I was discussing with my friend Justin Schwartz the always amusing question of whether some philosopher, in this case Rorty (prompted by this post), will be read in 25 or 50 years. The answer to these kinds of questions are now harder to gauge thanks to the complete professionalization of philosophy--that is, the fact that essentially all philosophers are now professional academics, whose work product is evaluated and consumed by others who earn their keep by "doing philosophy." One often reads book reviews these days, for example, that remark on the "explosion of work" on this-or-that heretofore minor figure in the philosophical canon; but that is hardly surprising given some 200 graduate programs in philosophy in the English-speaking world turning out new PhDs who have to find something to write about that hasn't already been treated ad nauseam! I hasten to add that I don't see any other way to proceed: the research university system is premised on the idea that by supporting lots and lots of scholarly work, some real intellectual gems will emerge, even if most of it is not of lasting import or significance. But the fact of professionalization does make it harder to play the "will X be read in 25 years game?" since X may be read insofar as X's students got jobs at major universities and taught their students that they too had to read X, and so on, and quite regardless of whether X has any significance for human knowledge.
All of which brings us to the funny song by Yip Harburg, with lyrics by Harold Arlen, called "Napoleon," which puts the topic of fame and immortality in some perspective. (The song comes from a 1950s musical called "Jamaica.") Thanks to Justin for the pointer.
"Napoleon"
Napoleon's a pastry,
Bismarck is a herring,
Alexander's a creme de cocao mixed with rum,
And Herbie Hoover is a vacuum.
Columbus is a circle and a day off,
Pershing is a square -- what a pay-off!
Julius Caesar is just a salad on a shelf,
So, little brother, get wise to yourself.
Life's a bowl and it's
Full of cherry pits,
Play it big and it throws you for a loop.
That's the way with fate,
Comes today we're great,
Comes tomorrow we're tomato soup.
Napoleon's a pastry,
Get this under your brow:
What once useta be a roosta'
Is just a dusta' now.
Dubarry is a dipstick,
Pompadour's a hairdo,
Good Queen Mary just floats along from pier to pier,
Venus De Milo is a pink brassiere.
Sir Gladstone is a bag -- ain't it shocking?
And the mighty Kaiser, just a stocking.
The Czar of Russia is just a jar of caviar,
And Cleopatra is a black cigar.
Yes, my honey lamb,
Swift is just a ham,
Lincoln's a tunnel, Coolidge is a dam.
Yes, my noble lads,
Comes today we're fads,
Comes tomorrow we're subway ads.
Homer is just a swat,
Get this under your brow:
All these bigwig controversials
Are just commercials now.
Better get your jug of wine and loaf of love
Before that final bow.
Who can fail to notice that no philosophers have pastries or clothes to their name!
