Dogwhistles and Figleaves: How Manipulative Language Spreads Racism and Falsehoods
Jennifer M. Saul. Oxford Univ., $32.95 (216p) ISBN 978-0-19-287175-6
Saul (Lying, Misleading, and What Is Said), a professor of the social and political philosophy of language at the University of Waterloo, analyzes in this cogent study two linguistic devices that perpetuate harm in political discourse, with a particular focus on Donald Trump’s presidency. According to Saul, so-called dogwhistles fall into two categories. “Overt code” dogwhistles are “designed to be understood by one group (those who don’t accept norms against racism) and not recognized by others,” and include the use of George Soros’s name to connote antisemitic conspiracy theories. On the other hand, “covert effect” dogwhistles are meant to “act on some of the people who accept the antiracism norm without their awareness.” Examples include the phrase “inner city,” whose negative connotations are often subconsciously associated with Black people. Elsewhere, Saul turns to “figleaves,” which provide “cover for what might otherwise be easily recognized as racist,”citing as an example the qualifier, “I’m not racist but...,” which is often followed by a sentiment that is just that. (Subtler and perhaps even more manipulative, according to Saul, is Trump’s favored figleaf, “a lot of people are saying,” which is often used to present a controversial idea without visibly agreeing with it.) While some readers may be disappointed by the relative paucity of solutions provided—education about how the linguistic devices work and cause harm is chief among them—Saul skillfully illuminates the way language is used to amplify and normalize racism, suggesting in the process that racist intent is less important than effect. It’s a scrupulous look at a damaging linguistic phenomenon that often hides in plain sight. (Feb.)
Thomas Hoobler (The Monsters) gather intimate letters written by presidents from George Washington to Barack Obama in this often touching and sometimes racy compilation. The collection is divided into four sections: “Romancing,” “Separation,” “Adversity,” and “Lovers.” The first three center on courtship and marital correspondence, while the fourth details extramarital pursuits whose discovery threatened to derail political careers. Brief personal anecdotes and historical background accompany the missives, giving context while imparting such fun tidbits as Warren G. Harding’s coinage of the term “Founding Fathers.” The presidents’ love letters reveal not only the depth of feeling in their relationships but also intriguing details about historic events and people. For example, Rutherford B. Hayes told his wife that he was glad she wasn’t there with him to see Abraham Lincoln and his vice president Andrew Johnson’s 1865 inauguration because the latter’s “disgraceful drunkenness spoiled it.” Elsewhere, Lyndon Johnson’s premarital letters to Lady Bird showcase the “obsessiveness and armtwisting that became part of his public persona and his political success.” Readers will relish the tender exchanges and juicy revelations in this humanizing portrait of American presidents. (Feb.) memoir takes readers behind the mixing desk and through his 45-year career in the music industry. After rocketing to fame as singer and bassist of the British synthwave band the Buggles (he cowrote
1979’s “Video Killed the Radio Star”) and briefly as the frontman for prog rockers Yes, Horn switched to the producer’s chair in the ’80s, partly on the advice of his wife, who, Horn recalls, told him that “as an artist you’ll always be second division,” whereas “you can become the best producer in the world.” He offers an insider’s view of the making of such hits as Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax” (1983); the formation of ZTT, a small independent record label that produced music by the likes of Seal and Grace
Jones; and meeting and working with some of the industry’s biggest names, of whom he’s by and large respectful. (He describes Paul McCartney as a “fundamentally lovely man” and Seal as “my favorite artist to work with,” but wryly suggests that Black Sabbath—whom he did not produce—sounded like “farm labourers.”) Horn’s tone is appealingly good-humored (“I always thought that the artists I was producing were far better than the artist I was myself”), even if his tendency to obliquely refer to events he’d rather not write about—including the “tragic accident” that contributed to his wife’s death—sometimes frustrates. Still, those nostalgic for the ’80s or interested in how hit records get made will want to take a look. (Feb.)