Modernism and Its Discontents OR The World's Smallest Violin/Phonograph/Walkman/Zune

The Unknown Citizen  

by W. H. Auden

(To JS/07 M 378

This Marble Monument

Is Erected by the State)

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content 
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace:  when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.




Mmmm, dig that sweet High Modernism goodness. I may have touched on this before, but one of the most intriguing aspects of Modernism in literature is how thoroughly disgusted it is with everything modern. There's this kneejerk reaction to everything from the clean, antiseptic lines of architecture embodied in skyscrapers to the near-obsession with statistics and the scientific method. It's like you scratch a Modernist writer and never fail to find somebody born 250 years too late for the Enlightenment.


Auden, especially, had some choice words for bureaucracies and paperwork, for everything safe and tidy and quantifiable. I can't say he was wrong, but I also can't say he was on the money. Sure, there's plenty of things in 20th-century life that degrade the soul, from choosing insurance providers (haha, take THAT Wallace Stevens!) to paying late fees at your local video rental store (in "American Psycho" Bret Easton Ellis got that much right, at least).

Look at these pretentious douchebags here...

But there was still something solid and real in the pre-pastiche era before every eyebrow became ironically arched and every sentiment perfectly detached. You used to be able to come out with a statement and be reasonably sure you didn't need to check back every ten minutes or so to see who had posted, "liked" or retweeted you. An opinion could just be an opinion, without an endless process of retextualization and deconstruction that has its ultimate end in that most entertaining of trivial nothings, the meme. 


Can I get some "don't touch my junk" in the house? No? How about some "Bed Intruder"? Okay then, "Don't tase me bro!"? Man, these things have the half-life of a peach from Trader Joe's: by the time it goes from the scanner to your recyclable canvas tote it's already rotted into community-supported compost.


So what I'm saying is, things can always be worse. (Unless you leave your wallet at home, your phone in the charger and your keys in the car at the same time. That is THE. WORST.) Hate high seriousness? You could be on "Cash Cab" or reading US Weekly. Hate lowest-common denominator pandering? You could be watching "Booknotes" on C-SPAN at 3:45 on a Tuesday afternoon. 


Cheer up, Charlie: it only gets worse from here. MOST. DISAPPOINTING. BLOG POST. EVER!