Maturity as a general virtue, however, declined in the Sixties when indiscriminate sexual liberty, detached from responsibility and emotional engagement, became a human right from puberty forward. With no need to defer the gratification of appetite, there was no further need for patience, maturity’s hallmark.
And yet what stage of life could be worse for indefinite prolongation? Adolescence is a period marked by extreme intellectual callowness, thrall to raging hormones, obsession with appearance and social caste, contempt for authority, fascination with the transgression of rules, immoderate self-righteousness and intense sensitivity to perceived offence.
For the negative physical consequences of adolescence as a cultural norm, consider the body-sculpting, porn and plastic surgery industries. Our culture’s obsession with youthful appearance and limitless, Dionysiac sexuality is pandemic.
For the more pernicious negative intellectual and political consequences, consider the universities. In academia one finds a ruling cadre of grey-haired, jeans-clad university teachers pickled in Woodstock-nostalgic revolutionary amber, still rebelling against their parents’ conformity and hypocrisy, still contemptuous of their parents’ institutions and values, even those that stabilized family life and nourished communitarianism.
The political correctness these ideologues embody, Epstein shrewdly notes, is a peculiarly adolescent phenomenon: “Political correctness . . — from academic feminism to cultural studies to queer theory — could only be perpetrated on adolescent minds: . . . Only an adolescent would find it worthwhile to devote his or her attention chiefly to the hunting of offenses [and] the possibility of slights, real and imagined.”
Barbara Kay, “The decline of maturity”, National Post, 2009-10-16
October 16, 2009
QotD: Maturity, fading
September 1, 2009
Woodstock: not so much remembered, as hallucinated
I wasn’t at Woodstock. I didn’t want to be at Woodstock. I wasn’t even consciously aware of Woodstock until long after it happened. I have my excuses: I was not quite nine years old at the time, for a start. I point this out not because of any wanna-be-boomer longings, but because Jon (my former virtual landlord) frequently accuses me of being a hippie, or at least wanting to be one.
P.J. O’Rourke, however, has a different excuse:
I was slightly disappointed to be missing Woodstock until the nightly news reported that it had turned into a catastrophic, drug-addled, rain-drenched disaster area lacking food, water, shelter, and Port-A-Potties. Then I was furious to be missing Woodstock.
What this says about 21-year-old boys I needn’t tell anyone who has been, dated, or raised one. Furthermore, Sunflower’s suicide attempt was the result of a fight with her mother about a department store charge plate bill for a $128 peasant blouse and had nothing to do with Sunflower’s desperate romantic feelings for me.
To top it off, a few years later I became a Republican.
What with one thing and another, I was always touchy on the subject of Woodstock. I’m over it now, thanks to various books celebrating the 40th anniversary of too many people in bad haircuts going to an upstate New York dairy farm for no good reason. I’ve counted three of these books so far. Since counting to three was as much as most Woodstock attendees could manage on goof butts and silly pills, three is where I stop.
This is actually from a review of three books about the Woodstock phenomenon (or cultural disaster, take your pick):
The Road to Woodstock is “by” Michael Lang, one of the two original promoters, “with” Holly George-Warren who is coeditor of The Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll and thus, presumably, knows the alphabet. I have no idea how much of the book Lang wrote, but he doesn’t seem to have read it. He is described therein by a pair of ex-business partners as having “a face that is, by turns, evil, wanton, fey, impish, and innocent.” This is more than I would let ex-business partners of mine say about me in my book.
And yet, if you reverse the order of the adjectives, you get the progress of the sixties, perfectly delineated.
It was not, by the way, a decade: The sixties were a strange episode of about 80 months’ duration that started when the Baby Boom had fully infested academia (roughly the 1966-67 school year) and came to a screeching halt in 1973 when conscription ended and herpes began.
