8/CHRONICLESnto answer to his neighbors?nThere is httle justification for atlargenelections. They are antidemocratic,nbigoted, and stupid. I say stupidnbecause in a town tike Springfield,nwhere blacks comprise the lowest socioeconomicnclass, a minority that isnexcluded from the political processnnaturally develops resentments—annexplosive situation, especially in a periodnof underemployment. Since thenproblem is so obvious and the remedynso simple, why do so many citiesnpersist in maintaining such an antiquatednsystem?nThere are several reasons. Old habitsndie hard, especially in small towns,nand no entrenched elite enjoys sharingnpower with its subjects. But there is,nperhaps, another reason. At-large electionsnwere sold as a progressive, enlightened,nand liberal measure, becausenthey held out the promise ofnUtopia: cities free of pettiness and bickering,nurban governments liberatednfrom ethnic animosities, and the selfishn”what’s in it for me?” that characterizesnward polities in the Chicagonstyle. During the same period of “goodngovernment,” school districts werenconsolidated in a similar effort to keepnparents and politicians from interfering.nIronically, all this was done in thenname of democracy. Teachers and administratorsnneeded a free hand if theynwere going to instill democratic values,nand city government had to wrestlenpower out of the hands of neighborhoodnpoliticians and put it in thenhands of decent people and trainednprofessionals. The progress of democracyndepended on it.nWe used to call this sort of idea bynits proper name: enlightened despotism.nSince people are too stupid or toonselfish to govern themselves, they neednwise and benevolent leaders to governnin their name. We need governmentnof the people and for the people, butnnever government by the people.nBlack voters are only the most recentnvictims of a progressive political establishmentnthat has repeatedly attemptednto save democracy from itself. At thennational level, it has taken about 100nyears for the republic of Thomas Jeffersonnand Andrew Jackson to turn into andebt-ridden bureaucracy. In local government,nthe old uproarious style ofnethnic ward heelers and neighborhoodngovernment was slowly but surelyntransformed into miniature replicas ofnthe Pentagon: powerful, centralized,nwasteful, and unresponsive. WhennAmericans contemplate the careers ofnold-style political bosses like Chicago’snRichard Daly, I hope they will remembernhim, for all his faults, as onenof the last democrats in America.nThe New Yorker is undergoing a painfulnarid much-publicized transition. InnJanuary the new owners decided it wasntime for William Shawn to retire andnRobert Gottiieb to take over. Magazinenstaffers responded by signing andeclaration that more or less demandednthat Shawn’s successor be promotednup from the ranks. At first sight, thenresponse was surprising, since Gottliebndoes not represent much of a change:nas president and editor in chief ofnAlfred Knopf Publishers, Gottiieb hasnbeen part of the New York literarynscene for years—a New Yorker to thencore.nOn a deeper level, the panic is easynto understand. For years The New Yorkernhas been provided a hothouse havennfor a small group of writers who sootheneach other’s vanities and lullaby theirnreaders to sleep with reassuring platitudes.nAny outsider, no matter hownsympathetic, is bound to let in somenfresh air. While Gottiieb will step onnno spiders, he may sweep away a fewncobwebs.nThe New Yorker, we are told by thosenwho write for it, is an institution. Thatnmuch is certain, but what kind ofninstitution? In my view, it most nearlynresembles a geriatric hospital. It representsnconservatism at its worst—anchangeless and elegant package fornwithered and desiccated ideologies, anhandsome political bible pressing thenfaded roses of the gracious intellectualnleft.nOf course, it was not always so.nUnder its founding editor, HaroldnRoss, the magazine was the New Yorkn(not American!) Punch, full of thenbitter-sweet confections of JamesnnnThurber, Alexander Wolcott, E.B.nWhite. In its pages, expatriate Midwesternersncreated the grand illusion ofnNew York as a bastion of wit andntalent. Much of it was a sham, and thenghosts that haunt the Algonquin roundntable are a set of nasty and embitterednalcoholics. And yet, how much of lifenis illusion? Literary children growingnup after World War II will always thinknkindly of The New Yorker: its funny (ifnunintelligible to an eight-year-old boy)ncartoons; the bright splashy covers, asndelightful as a spring rain on ParknAvenue after a few drinks; the mysteriousnaloofness of the “Talk of thenTown”; the dreams it nourished of anliterary life.nBy the mid-60’s, all that wasnchanged. There were “serious” discussionsnof the Vietnam War, civil rights,nand wheat crops in a dull style thatnmade you long for the Guardian or thenEvergreen Review. People still buy ThenNew Yorker, but it is for the cartoons,nthe short reviews of films, plays, andnrestaurants, and—above all—for thenads: I don’t know anybody who actuallynreads it. Who is responsible fornturning the sprightliest American magazineninto the house organ of grimnconformism? One can only point outnthat retiring editor William Shawn,nthe most admired man in the business,npresided over the decline into senility.nIt is not at all clear what Mr. Gottiiebnwill be able to do, but the situationncalls for heroic exertions. It is as if ansmall boy had to spring a belovedngrandfather from the state asylum.nGood luek.nThe line between illusion and realityn— always faint in Washingtonn—continues to blur as Hollywood personalitiesntestify on Capitol Hill. Lastnyear it was Sissy, Jane, and Jessicanposing as farm wives. More recently,nValerie (“Rhoda”) Harper told thenSenate Housing and Urban AffairsnSubcommittee that something had tonbe done about homelessness, a situationnshe described as “heart-breaking.”nRumor has it that Edward (“ThenEqualizer”) Woodward will soon benasked to tell what he knows about CIAninvolvement in Iranian arms shipments,nand if the “Golden Girls”nhaven’t yet given their views on aging,nit is only a matter of time.n