Reporting to their compatriots on the state of our nation and national character, recent intellectual visitors from overseas have for the most part repainted in darker hues the traditional negative stereotypes. Sometimes, however, the fresh eye of youth makes discoveries, and here we offer with some pleasure a report by a twenty-nine-year-old Frenchman, made after spending a year among us. As he informs us in this article, he is now employed as a counterman in Manhattan, and finds that position an excellent point of vantage for carrying on his affectionate study of the natives.

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My arrival was all I could have wished it to be; even the bad weather, which delayed our ship several hours so that we approached the port at low tide, proved advantageous, for we had to await the next high tide to enter, and this meant coming in well after dark. When we steamed up the bay, both banks of the Hudson were making a show of their lights, which became denser and more brilliant with our progress, and finally there appeared before us, in all their splendor, the skyscrapers of New York, lit to the gills, drunk with electricity, just as I had imagined them, just as they had been described to me. But now they were real, I was there. I felt my heart leap, and the other passengers around me—those, that is, who also saw this spectacle for the first time—burst into cries and exclamations, pressed along the railings trying to get a better view, and in a sudden burst of warmth took one another by the hand.

When finally the ship was moored, I looked attentively at the automobile lights speeding along the shore, and, a bit higher, there were all those fixed or changing lights of the buildings, and already I recognized in the arrangement something eminently different. I asked myself: “Is it true that tomorrow I will be able to go farther in? That I will really be there, inside?”

I had dreamed of America for years—dreamed in the literal sense of the word; some years ago, in Indo-China, during the course of twelve days of tropical fever (which barely missed finishing me), I had traveled, babbling and delirious, into the most extraordinary, the most marvelous future world—the most terrifying also—and this future world I had sometimes confused in my mind with an America of planetary dimensions. Now on the point of disembarking in New York, I did not, in fact, expect to recognize in it the place that I had dreamed of; and yet, perhaps there would be a resemblance. . . .

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When I emerged from the dock, towards noon, I was much disappointed to find that nobody had come to welcome me; I had hoped that at least one of my uncles would be there. I had with me only the fifty dollars which I had been told one had to have in order to land—though, in fact, no one had questioned me at all in this regard.

What was I going to do, alone in this immense city? I was already in the street—my first American street!—but there was no time to marvel. It seemed to me that I was frightfully unprovided for; and I took it almost as a direct injustice to me that there was no information service to help me, that I had been allowed in this unceremonious way to spill myself into the street, and there left to my fate.

I decided to look first of all for temporary lodging at the YMCA, of which I had heard. An express service undertook to transport my baggage for three dollars; it seemed to me that at this rate my slender hoard would be quickly spent. For myself, I chose to go by bus. Someone told me that I should ask for a transfer. When the bus came by, I got on and asked for a transfer to 34th Street, but was unprepared for the little machine in which the other passengers were dropping their coins. “This is America,” I told myself, “the land of machines!” The bus driver did his best to explain something to me, making it apparent that he thought me completely stupid. Finally, he took from me the sum required and put it in the machine himself. I thought: “If only I can manage in the future without taking the bus!”

I watched the streets vividly as we drove along, and I was soon disillusioned; I had taken it for granted that in this land all the houses were clean and white, but there were rows and rows of red brick buildings with ugly iron fire escapes, and papers on the ground. Was this possible even in America?

I also had the impression that everybody stared at me. For my part, I could not keep myself from scrutinizing the faces around me, the clothes, the movements. I thought:

“They have been Americans all their lives!”

I got to the YMCA, engaged a room, and went to the cafeteria, where it seemed to me that everyone was dressed in his Sunday best—impeccable shirt, bright tie, good suit well pressed. I thought there must be some explanation. Since they were eating at the YMCA these people could not be rich. Could it be they were all on vacation? Then the notion struck me that perhaps they were gangsters, for indeed they looked exactly like the gangsters I had seen in certain American films: the same ties, the chewing gum. . . .

After I had eaten, the thought came to me that I could perhaps find my uncles’ phone numbers in the telephone book. I consulted it. Next came an explanation of how to manipulate the American telephone (not greatly different from the French), and finally I got my uncle on the wire. It seems that my uncles had been at the dock at ten o’clock that morning. They were not permitted to board the ship, and after an hour concluded that I had been detained by the immigration authorities. One of them had already phoned his lawyer to discuss what should be done. I was warmly congratulated for having managed to find my way by bus, and was given full details about how to reach them by subway.

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I was received with embraces, given another lunch, asked all sorts of questions. Then one of my uncles undertook to instruct me on the kind of life one must lead in America. “Don’t talk of unhappiness,” he said when I alluded to my past mishaps. “Here, it simply doesn’t exist! And you should forget about your book, and all such absurdities, and long hair, and that sort of thing—you won’t find such things here either. In America, one has to be well dressed at all times, clean, neat, hair in place; this is absolutely essential. One constantly meets people without a penny to their name, but nobody could tell from their appearance that they are not millionaires.”

And that covered the whole matter so far as he was concerned. He made me a present of several shirts and suits, and with these I was to become happy; all that remained was to try to make as much money as possible, and he was even ready to give me a start at that if I wanted to become a traveling salesman like him. “Why waste your time trying to produce a work of art?” he said. “Artists only become famous after death. Could you go into a restaurant, show the cashier your book, and ask him to give you a plate of soup for it?”

That very evening another uncle took me for a drive in a handsome car through Central Park, and then down Fifth Avenue, and I saw again the lights of Manhattan, this time with a new wonder; for this time I saw them from “inside.” Never mind what my future in this country might be. The radio spilled its waves of melody; everything was beautiful; we were in the center of this life; my dream had not been false.

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The first nights, I spent a lot of time in my room, absorbing New York through the window and listening to the jazz over the radio. I left my radio on all night; what trumpet players they had here, what pianists, what orchestras! I also went one evening to the Stuyvesant Casino, which I had heard about in Paris. The atmosphere was intoxicating and enthusiastic; but I had come alone, and I was not happy. How could I manage to meet interesting people? I had been given an introduction to a charming family, but I quickly discovered that in New York even old friends rarely get to see each other if they live in different boroughs.

Of course, there were my own relatives, who loaned me money and had me to dinner, which was a great help. But often when I was with my aunts and uncles I felt myself miserably alone; they thought only of their work as traveling salesmen, of earning money, buying expensive clothes, eating well, owning expensive cars. I had not yet found any regular work; the only thing I knew with certainty was that I did not want to be a traveling salesman; I had had too much of that kind of work in France, where selling is almost the only possible occupation if one does not have some special training or profession and wants to lead a materially decent life. While waiting for something better, I got myself a job teaching French at the Berlitz School; but, being the latest comer, I was employed for only a few hours a day, and did not earn enough.

This problem took on more importance as the days passed, and I began to take more and more bitter note of all that was disagreeable in my situation. Six weeks after my arrival, I found myself suddenly at the end of my rope, completely disenchanted. All these skyscrapers were nothing but masses of cold stone without life. People lived here as elsewhere—a little more comfortably perhaps, but where was that special and fascinating atmosphere which, in my dreams and expectations, had been America? Americans were just like everyone else, and they had one particular fault: they were just too prosaic. They came, went, worked, went to the movies. What was there for me in all this? With whom could I communicate? Many times as I strolled below the skyscrapers of central Manhattan, I recalled a phrase read I cannot remember where: “New York reeks with human solitude!” And I had known Americans in Paris who said, “America is nothing.” Were they right?

One morning, filled with sad reflections, I went to the barber and there heard, mauled over and over again, a tune which had been played and replayed over the radio almost every day since my arrival. Songs are never repeated so frequently in Europe, even when they are very popular; and in my state of mind at the moment, this music, which was supposed to be joyful, was only a brutal intrusion on my consciousness. I conceived for it and for what it represented a great horror, and that evening I wrote an almost desperate letter to my friends in France, saying that everything was commercialized in this country, everything was soulless, my friends had been right to warn me against forming illusions, and my dearest desire was to get back to Europe as soon as possible. The next morning I expressed these feelings to my uncles; they agreed that if I could not adapt myself to this country, the best thing for me would be to return to Europe, and they offered to pay my passage.

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But then I began to feel a certain shame. Only six weeks. . . . How could I weakly throw in my hand without having tried anything further? I resolved to stay a little longer.

The first thing, of course, was to find a regular job. But I was afraid. With my faltering English, who would take me on? As for the French firms, I did not want to set foot in them; apart from the fact that the French never help their compatriots abroad—quite the contrary, in fact—French firms have the reputation of paying a good deal less than their American competitors. And besides, I had not come to America to remain among Frenchmen.

I went to one employment agency after another; I was ready to do “no matter what”; but in general I was told that my education was too “academic” to be of use. My weakness is that I am easily discouraged. And the fact is that there is scarcely anything as depressing as scurrying about in this fashion, particularly if one fears that one’s efforts will be in vain. On the morning of the third day I told myself: “If I have not found something by the end of the week, I shall return to France.”

During this period I began to observe, and for the first time, that America was not at all so much of a piece as I had conceived it to be. Each agency I visited had a markedly different atmosphere; one was ill kept, and the personnel inspired little confidence; others, while hardly disagreeable outwardly, were staffed by persons who would not take the slightest trouble to help one in any way whatever; other agencies were from the first sight prepossessing, orderly, staffed with amiable persons whose good will was unmistakable. I thus made the naive discovery that it was possible to find varying milieus and very different sorts of people; it was just a question of where one looked. But if this was indeed the case, then the people of America could not possibly be so “standardized” as they were said to be. It followed that even I might yet find the milieu to suit me.

In one of the more attractive agencies, I was asked if I did not prefer office to factory work, and then was sent off with a ticket to some large company. It was hard to believe that finally an agency had offered me something! But I would certainly not be found acceptable by my prospective employers once they heard me speak. I had learned English in France but still spoke it with a marked French accent.

When I entered the office it seemed that everyone was working at incredible speed, the typewriters racing, employees rushing from room to room with papers. I had heard that Americans worked fast; could I find myself a spot in such an office? The head of the personnel department asked me some questions, and then described what my duties would be. I kept nodding, though I was far too unnerved to understand anything he said, and when he told me that the firm would be glad to have me I could hardly believe it.

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In the morning I was introduced to a young man who showed me around the various floors, and quickly put me at ease. It still seemed to me that I could scarcely feel at home in these surroundings, but my new companion told me again and again that the work was simple enough and that I would be able to manage. And so I began to carry out his instructions.

A young woman came up to ask if everything was all right; then she slapped me on the back and said, “Don’t worry.” Others did the same. I was struck by the sympathetic atmosphere, and I could not but compare it mentally with the coarse tricks, the nastiness, the vulgar abuse heaped on a “newcomer” on almost any job in France, Belgium, and elsewhere.

I was to remain in this office for six months, and during all that time I continued to find the general atmosphere wonderfully heartening. It astonished me to hear employees complain about the firm, asserting that the people were disagreeable, conditions of work uncomfortable, etc., etc., and I could not keep from replying at times: “If you find all this so bad, what would you say if you were an office worker in Europe? You don’t know how lucky you are!”

Almost every day somebody passed around candies or chocolates in celebration of his or her birthday. I found this most extraordinary. Sometimes drinks were passed around. It seemed as if each day provided a new pretext for celebration. Sometimes a collection was made for someone who was sick, or to buy a present for someone who was leaving the firm or getting married. I said to myself: “How open-hearted these Americans are! Never would such consideration be shown in Europe.” And the office head did not complain of these time-wasting activities!

I learned the meaning of the expression “goofing off.” I noticed that people spent not a little time smoking and gossiping in the washroom. I was stupefied to see them make phone calls during working hours, and at the company’s expense. To think that in France it was believed that the motto regulating American life was: “Time is money.” So far as I am concerned, the expression I heard most often expressed a quite different attitude. It was: “Take it easy.”

I soon had a chance to observe also that respect for the personalities of others which is very general in America. There was one elevator boy who used perfume heavily, favored showy, light-colored suits, powdered his long black hair to be more “distinguished looking,” and wore it differently each day; moreover, he had a way of talking and moving so obviously feminine that there could be no mistake: he was what the Americans call a “queer.” In France, he would not keep his job for two days. Nasty remarks would be made in his hearing, and if the boss himself failed to notice anything untoward, it would soon be brought to his attention in some way—a little scandal would be cooked up, seasoned with a few lies, and the offender against conformity would have to be fired for order to be restored. Here, in this American firm, no one seemed to notice that there was anything peculiar about the boy; no one talked about him; everyone was as courteous to him as to anyone else. Little by little I came to understand that Americans simply are not interested in the pleasure to be gained from sniffing around in someone else’s life. To a European, this simple experience of respect for the human personality was marvelous. I remembered that one of my relatives, a woman who had traveled much and suffered from a serious and visible infirmity, had remarked one day that America was the only country in the world where people did not turn to look at her when she passed. And as I thought about it, it seemed to me that more than one person in this firm was being given a chance that would not have been offered in France; besides the elevator boy, there was myself, whose English was by no means what it should have been, and there were lame and crippled workers who would not find it easy to get jobs in Paris, where bosses are always afraid of losing money on handicapped workers. It is true: in America they give you a break.

I observed also with astonishment and pleasure how the office heads talked with the workers and office help, in the elevator and elsewhere, in intimate and familiar terms, and I was bowled over one day to hear a co-worker of mine address the new head of the entire organization as “Eddie.” It would be unthinkable in France.

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The union contract with the firm expired and a new one had to be negotiated. There were workers’ meetings, discussions with company representatives, sharp words, threats of a strike. At union meetings, the leaders were accused by rank and file members of playing a double game, of not being frank, of placing their interests above those of the workers, etc., etc. All harmony among the workers themselves, between workers and management, between workers and the union heads, seemed completely disrupted, At last an agreement was reached for a new contract, and the atmosphere quickly became what it had been before. It was as if all the sharp words, the accusations, even the insults had been totally forgotten; such behavior is so different from what one sees in France that I began to ask myself if the Americans do not regard business discussions, and social and political struggles, as a kind of “game”; good players do not bear grudges.

I was equally surprised at the almost complete absence of political class-consciousness among Americans. The Republican convention was approaching, and there was much talk about the candidates. One of the lowest-paid workers in the place told me that she would like to see Taft win. I asked her whether she could overlook the Taft-Hartley bill. She replied: “Oh, I know that Taft is not for the workers, but in private life he’s a fine fellow!” In France, a woman who talked like that would be regarded as somewhat crazy.

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One day I took the subway to Greenwich Village, bought a map, and began to scour around. As I did not understand the map too well, I stopped a passerby to ask for information. At that moment an acquaintance of his came up to greet him, and hearing me speak, offered to tell me what I wanted to know in a French that was by no means bad. We chatted about various things, about Europe especially. I was invited to a party, where I met several young men and women, then to other such gatherings, and thus little by little I acquired some friends. It made a great difference.

As time went on, my need for a dentist could no longer be overlooked. And I had wanted for a long time to buy an electric razor and some new clothes. But as I was obliged to send some money to France each week to pay certain debts, I could not satisfy these new needs out of my salary. So I got a job as a dishwasher in a country club on weekends, and after six weeks I had saved enough money to get my teeth fixed and buy the electric razor I had so long yearned for. This bit of enterprise was so simple, so easily brought off and practical, I was overcome with enthusiasm, and wrote to my French friends: was it not extraordinary that by working at the lowest-paid job in America one could buy things that in Europe are regarded as luxuries?

Towards the end of 1952 our offices were transferred to New Jersey, and I decided to quit rather than make the long trip every day. So now I am working as a counterman in Manhattan, and while such a job can hardly be a “career” for me, I am happy in it for the present, and I earn more than I did in the office. Once again, I think as Americans do: “What one does” is not so important; what counts is results.

I have a great liking for all the Americans who come to my counter and, in a tone of voice so generally inoffensive, say, “Give me a cup of coffee, please,” or call me “Mac” though they have never seen me before. When some of the coffee spills over into the saucer as I serve it, I am always surprised that the customers do not object, often merely pouring the contents of the saucer back into the cup; what they care about is good coffee—something rare in America, by the way—and they want the cup and saucer to be clean; for the rest, they are not fussy.

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I mention these little character traits because I have been much struck by the pessimism with which certain Americans envisage American society, and put its future in question. If I were to judge America by what I have heard such people say, I would have to conclude that it is not at all the great country it appears to be, but, on the contrary, a sort of desperate human amalgamation marred by every kind of defect and destined for the darkest future, if not for complete collapse fairly soon—a country with neither art nor kindliness, neither beauty nor courage. I had heard that tune played in Paris. . . .

This kind of talk never fails to provoke me, and I have spent hours arguing with Americans, telling them Americans are goodhearted and want to develop themselves, and that in the future new and great talents will appear in all fields. In my opinion, the attitude that tends to denigrate everything American can only be compared to the attitude of a spoiled child who can see nothing good in what he has and envies only what he sees in the hands of the less privileged around him. And sometimes, in these discussions, my interlocutors will remark with a smile of evident satisfaction: “What you say is very reassuring,” as if they had just discovered some marvelous world whose existence they had not even suspected.

I remember especially one of these discussions which took a somewhat different turn. A young girl declared that, like many of her fellow citizens, she had been overwhelmed by Stevenson’s defeat, and had been forced—again, like a great many others—to consider it a sort of proof of the stupidity of the American people; but now she had come to feel that if so many people, who after all were not all idiots, had sincerely thought it best to vote for Eisenhower, why then one had to yield, and perhaps it would turn out that they had been right. Others who were present went on to declare that America was not necessarily “lost”—that from the point of view of art, one had to admit a serious effort was being made by the people as a whole to understand; from the political and social point of view, with regard to racism for instance, it was evident that much progress had already been made; and in all fields the Americans had given proof of that manifest good will which had so struck me shortly after my arrival—a good will which cannot be duplicated elsewhere. This time, at last, I found myself in an optimistic and intellectually clear-headed atmosphere, and I glowed with satisfaction.

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Something else struck me very favorably : from the moment I arrived, and that was to see so much Jewish advertising in the subways, newspapers, and so on: ads for kosher food, appeals for help to Israel, notices of Jewish holidays. One rarely sees anything like it in France. The French Jews are afraid to call attention to themselves, and in the Paris subways the only thing one is likely to see suggesting that a Jewish population exists in France are die words chalked on the walls: “Les juifs à la porte!”—“Kick the Jews out!”

It is a remarkable fact that this country—accused constantly of a want of originality and diversity—permits all sorts of “ethnic” groups—Jewish, Irish, Polish, etc.—to organize and prosper in its midst, all making a great noise about their attachment to the country or the culture from which they stem. To a foreigner, it is one of the marvels of America that it has no fear of permitting its people to talk and write Yiddish or German, if they wish, and at the same time is quite confident that the nation’s intrinsic cohesive force, its raison d’être, will in the end make them all into Americans.

I had heard it said in Paris by a Frenchman—not Jewish—who had returned from America, “The only people I like in America are the Jews, because they are Jews first and Americans only afterwards.” This remark seemed very strange to me, and rather unpleasing, for if it was true it would mean that the American Jews were devoted to a nationalism which does not correspond to their citizenship and which could only have its source in racism (let us not fear to use the word), whether avowed or not. But my stay in America has for me totally discredited this traveler’s testimony. Whether among my personal acquaintances, at the YMHA, or elsewhere, I have observed time and again how the Jews in America bear the stamp of Americanism upon them. This can be seen of course much more clearly among the younger Jews, and I should say that it is those of the younger generation that I have been most thrown in contact with; it is to be seen in their ways of talking, dressing, in their daily behavior, in their pleasures and their manner of pursuing them, in their concern with the vicissitudes of American politics, in their love of baseball and prize-fighting—indeed, I must say I find this last somewhat amusing as well as symptomatic: Jewish “sports”!

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The Jews of Israel, then, are not mistaken in thinking of American Jewish tourists as simply “the Americans.” One need only read the posters in this country urging “aid to Israel.” Why aid Israel? The posters say nothing of the Bible or of the Talmud; they urge us instead to aid Israel in order to support progress and democracy in the Near East. I have sometimes imagined that one might add: “and to defend the American way of life.”

I have had less contact with the older generations or with more recent immigrants. Among them, certainly, there are large numbers who are far from “Americanized.” One of my uncles, who seems to be greatly disturbed whenever he encounters any of these more “obvious” Jews—and he believes that he encounters them everywhere and every day—says of them, “They are not like us—with their thick noses, their crafty manners, their loud voices,” etc., etc. In the street when he runs into someone wearing a black hat, a beard, and a shabby caftan, he cannot keep from exclaiming under his breath, “Our ‘brother’!”

As for myself, when I have now and then seen such Jews, I have been struck by the fact that no one turns to stare at them or indeed seems to notice them at all. And what is the meaning of their presence except that they constitute one more element in the immense variety of this country of “conformism” and “standardization”?

I have changed my address more than once, for I have constantly sought better lodging at a more reasonable price. I went from the YMCA to the YMHA, and I must not neglect to praise these organizations, which again are not duplicated in France. What struck me most of all was their social attitude. At the YMCA, I was dumbfounded to see a bulletin board announcing the schedules of religious services not merely at various Protestant churches, but also at synagogues and Catholic churches. Such a thing would be inconceivable in France. At the YMHA one is not asked, when signing the register, whether one is a Jew; some non-Jews live there. It is not for me to generalize hastily from these facts; I have heard much of racial and religious prejudice in this country, “restricted” neighborhoods, etc. But I have also seen evident proofs of good will between groups. And it seems to me that this good will is the most striking trait of the American character.

A friend of mine, who works not far from my counter in a store specializing in souvenirs, fancy penknives, and all sorts of gadgets, has told me of the surprise he feels in seeing businessmen, in from other cities, come into the store and play like children with all these gadgets, opening them, winding them up, setting them off, puzzling over the trick mechanisms, and often enough buying them for toys. “When I think that these men undoubtedly have heavy responsibilities, I am flabbergasted. What a country we’re in!” I replied that this was just what I found admirable and fascinating about Americans: they are capable of accomplishing the most difficult tasks—often more expertly than Europeans—while preserving the youthful side of their character. With all their “maturity,” Europeans have a smallness of soul—in addition to their other faults—which, let us hope, the Americans will never imitate.

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Everything considered, the strongest and most wonderful impression America gives, despite the present political struggles, is that of freedom. One has to know the streets of Paris, encumbered with uniformed police night and day, to know what I mean. In America there are no identity cards. You use whatever name you please. There are no complications about working. No one picks a fight. On this score, at any rate, many of my compatriots fully agree with me: “In this country, they let you alone.” That’s a lot.

When I spoke to one of my aunts about that very sense of freedom, she remarked:

There is nothing surprising about it. Everybody feels himself to be free here.

I have read much, both in the French and the American press, about the “witch-hunt” which is said to be destroying reputations far and wide in this country and creating fear even among people who have never been interested in politics. When I was in France I thought I could detect very clearly the existence of such an atmosphere in America. But after a few months here I began to feel that if the air in America is really “unbreathable” at present, then America must have been a veritable paradise when things were still “normal.”

I did, however, have a personal experience that somewhat tempered my optimism. I found myself no longer invited to a house I had frequented because my remarks on French colonialism in Indo-China (where I had spent two years with the French army), and my criticism of American policy in backing up the French, apparently got me labeled as “some kind of radical.” The host, a government employee, seems to have taken fright. To what extent his alarm was objectively justified, I am in no position to say.

It is true that the crowds of people walking up and down the streets seem to have very little interest in politics, but that’s because other things occupy them. Fifty times a day you hear the question: “What’s the score?” For several weeks I did see crowds surrounding the newsstands, but it was because they were anxious for the latest details of the “vice ring,” a scandal so grotesque in the eyes of a Frenchman that I asked myself whether it might not be true, after all, that Americans are babies. And more recently it has been “Christine”—Christine here, Christine there:

Have you heard the latest about Christine?

These preoccupations hardly bear out the picture of an America of “warmongers” and “hysterical witch-hunters” that is painted in Europe. They do point, however, to another element in the American climate which may in the long run hold more danger than “witch-hunting”—that is, the widespread ignorance and lack of interest in political and social problems on a world scale. This ignorance and indifference seem to me almost as great among the educated as in the “man in the street,” and they do much to encourage serious blunders in American foreign policy and propaganda. That freedom to cultivate one’s own personality, and that almost instinctive resistance to ideology, which do so much to give America its characteristic atmosphere of openness and freedom, are also not without their drawbacks.

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One reservation. I have not been able to adjust myself to the attitudes of American women: I just don’t understand them; it seems to me, in fact, that this incomprehension is the lot of all foreigners who come here—if there is any consolation in that. I find the women well-groomed, frequently beautiful, and not always futile; they have judgment, intelligence often enough, and, doubtless, feeling; they know their way around and are helpful and generous. But when all this is said, what do they represent? That question I have not been able to answer; perhaps the fault is mine, perhaps I have not searched enough, perhaps I have not got to know them well enough. What irritates me most is their way of saying “I am free” as if the remark contained all wisdom and answered all questions. Indeed they are free, free to come and go alone without danger of being followed in the street—how many European women would consider this an advantage?—and free to flirt without committing themselves. So what? I dare not venture to call them hypocritical, considering how little I know of them. But in general they give me the impression of being ambitious mannequins rather than real women. I’ve heard it said that their general attitude stems from their education and the Puritan tradition. But how criticize what one does not understand completely?

Oh, yes, one more reservation. If I am asked whether there is not something in America which I absolutely detest, I have an answer: pumpkin pie.

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