Let’s Hear It For the Silent Generation
In the last two months, seven great journalists, writers and editors have died: Ward Just, 84; William Greider, 83; Karl Meyer, 91; Jim Lehrer, 84; Elizabeth Sifton, 80; Sonny Mehta, 77; Alice Mayhew, 87.
Aside from what they have contributed to our knowledge in so many ways, they were all part of what is known as “The Silent Generation.” The Greatest Generation (Tom Brokaw’s term is now widely accepted) are those who endured the Depression of the 1930s and World War II. And then there were the Boomers, starting in 1946. Once the symbol of youth culture, they are now bearing the full brunt of ageism (OK Boomer). The Silents are associated with the post-war period: Dwight Eisenhower, car fins, housewives, the Soviet nuclear threat, Sen. Joseph McCarthy, the Korean conflict (aka “The Forgotten War).
Well, yes, but here is a random selection of others in that cohort born from 1928–1945: The Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr; Rep John Lewis; John Lennon; Paul McCartney; Mick Jagger; Diana Ross; Stevie Wonder; Bob Dylan; Joan Baez; Woodward and Bernstein; Gloria Steinem; Micky Mantle; Philip Roth; Joan Didion. They were Freedom Riders, in the Peace Corps and at the vanguard of the anti-nuclear movement — forerunner of the antiwar activism of the 1960s.
All the seven people just departed received substantial narrative obituaries in The New York Times (link, link, link, link, link, link, link). As it happens, I knew them all, some better than others, and admired them not merely for what they did, but how they did it. What they also had as I reflect on their passing, for want of a more precise term, was dignity. The journalists were master chroniclers. The editors defined non-fiction books, in particular, for the last quarter of the 20th century and beyond.
I managed to attract Just, Greider, Meyer and Lehrer to publish at least one book each with PublicAffairs after we were founded in 1997. At the risk of being overly humble, as a start-up, we needed their stature more than they needed ours. Among the editors, Sifton (as she was generally known) was a lunch pal and ideological compatriot. Sonny and Alice (first namers) were with competing imprints so my respect for them never morphed into friendship.
Here are some brief thoughts on what made the seven so outstanding:
Ward Just: Ward was sent to Vietnam by Ben Bradlee for The Washington Post in 1966. He set a standard for reporting, writing and style that all of us who succeeded him, as I did, would aspire to match. Just survived being wounded, wrote “To What End,” a prescient book about the war’s futility, and then decided to write novels and short stories which he did with consistent quality. I thought of him as the “Bogey” (as in Humphrey) of books. He smoked unfiltered Camels or maybe it was Lucky Strikes, wrote on a typewriter and had masculine glamor without contrived machismo. When he left the Post to write fiction, Bradlee openly felt the loss.
William Greider: Bill was a writer of unusual deftness and integrity. His column for The Washington Post’s Outlook section was called “Against the Grain.” From 1979–82, I was his deputy on the Post’s national desk. Here’s a bit of what I wrote about him as an editor in 2006: “Every encounter Bill had with the multiple egos he led was about their objectives, and not some agenda of his own. He did not intimidate, bully or swagger. Bill reasoned and by doing so managed to get the best out of everyone around him…”
Bill’s bestselling books were deeply reported and, in their way, impassioned. He was in the very best sense, a radical and a populist.
Karl. E. Meyer: With his doctorate in political science from Princeton, Karl was an intellectual in a reporter’s cloak. As London bureau chief of The Washington Post in the mid-1960s, he gave me a start in writing for the paper. We became good friends thereafter. He wrote erudite but readable books on a wide range of topics from art to archeology and the Great Game of the imperial era. When he went to The New York Times as an editorial writer, Max Frankel, head of the opinion pages, called him “My Secretary of State.”
In London, Karl appeared on television as a commentator so often that the satirical magazine Private Eye dubbed him, in his 30s, as “Karl J. Pipesucker”.
Jim Lehrer: As the anchor of the PBS nightly news, Jim set a very high bar for careful, thoughtful, insightful coverage of issues. He was also a prolific novelist. I, who did very little fiction, published Jim at Random House and then reissued several of his books at PublicAffairs. His book “White Widow” about a bus driver’s fantasy love affair with a passenger is one of my favorite novels, ever. I always thought that in contrast to most writers calling their editors to ask for more time, when Jim was on the phone it was to tell you he had finished another one.
At Jim’s memorial, he received a Marine’s farewell honors including the playing of taps.
Elisabeth Sifton: Aside from being an editor revered by her authors, she was very good company. It was especially fun to watch her with her husband, Fritz Stern — a Columbia professor who was as charming as he was brilliant. He wasn’t a big man and Elisabeth was a larger, striking woman. Well into their 70s, they seemed liked newlyweds. They were two minds of consequence also aligned at the heart.
Sonny Mehta: At Random House in the years I worked there, those of us at the Random House imprint thought of Alfred A. Knopf our corporate sibling as our most formidable competitor. Sonny’s elegance, the Knopf heritage and his excellent publishing instincts made him a figure of unique respect in the publishing community. We rarely crossed paths after I left Random House, but I can report that when he told me he thought PublicAffairs was a terrific publisher, I beamed.
Alice Mayhew: I think it is fair to say that no other editor in the last fifty years did more to elevate non-fiction writing. Her list of writers was as the Times said a “Who’s Who” of journalists and historians. When I was hired at Random House it was thought that given my background in journalism, I might well challenge Alice’s dominance of the genre. As a result, I felt the full impact of her competitive spirit. When I called her to suggest a lunch, she gave me a polite but unequivocal no. We never did share a meal.
No one would argue with Brokaw’s portrait of the Greatest Generation. But far from being “Silent” these seven practitioners of the field I also plow deserve to be known, unequivocally, as Great.
