame and originality to the enterprise, perhaps enhancing the possibilities of financing the structure? Later I thought too that the Jefferson Courthouse on 10th and 6th Avenue that is abandoned might be renovated for social research. Joining the artistic forces fighting for the survival of the building with our social research forces might make a more formidable combination to face the problems of financial support. I phoned Stanley Tankel who is voluntarily agitating for the preservation of the building, and he favored the thought. So I explained to Lasswell my plan, after we had talked of the substance of the planetarium for two hours: let's start the big show by a first phase in which we would hold an applied social science exposition. We would inveigle many business, governmental and civic collaborators to show the numerous ways in which systematic social science is drawn upon for industry, government, medical care and welfare, and so forth. (This idea I had already presented as such to the Center's policy board, and, though they seemed skeptical of its value, I have held to it as a good and serious endeavor). We should then transform the great publicity and material momentum of the applied social science exposition into the social planetarium, finance it, start it in the Courthouse, move it into new quarters when some ten to twenty millions are made available to it. Lasswell was entranced and jubilant with my plan.

The social plan will probably have to be renamed. Dyno-temporium? Social Museum? (No, it will be futuristic.) Institute of Social Dynamics? Sociotempium? The central idea is to educate by extending the full understanding and identification of men to the situations of the past and the plausible constructs of the future through the medium of sensory exhibits appealing to man's full capacity to learn by surrogate experiencing. Museums strive for this in a primitive way by their few exhibits of family groups living in caves threatened by beasts and warmed by fires, in depictions of 18th Century parties, or in models of cities of the future. As with all good education, the educators will learn much in their endeavor to teach much. Perhaps something like this is most needed by our vacant social theorists. I can think of a great library of films, to be shown according to the need, that would depict intensively and with the aid of sound, smell, and touch sociodramas of the past and future. Reenact history; pre-experience future

possibilities. Such is the essence of the sociotempium. Such is the strategy for achieving it. Who knows how greatly changed both the substance and the

strategy before it will be realized, and whether indeed it will be actuated at all?

5 P.M.

Romesh Shah and Sourbi Bakhas were visitors yesterday evening. They came by bus to our door, Sourbi trailing her green and red sari on the damp sidewalk, Shah, the undocile student, ambitious, questioning but unlearning, dark and intent, handsome Mediterranean type, diminutive though to match Sourbi's petiteness. We argued economic development and Indian attitudes. I was rather harshly critical, I fear, and told Sourbi so before we parted. They are engaged to be married, after a period of parental objection since her caste is a niche below his. She works for the Indian economic counsellor in Washington, he for the Henry Street Settlement. She wanted advice on her further schooling, to take a Ph.D. or not, to study at Catholic University, New York University, or Columbia, etc. I said finally, "Decide what you want to do in life and study only what is necessary for that. Don't climb aboard the American (and Hindu-imitated) degree wagon. The schools are all good, and bad." We ate marvelously, of veal cutlets, of a compote of vegetables and curry that Sourbi supervised - one of the finest dishes to be had, of a Spanish white wine, fluffy rice, a huge salad, ice cream and coffee. They are vegetarians. I am always slightly annoyed with Romesh, as with most Hindus, but pleased often nevertheless with the unusual turns that conversations with such serious and oriental souls will take. I sketched on our big blackboard - erasing the animals and forts the small boys had drawn - a list of minimum requirements for the half-million Indian villages and estimated that they need no more than $1000 of outside materials and help to provide them, if they have the vision, the bill, and the drive within. What will give them that: not socialism, not communism, perhaps a modified Gandhism expanded, distorted, and pounded home with all the loudspeaker apparatus of contemporary propaganda.

December 14, 1959

8:30 AM

Re Lasswell's values: power, wealth, rectitude, respect, well-being, skill, enlightenment, affection. Where would one put the value of being at the center of events, "in the know?" For instance, Mary Fran Colman, my secretary, struggles to live comfortably in New York City. She says she persists in order to feel part of everything going on in the great city. She would never move elsewhere, much less back to the little Tennessee town where she was raised. Is she after the feeling of power - never mind its real possession? Does living here represent to her a triumph of skill, never mind whether she has skill? Or is it knowledge that she believes she is getting by being at the hub? Perhaps all three, if they are assumed to be pure elements.

Are Lasswell's values pure, however? Perhaps as far as we have gone with such classifications. Of course they must be expected to intertwine, to be distributed unevenly and in different proportions among men and groups.

Should we not introduce an anti-factor for each value: power/submission; wealth/anti-materialism; respect/humility; well-being/self-destructiveness; skill/laziness; enlightenment/anti-gnosis; affection/misanthropism or hermiticism. Don't such anti-values motivate some people as the values do the other? How difficult this makes analysis.

Reading (in past week) : Anatomy of Metropolis, Vernon; Made in New York, Hall, ed. ; Medieval people, most amusing, on Bobo, on Marco Polo, on the nun in Chaucer, etc. I like history that digs down, puts everything of life in context, the best of food for the imagination. Human Meaning of the Social Sciences, Dan Lerner's new symposium ( I wish symposia were loose-leaf, to be filed where the composing pieces belong), a good article by Max Millikan on relations between clients and applied social scientists (second half of article less useful); Time, Jubilee; Haire, ed., Organization, a brief review for APSR done following a quick reading - too thick, verbose, involuted, a welter of half-formed theories semantically intricate but actually unsophisticated. Jordan's Philanthropy in England, 1480-1660, a fascinating book on late medieval and early modern charity and benefices, showing statistically, e.g., the declining spiritualism before the Reformation as seen in the number of bequests to churches; Elsa Morante, Arturo's Island, can't go it though it's well done; Reflections on the Human Venture, Cantril and Burnstead, a nice idea, not well executed , because once abandoned the narrow limits of contemporary psychology (except psychoanalysis) and you fall into a vast universe of related ideas which constitute much of the corpus of all worthy literature (e.g., perceiving -- one could recite all of Proust; illness of mind, Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain, Dostoevski's novels, etc., etc.); Gide's Journals, still dipping into them; various poets: The Greek Anthology, etc.,; sundry journals; newspaper (Times;) some stock market and tax reports.


December 15, 1959

Up until 1 AM last night making tedious entries in the accounts of my expenses of 1959, for income tax purposes. Jean, who I thought once would take care of these problems for me, turned out to be a scatter-brain who has made more errors of judgment than are conceivable. Yet she calls herself a bookkeeper! Her mind would make a precious medical study. I cannot describe it nor think of a label for it. Without discrimination, addle-pated, no ability to distinguish, cannot sort and classify, quite untheoretical - but these terms don't give the psychological and neurological dynamics. What in the world goes on in there? The strange thing is that she carries the flag of a person of general ability including especially her claims to wisdom and judgment. Usually people without theoretical ability either admit to it (it is no shame in our culture) or they haven't the theoretical interest to question and assert the issue. But she believes in herself as an editor, a bookkeeper, a practical person overall.

The account books washed my mind unpleasantly of an exciting movie. "The Wreck of the Mary Deare," which we saw earlier. In it an unfortunate, handsome, appealing sea captain, Gary Cooper, fights the elements and many uncomprehending or crooked men to disprove the charge that he ordered a premature abandonment of ship. Whenever I see these "gripping, suspenseful stories of heroism" on the land, in the air, or on the sea, I wonder what proportion of the effect is obtained by the simple device of having your hero handsome and engaging, and your villains alien and repulsive. 30%, 50%, 80%? Somehow we stupid peasants of the audience believe fervently in our man and hotly condemn all the neutral and official characters of the play for their obstinate blindness and callousness. Yet they are obviously far better and more qualified people than ourselves. What if, instead of Gary Cooper, the tall distinguished-appearing beloved star in uniform, as the hero, there had been the short, dark, mustachioed, felt-hatted Levantine-looking, accented villain, and Cooper were the villain. Wouldn't we have missed the whole point of the hero's argument and certainly would have passed judgment as coolly and maddeningly correct as did the Court of Inquiry in the instant case? Wouldn't many, I should say, because I am obviously as much under control in these matters as the Court of Inquiry, if not as curiously indifferent as the Insurance Company was to the captain's strange story.

Cathy progresses on the piano. I drove her to and from her lesson yesterday (one-half hour gone) but had a moment's conversation with her teacher, Mrs. Greenblatt, a brusque New Yorker who sees talent in Cathy and wants her to practice more and more. We have removed Jessie and Paul from Westminster Choir College classes too and sent them to Mrs. Greenblatt, despite the need for chauffeuring them. The Westminster Choir College teachers were educated to train reluctant untalented juveniles according to the "learning can be fun" school. Mrs. Greenblatt is of the "no nonsense" school that regards a great art as a difficult and wonderful achievement. More power to her! Treat children as ordinary, and they become ordinary. Demand nothing and receive nothing. If they must fail to go far, let them sense at least the grand range of discipline and understanding ahead of them. It is a shame to cease a sublime art with the same feeling that you stop skipping rope - bored, slightly winded, nothing at stake.

I have had a slight headache all day, with little twinges in some neck glands and bronchial tubes (or upper chest). What is it? Who knows? Tired eyes and the vagus nerve. Spastic colon and the nervous reactions. A minor virus of the flu. Cigarette smoking (10 a day)? Symptoms of some deep disorder to occur soon or some distant day?

Today I arrived in New York City at 10, answered calls until 11, saw Dimock 11-12, wrote letters and was on the phone 12-12:45, lunched from 12:45-1:45 at the Club with Scofield and the Supervisor of Construction and the Chief Engineer of the University; I pumped them for advice on my ideas about a social science research building. They were helpful and pleasant. I do not however minimize the potential conflict between them and any outside realty or builders group that I might bring in to discuss the project. From 2-2:30 rested at 12 Perry. In the office 3-4 on the phone and conferring with Saenger. 4-4:30 riding by cab uptown to the Savoy Hilton (nee Plaza) with Stephanie, who went on to Columbia University to an Asian Studies Conference and two Republican meetings in re her term paper, while I met with Arthur Kemp, Director of Economic Research for the AMA. Art and I had several drinks at Trader Vic's, talked over a variety of political and economic subjects and discussed the possibility of some research on the welfare role of American doctors, an important subject scientifically and politically, to my mind. Back by subway to 1 Fifth Avenue Bar where I met Ernest Dichter, then to Alex' Borsch (sic) Bowl, for a simple supper, then to 12 Perry for an hour's discussion of possibilities of collaboration, especially in the area of social invention studies. We parted, agreeing to start something. Now a little reading and then to bed.

December 15, 1959

10 : 30 PM

Heraclitus' unity of opposites:

"Disease makes health pleasant and good, hunger satiety, weariness rest."

Social scientists today, part of the reformism of the last two centuries, shun questions of study that threaten their hidden values.

No hate without love.

God without devil.

Peace without war.

Virtue without crime.

Life without death.

The existence and possible inherent juxtaposition of opposites stands as an unheeded but direct challenge to social investigation. I doubt that it is a semantic problem only, or a pseudo-problem without empirical referents, or unresearchable to empiricism.

Everything that is, stands for what isn't and what isn't, is.

Heraclitus : "Every animal is driven to pasture with a blow."


December 19, 1959

Wednesday morning at 12 Perry Street. Read Unamuno's moving and heroic essay on immortality. A great question is majestically posed - and left unanswered. Man wants immortality and what agony that he can't be sure of having it. Humanist that he is, Unamuno sees no basis for belief other than the wish, and, also, universalizes the need. Many do not seem to have the urge to persist indefinitely, among them some apparently "happy" people. Perhaps more serious analysis of their ilk is in order. Unamuno, poet that he is (and how well he knows the poet's great vanity about future generations), is not concerned with them. A new social scientist should say: Let us examine all types of man; how many want to live, for how long; what produces their psychology ( and ideology) of time and eternity? Then only let us ask the theological, or cosmological, question : In what senses, how, to what end, does man live in more than a biological way? What evidence other than the senses might or must be admitted? The beauties of Unamuno's sentiments and style should not obscure the facts that he is on the one hand rationalistic, on the other insufficiently scientific.

At 11:00 I met with Gordon Ierardi and others at John Wiley and Sons to discuss a second edition of The American Way of Government. Jerardi and Suter suggest moving the new edition towards "the behavioral approach" in line with my reputation. I don't see how I can justify a great deal of work on this book. It has too few possibilities au fond. I shall try to get by with the minimum of change, particularly since external factors appear to have limited the sale of the first edition more than the contents have. Two dates to submit copy are possible : May, 1960, and May 1961. I prefer the former though it will sorely burden my mind and spirits for several months. If I were wealthier, I should tell the publishers that I do not wish to work more on the book and that we should get another author in to do the job, even besides Stevenson, who, I hope, will be able to do most of the routine work. I am not so well-to-do, however, and had better pursue the new edition which, when all is said and done, may bring me several thousands a year for another four years.

From 1 to 2 PM I visited with Robert Dowling, 25 Broad Street, to discuss my suggestion that his Citizens' Committee for Legalized Off-Track Betting sponsor a survey of public attitudes towards and the extent of betting on horse races. With him was an assistant, Miles Shanahan. We agreed on the idea in general, and I have asked Mike Nalbandian to prepare a draft of the study. Dowling is a long-faced man of sixty, a craggy face from two pits of which glint handsome blue eyes. He heads a strangely diversified company, the City Investment Corporation, whose Board was about to meet on the terrace of their penthouse offices looking over Lower Manhattan, the December weather being exceptionally mild.

From Dowling to L. Rothschild, where Peter Haegney introduced me to a young man, John Dryfoos, who is to take over my account, now that Peter is joining the TWA staff. John Dryfoos is a Princeton graduate, badly crippled below the waist, perhaps by polio, and well-muscled above. He has funny, jutting ears and a cool, almost contemptuous air, moderated however by more significant spurts of helpfulness and interest. I told him that I had learned of his success with manipulating stock options and that I wanted him to pursue somewhat the same kind of speculative course with my account. He was pleased.

From 3 to 4:30 at the office and then to Princeton by train.

About to board the train, I noticed a man with a Herald Tribune camp badge talking to the conductor and introduced myself, saying that I guessed he must be escorting our small visitor, Ramon Santiago. He was, and since he was headed for Trenton, was glad to turn over Ramon and a little girl to me to bring into Princeton. Ramon was pleased to see me and we all rode together to Princeton Junction. Durnell works directly for the Tribune "friendly town" program and commutes daily from Bucks Co., Pennsylvania. We conversed warmly about his work and I began to think about the chances that a visiting program might be organized right within the city of New York. Mr. Durnell is an outdoor recreation enthusiast, of course, but agreed that the major benefits of the program of sponsoring poor and problem-beset children for a visit in one's home were apart from the fresh air of the country. The feelings of social affection and the new orientations are more important. I often have the feeling that everyone in New York City and other cities rather dislike one another and look at each other as men from Mars meeting men from Jupiter. Why not then go right to the heart of the matter and organize people to visit one another in their own cities, visit, stay, sleep, eat, watch TV, go for walks, wash the dishes, arrange details, answer the phone, argue ideas and beliefs, look at the same concrete, steel, and traffic, together. We need another Bhave for the modern metropolis to go around and collect brotherly love and distribute it.

Joy can be felt when unhappy. So in some ways it is a more precious sentiment. Happiness can slip into smugness, joy never. Happiness can become a gray state, turning slowly into nonhappiness or plain existence. But joy soars above the plains of feeling. It is the deviant impulse from the curve of temperament. It can be felt while nearly dead from pain. It can be sensed while thoroughly happy.

Cocktails yesterday afternoon at the Frelinghuysens. Tom and Rosalyn. Anna Maria. Sean and Daisy O'Faolin, Irish writers both. A delightful young Irish girl called Christobel O'Brain who worked on Jill's Ghana book and is now doing Tom's bookkeeping. A young, eager girl named Daisy Wilkinson who talks a great deal on the B-student level but is, I understand, a good musician. A couple (Brower?) who came and departed quickly without apparent loss to the party. Mrs. O'Faolin is anti-British. Believes Irish are Latins. Sean O'Faolin is very British but as strongly Irish as she. Daisy O'Faolin is concerned over the Outer Seven organizing versus the common market and hurting Ireland - a British trick: "They'll stop at nothing to hurt Ireland." I reassured her, saying that the Common Market will prevail, and the Outer Seven is simply a temporary device for better bargaining. She rues the depopulation of Ireland. It is awesome, two and a half million souls left. Many go to England and return for vacations. They love factory work and the happy social pub life. Ireland remains in depression, living is cheap, and many well-to-do Englishmen are buying hunting and farming places there.

Why, asked Sean O'Faolin, are Americans unhappy? Because, I replied, "They are the only nation in the world whose formal ambition is happiness. Take the preamble to the Constitution, for example!" Other peoples know what to expect from life and are even pleasantly surprised from time to time.

We argued over the cost of living; everyone in on this, but especially Anna Maria and I, she asserting the misery of the common man in Italy, I holding for the many uncalculated values in the Italian's existence. A good dish of spaghetti with meat balls and sauce would be 20 cents in Italy; an insignificant hamburger here costs 60 cents. Etc., some points well taken, others not. Think of the advantage of riding a train from Rome to Florence or Florence to Milano, as against similar trips in the U.S. The Italian journey is cheaper and more beautiful. "How do you evaluate politeness?" I asked rhetorically. You will receive a dozen rebuffs in the ordinary day in New York or Chicago, perhaps one in Rome or Milan, and that will be a tourist. Shouldn't politeness be counted in the cost of living? After all, I said, it really is, if you think of special cases. You will hear Americans discussing where to eat dinner, and one will say, "Let's go to Stone's, not Jones's, the cost is higher, the food no different, but the service is more pleasant." So shouldn't some sum be added to the Italian standard of living for this pleasure? The only significant concept of the cost of living is "how much happiness do you spend in return for how much happiness received." The Department of Labor's dollar accounting is wholly materialistic and geared to wage disputes where businessmen and labor leaders hunch together over incremental pennies. The absurdity of statistics is not that they lie and people believe them, but that they tell half-truths that are received as gospel.

Anna Maria was magnificent in argument. She lights up like a rosy torch, declaims in most expressive English, lapsing into Italian or French once in a while. Her forte is a descriptive story, for her theories sometimes crack under attack, and she fascinated me with accounts of a love affair among dogs in Florence. A verbally proficient painter makes an extraordinary talker.

December 31, 1959

Five Minutes Before 1960

Heed the whistles of midnight

Through the clock's obsessive beat and fog of chatter.

Close the neat, discrete accounts,

Leaving red and black amounts to spark

Automatically amidst the gray matter.

The worst of the old year has not been counted,

No more than its best has been shown.

So the good seed of the new is sown

Beneath bristling grass knives of perceived past,

And unfolds unknown.

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