Heroes I Have Known

A HERO is a hero is a hero, Gertrude Stein in her expressive way would have said. Max Eastman, however, does not see things as clearly cut as all this. By the time his heroes have gone through the mangle of his analytical mind, they appear frayed and rather the worse for wear - as heroes I mean. As human beings, they gain immeasurably by the process. The author’s notion, in general, seems to be that it is wiser to distribute your hero worship among a dozen than among six as Carlyle did. The danger of worshiping heroes, especially if you limit their number, is that it might lead to Hitler, whereas it is better for the purposes of democracy that you kowtow to many - and “many” means a diversity of types and the concomitant tolerance this diversity inspires. However this may be, the idea of the hero is killed in the process. Max Eastman’s mother was no doubt a fine woman, and the tribute to her is a line thing. As for being a hero, however, that’s quite another thing. The author himself admits “difficulties” in worshiping Isadora Duncan - then why worship her? The sketch of Art Young makes us wish we knew him and that he was our friend - and that, too, is as far as it goes. We are prepared to admire Carlo Tresca, agitator, at a distance; though Eugene Debs approaches the stature of a real hero. The author employs Mark Twain largely as a vehicle for taking Van Wyck Brooks “for a ride,” while the glimpse of Sigmund Freud positively makes him seem paltry.

Leon Trotsky appears less the leader we thought him to be; and we frankly prefer Charles Chaplin in his films. Nevertheless, because he knows how to write, Mr. Eastman has written a readable book about human beings whom he has debunked as heroes. Maybe that’s what he intended to do. M. G.