Public enemy

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Public enemy

Sinclair Lewis's 1935 novel 'It Can't Happen Here' envisioned an America

in thrall to a homespun facist dictator. Newly reissued, it's as

unsettling a read as ever.

 

(Hadley Hooper)

 

By Joe Keohane | December 18, 2005

 

PICTURE THIS: A folksy, self-consciously plainspoken Southern politician

rises to power during a period of profound unrest in America. The nation

is facing one of the half-dozen or so of its worst existential crises to

date, and the people, once sunny, confident, and striving, are now

scared, angry, and disillusioned.

 

This politician, a ''Professional Common Man,'' executes his rise by

relentlessly attacking the liberal media, fancy-talking intellectuals,

shiftless progressives, pinkos, promiscuity, and welfare hangers-on, all

the while clamoring for a return to traditional values, to love of

country, to the pie-scented days of old when things made sense and

Americans were indisputably American. He speaks almost entirely in

''noble but slippery abstractions''-Liberty, Freedom, Equality-and

people love him, even if they can't fully articulate why without

resorting to abstractions themselves.

 

Through a combination of factors-his easy bearing chief among them

(along with massive cash donations from Big Business; disorganization in

the liberal opposition; a stuffy, aloof opponent; and support from

religious fanatics who feel they've been unfairly marginalized)-he wins

the presidential election.

 

Once in, he appoints his friends and political advisers to high-level

positions, stocks the Supreme Court with ''surprisingly unknown lawyers

who called [him] by his first name,'' declaws Congress, allows Big

Business to dictate policy, consolidates the media, and fills newspapers

with ''syndicated gossip from Hollywood.'' Carping newspapermen worry

that America is moving backward to a time when anti-German politicians

renamed sauerkraut ''Liberty Cabbage'' and ''hick legislators...set up

shop as scientific experts and made the world laugh itself sick by

forbidding the teaching of evolution,'' but newspaper readers, wary of

excessive negativity, pay no mind.

 

Given the nature of ''powerful and secret enemies'' of America-who are

''planning their last charge'' to take away our freedom-an indefinite

state of crisis is declared, and that freedom is stowed away for

safekeeping. When the threat passes, we can have it back, but in the

meantime, citizens are asked to ''bear with'' the president.

 

Sure, some say these methods are extreme, but the plain folks are tired

of wishy-washy leaders, and feel the president's decisiveness is its own

excuse. Besides, as one man says, a fascist dictatorship ''couldn't

happen here in America...we're a country of freemen!''

 

.. . .

 

While more paranoid readers might be tempted to draw parallels between

this scenario and sundry predicaments we may or may not be in right now,

the story line is actually that of Sinclair Lewis's 1935 novel ''It

Can't Happen Here,'' a hastily written cautionary note about America's

potential descent into fascism, recently reissued by New American

Library in a handsome trade edition with a blood-spattered cover design.

 

The book, though regarded as a departure for Lewis, bears all the

trappings of the writer in his prime. Lewis made his name, and his

fortune, writing scathing indictments of an America enamored of

materialism and mediocrity in the prosperous '20s; he won America's

first Nobel Prize for Literature for it. From ''Main Street'' to

''Babbitt,'' ''Arrowsmith'' to ''Elmer Gantry,'' there was no instance

of egregious Rotarianism or middle-class hypocrisy he wouldn't gleefully

assail. Lewis was so successful in these forays that the eponymous

protagonist of ''Babbitt,'' whom Lewis held up as the embodiment of all

that was wrong with middle-class America in the '20s, saw his name

transformed into a widely used pejorative.

 

At its center, ''It Can't Happen Here'' is no different from these prior

efforts. It's just carried out on a bigger, more hyperbolic scale: Lewis

takes that Babbitt mentality-the entrenched incuriosity, the smug

certitude, the conformity, the complacency-and combines it with the

growing desperation of the times to envision an end of America as we

know it.

 

It's an unsettling read, especially in a day and age where wags and

politicos on both sides compulsively accuse one another of plotting to

destroy America. Other such books, most recently Philip Roth's ''The

Plot Against America,'' ask whether a fascist dictatorship can happen

here. But whereas Roth manipulates history in order to show what could

have happened, imagining an America so blinded by celebrity adulation

that it elects an isolationist, anti-Semitic Charles Lindbergh

president, Lewis suggests that it already has happened, in little

pockets all over America: in bridge club meetings, Rotary luncheons. No

invading army will be needed to turn America fascist. Instead, the

catalyst will come from within, and when it does it will speak

colloquial American, and it will come waving the Stars and Stripes.

 

.. . .

 

However broad its themes, ''It Can't Happen Here'' echoes its time,

sometimes literally. The Depression was dragging on, the New Deal was on

the rocks, FDR was vulnerable, and the GOP had foundered. People were

desperate for strong leadership, and as a result there was a real threat

coming from numerous quasi-populist movements led by fire-breathing

demagogues promising deliverance.

 

Among these groups was the Share Our Wealth movement, spearheaded by

Senator Huey Long, a former Louisiana governor best known as the

inspiration for Willie Stark in Robert Penn Warren's ''All the King's Men.''

 

Long sought to radically redistribute the nation's wealth and impose an

income gap, which, while socialist on its face, was more a cynical ploy

for votes than a fast-held ideology. Equally prominent was sulfurous

radio personality Father Charles Coughlin's Union of Social Justice, a

nativist movement that proposed abolishing the Federal Reserve to

reverse the Depression. Both groups were as corrupt as they were

illogical, and FDR feared they would combine, unseat him, and replace

American democracy with a strain of Hitlerism suited to America's unique

temperament.

 

Driven by his support of Roosevelt and informed by the insights of his

second wife, Dorothy Thompson, a pioneering journalist who more than

anyone helped bring home the full horrors of Hitler's rise, Lewis

cranked out the book in two months in 1935, in the hope that it would

help avert what he felt was a looming catastrophe. In order to do so

effectively, though, he would have to mine the collective prejudices and

disenchantments inherent in the American character.

 

Enter Berzelius ''Buzz'' Windrip, Lewis's tyrant. He's a regular guy,

personable, plainspoken, ''with something of the earthy American sense

of humor of a Mark Twain...a Will Rogers.'' Guided by his secretary Lee

Sarason, he cozies up to the electorate by stoking their disdain for

fancy ideas and encouraging them to follow their hearts, not their minds.

 

Windrip's economic policies are disastrous, his figures often incorrect,

and his platform seems to change depending on who he's talking to, but

none of that matters as long as he keeps expressing himself decisively.

''I want to stand up on my hind legs,'' he writes in ''Zero Hour,'' his

widely read pre-campaign book, ''and not just admit but frankly holler

right out that...we've got to change our system a lot, maybe even change

the whole Constitution (but change it legally, not by violence)....The

Executive has got to have a freer hand and be able to move quick in an

emergency, and not be tied down by dumb shyster lawyer congressmen

taking months to shoot off their mouths in debates.''

 

When Windrip is elected, all hell breaks loose. Dissent is crushed, the

Bill of Rights is gutted, war is declared (on Mexico), and labor camps

are established to help shore up Windrip's vaunted ''New Freedom,''

which is more like a freedom from freedom. All that's really left of the

old America are the flags and patriotic ditties, which for many is more

than enough. But to Lewis it's not entirely the fault of those who will

gladly abide America's principles being gutted. The blame also falls on

the ''it can't happen here'' crowd, those yet to realize that being

American doesn't change your human nature; whatever it is that attracts

people to tyranny is in Americans like it's in anyone else.

 

When Lewis embarked on ''It Can't Happen Here,'' his wife wondered if a

dictatorship could happen in this country, whether complacent Babbitt,

as she put it, could be taught to march ''quickly enough.'' It was a

question that Lewis had already answered. There's a scene in ''Babbitt''

where the title character blows up at his wife and admits for the first

time in years that he's not as thrilled with his lot as he lets on. His

wife soothes him and sends him off to bed, where, ''For many minutes,

for many hours, for a bleak eternity, he lay awake, shivering, reduced

to primitive terror, comprehending that he had won freedom, and

wondering what he could do with anything so unknown and so embarrassing

as freedom.''

 

In other words, the marching is just pageantry. Windrip's most

formidable task, convincing Americans to renounce bedrock democratic

principles, was already accomplished well before he took power. It was

just waiting for its moment.

 

Joe Keohane is the editor of Boston's Weekly Dig.

© Copyright 2005 Globe Newspaper Company.