Category Archives: Culture

Tarzan Research Paper

Charles B. Snoad
December 2001
Revised December 2016

Gentlemen in Distress No More: How Tarzan of the Apes Saved Modern Masculinity

In 1911 Frederick Winslow Taylor made this bold declaration: “In the past the man has been first; in the future the system must be first” (quoted in Kasson 171). Many men saw this new system as a serious threat to masculinity. One year later, in 1912, Edgar Rice Burroughs responded to Taylor’s troubling proclamation in his novel Tarzan of the Apes this way: “I am Tarzan. I am a great killer. There be none among you as mighty as Tarzan. Let his enemies beware” (192). With Tarzan as his mouthpiece, Burroughs had fired a warning shot. Tarzan summoned the powers of “the wild beast within” over-civilized gentleman in distress. More than just a novel, Tarzan of the Apes saved modern masculinity from the dangers of over-civilization.

In The Incorporation of America: Culture and Society in the Gilded Age, Alan Trachtenberg traces the development of corporate America after the Civil War. Organization, administration, obedience and loyalty were among the many new virtues of corporate life. Company men had to follow company rules, but this put masculinity at risk. “In every celebration of the businessman as the epitome of American individualism, we detect signs of concern that the older individualistic virtues no longer apply, that the ability to mobilize, to concentrate, to incorporate, counted for more than thrift and diligence” (81). Thrift and diligence still mattered, of course, but now men had to cooperate more than ever before, for the good of the company. As they gained power and control, corporations spread the good news of meritocracy, the idea that working hard guarantees success. There were many converts. By 1912, the year Tarzan first appeared in The All-Story magazine, one-fifth of the entire male labor force was comprised of white-collar workers (Kasson 186).

Trachtenberg explains how corporations convinced these suit-and-tie men that working for them was inherently American. “Portraying itself as success, business thus captured the free-labor ideology, convincing the middle classes that in competitive enterprise lay the route to fulfillment, to the true America” (87). Getting that fulfillment, reaching “the true America,” took its toll. Corporate life was by no means a place of respect. During one man’s rise to the top others ultimately had to fall. Individual success was measured not only by what the successful man could do, but also by what his inferior colleagues and competitors failed to do. Office life thus became a battlefield. “Business was a kind of warfare in which all’s fair which succeeds” (81).

After a long day at the office, “taming the wild beast within,” men found release in the pages of Tarzan. Competition had left men battered and bruised, their primal urges unfulfilled. Tarzan was free from this sad fate. He viewed competition in the jungle as a life-or-death struggle. If he fought a bigger beast and lost, Tarzan was a dead man. Businessmen who continually lost clients or failed to close important deals, however, suffered slow, painful deaths. Many checked out long before retirement age. Tarzan, with its harrowing tales of mastery and conquest, gave these “unlucky” businessmen a safe space to vent their frustrations.

By placing Tarzan in life-or-death situations, Burroughs accomplished two goals. First, he transported male readers from the corporate jungle to the real jungle. Second, he criticized the pettiness of corporate competition in which long-term financial planning, not immediate survival, mattered most. In the jungles of Africa, Tarzan knows exactly what to expect from Sabor, the tiger, and Horta, the boar, because he has studied their strengths and weaknesses. Company men knew little about their enemies and their battlefields had no discernable boundaries. Competition came from within one’s company, from other Americans and eventually from all over the globe. As competition grew and technology improved, companies had tons of “new and improved” gadgets and gizmos to sell. Up went the help wanted signs. In walked the door-to-door salesman.

Salesmen required many tools: a quality product; the proper forms; a sharp suit; a catchy sales pitch; a steady handshake. Burroughs’ brief stint as a salesman brought him little satisfaction. “My main objective in life was to get my foot in somebody’s door and then recite my sales talk like a sick parrot” (quoted in Kasson 166).

Tarzan provided a stark constant to Burroughs’ empty salesman existence. As Burroughs explains Tarzan’s success in the jungle: “To his agility, to his brain and to his long keen knife he owed his supremacy” (127). Burroughs shows how Tarzan has innate warrior strengths (“to his agility, to his brain”) and the right tools (“his long keen knife.”) Tarzan answers to no one. He lets it all hang out. A suit and tie would hide his manhood and hinder his progress. The simplicity with which Tarzan commands his life is a far cry from the pressure to carry the right briefcase or apply the shiniest shoe polish.

Many people believed that not just corporate life, but civilization itself had weakened the male body. Gail Bederman, in Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880-1917, discusses neurasthenia, a disease of over-civilization. No longer recognized as an official disorder, from 1870 until about 1915 neurasthenia was a common diagnosis. Doctors had no problem determining its cause. “Neurasthenia resulted when a highly evolved person seriously overtaxed his body’s infinite supply of nerve force” (85).

There were both male and female neurasthenics, but symptoms were gender-specific. Over-worked women succumbed to the stresses of a rapidly changing home life. Men, however, fell ill in the office, drowning in paperwork. Work diminished free time, those precious moments when men tended to their masculine needs. “Men became neurasthenics because the mental labors of advanced civilization drained them of the nervous energy necessary to build a strong, masculine body” (130). All men were at risk for neurasthenia, but a certain type of man was more susceptible. “The men most in danger of developing neurasthenia were middle- and upper-class businessmen and professionals whose highly evolved bodies had been physically weakened by advances in civilization” (87).

Neurasthenia affected “thinking” men. Symptoms included headaches, dyspepsia, muscle spasms, impotence, involuntary emissions and spermatorrhea. Their bodies were small and feeble, “more like women’s than men’s” (87). A cultural crisis had thus emerged. Men were in physical and mental pain, but civilization was to blame, not defective genes or poor eating habits. “Neurasthenia thus expressed the cultural weakness of civilized, manly self-restraint in medical terms” (88). The medical “evidence” for neurasthenia calmed patients’ nerves and reassured their loved ones. A new diagnosis brought hope for a new cure.

Tarzan of the Apes had many healing powers. Who needs shots and pills when a healthy dose of satire will do the trick? A couple of secondary characters, Professor Porter and Samuel T. Philander, are good for some laughs. After landing on the same African shore where Tarzan’s parents had arrived many years before, Porter and Philander are met with numerous dangers. Tarzan saves them each time.

In one scene Porter and Philander are walking through the jungle discussing politics and history when a lion approaches, ready to pounce. Talk of Ferdinand and Isabella’s victories over the fifteenth-century Moors in Spain (a discussion, ironically, about civilization) comes to a halt when Philander points out the lion. Porter, unnerved by his friend’s interruption, bites back:

“Tut, tut, Mr. Philander,” he chided. “How often must I urge you to seek that absolute concentration of your mental faculties which alone may permit you to bring to bear the highest powers of intellectuality upon the momentous problems which naturally fall to the lot of great minds?” (Burroughs 138)

Saying a line of this length and intellectual weight would tax any man’s nerve force. Caught up in his thoughts, Porter neglects his physical safety. “That absolute concentration of your mental faculties” to which Porter refers is a direct connection to Bederman’s description of “the mental labors of advanced civilization” that weakened male bodies. Porter’s line of work requires mental, not physical, toughness. Although he resides in the stuffy realm of academe, his life resembles the confined non-existence of the toiling middleclass businessman. Porter’s body, his brute existence, has nothing to feel. The size of his brain has gone to his head.

Tarzan’s jungle life, on the other hand, is full of adventure. He has no need for discussing the events of fifteenth-century Spain because he has to focus on staying alive right here, right now. Professors peddle theories like salesman peddle encyclopedias. But to drive home his point, to really sell the narrative, Burroughs must do more than mock fools like Porter. He must show Tarzan’s disgust for over-civilized weaklings.

In one such example, Tarzan observes Kulonga, an African tribesman, spear a boar to death. Kulonga, adverse to eating raw boar, builds a fire. After filling his belly to the brim, the tribesman leaves behind a substantial portion of uncooked meat. A slick opportunist, Tarzan moves in for a taste. He has no use for fire. Roasting the meat would kill the flavor. And so we see how Tarzan of the Apes feasts in the jungle, followed by a description of his long lost uncle’s impeccable table manners:

And then Lord Greystoke [Tarzan] wiped his greasy fingers upon his naked thighs and took up the trail of Kulonga, the son of Mbonga, the king; while in far-off London another Lord Greystoke, the younger brother of the real Lord Greystoke’s father, sent back his chops to the club’s chef because they were underdone, and when he had finished his repast he dipped his finger-ends into a silver bowl of scented water and dried them upon a piece of snowy damask. (Burroughs 78)

The evidence is clear: Tarzan, far removed from civilization, “wiped his greasy fingers upon his naked thighs,” while the effeminate Londoner “dipped his finger-ends into a silver bowl of scented water and dried them upon a piece of snowy damask.” Tarzan’s description implies action and determination; Burroughs devotes only eight words to it. The Londoner, however, is prim and proper. His “actions,” a combination of calculated maneuvers, require nineteen words. Over-civilized male bodies, Burroughs argues throughout Tarzan, are a real drag.

In another scene, as Tarzan jumps from treetop to treetop with his cousin, William Cecil Clayton, on his back, the difference between primitive and civilized man is obvious. “High into bending and swaying branches he was borne with what seemed to him incredible swiftness, while Tarzan chafed at the slowness of his progress” (Burroughs 134). In the heart of the African jungle an over-civilized male body is maladaptive. We see this principle at work again when Tarzan returns from modern society. Swinging through those familiar vines, Tarzan gets in touch again with his hyper-masculine side:

This was life! Ah, how he loved it! Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities. Even clothes were a hindrance and a nuisance.

At last he was free. He had not realized what a prisoner he had been. (Burroughs 247)

White-collar life “created” neurasthenia. To combat the disease of over-civilization doctors should have prescribed some quality Tarzan reading time.

John Kasson, in Houdini, Tarzan and the Perfect Man: The White Male Body and the Challenge of Modernity in America, gives a detailed account of Burroughs’ frequent childhood illnesses. The youngest of four boys, Burroughs realized the power of storytelling at an early age, reciting tales to his mother from his sickbed. His overprotective mother, anxious to shield him from negative experiences, increased his misery. In his unfinished autobiography, Burroughs describes the uneventful nature of his life: “Nothing interesting ever happened to me in my life. I never went to a fire but that it was out before I arrived. None of my adventures happened. They should have because I went places and did things that invited disaster; yet the results were always blah” (quoted in Kasson 160).

Making matters worse, Burroughs lived in the shadows of his father and more masculine older brothers. His father, George T. Burroughs, was a cavalry officer during the Civil War, and two of his brothers, George and Harry, after graduating from Yale in 1889, bought a cattle ranch in Idaho. Burroughs watched from the sidelines, unfit to compete. “Ed grew up a straggler, always far to the rear of his father’s expectations and his brothers’ example” (162).

To prove his worth as a man, Burroughs tried following in his father’s military footsteps. Heartache ensued. Burroughs flunked out of Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts, after just one semester. He then attended the Michigan Military Academy, graduating in 1895. After failing his entrance exams at West Point, Burroughs enlisted in the army and hated it (Kasson 164-65). Ten months into his assignment, Burroughs got dysentery and begged his father for help. The old Civil War hero came to his son’s rescue, securing the necessary papers for an early discharge. Bewildered, Burroughs returned home, anxious for a new life. As much as he tried to fight it, Edgar Rice Burroughs became a lowly, middleclass businessman.

He worked as a timekeeper at a construction site and sold lead-pencil sharpeners and scratch pads. Nearing poverty, Burroughs found himself in a terrible bind. The births of his first two children, in 1908 and 1909, were burdens, not joys. Soon Burroughs began suffering major headaches like those described by neurasthenics (Kasson 166-67).

Finally, in 1911, the year he began writing Tarzan of the Apes, Burroughs secured a promising position at the Chicago-based magazine System, his last job before becoming a successful (self-employed) fiction writer. A.W. Shaw, the editor of System, subtitled his publication: “The Magazine of Business.” And System was exactly that, a handy, thirty-five-cent guidebook for businessmen hanging upside down in the trees of the corporate jungle. System writers gave advice on pressing topics such as how to pick the best stock options, how to improve efficiency, and how to dress like a professional.

Burroughs, however, found his work dull and his suggestions ill-advised. Those around him provided little comfort. Shaw was a fraud in Burroughs’ eyes. “I never so thoroughly disliked any employer as I did Shaw,” he wrote in his autobiography (quoted in Kasson 170). The magazine reminded Burroughs of his own failures as a businessman. Kasson’s description of the magazine’s content explains why Burroughs was so troubled by his job: “As a whole, the articles in System depicted a world of big, energetic, masterly leaders—and, implicitly, of smaller, unexceptional followers” (175).

Desperate for a way out, Burroughs began researching pulp fiction magazines, which paid little money but had strong, cult-like followings. Finally, a breakthrough. Pulp fiction provided a forum for deepest fantasies. There was something inherently masculine about the medium. “Pulp magazines were fiction factories dominated by big publishers that demanded from their authors a combination of literary facility, stamina, and speed” (167).

On his days off from System, Burroughs crafted his first story, A Princess of Mars, in July 1911, which he wrote on “leftover stationery from his failed enterprises” (168). After The Argosy rejected it, Burroughs sent the manuscript to The All-Story, which quickly published it. After gaining confidence but no riches, Burroughs began writing Tarzan of the Apes on December 1, 1911.

In a nod to the corporate values of maximum efficiency and attention to detail, Burroughs kept a graph of his novel’s physical production over his desk. With each word, each sentence, each chapter, Burroughs laid his past failures to rest. Kasson makes the transformation clear. “Burroughs thus wrote Tarzan as an act of self-liberation. He hoped to cast off the humiliations of a frustrated, insignificant white-collar worker for the independence of a commercial author with a mass readership” (159).

And Burroughs did just that. Following the huge success of Tarzan, he started Edgar Rice Burroughs Incorporated in 1923. He was finally in charge, a literary systems builder rising from the ashes of burned-out business cards.

Tarzan of the Apes was more than just a novel. Edgar Rice Burroughs created a hyper-masculine, jungle-dwelling hero to release modern man—and himself—from the bondage of over-civilization. Frederick Winslow Taylor had the story backwards. The system was closing in, but Tarzan, naked and with spear in hand, was ready to rumble.

Works Cited

Bederman, Gail. Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880-1917. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1996. Print.

Burroughs, Edgar Rice. Tarzan of the Apes. 1912. New York: Ballantine, 1990. Print.

Kasson, John F. Houdini, Tarzan, and the Perfect Man: The White Male Body and the Challenge of Modernity in America. New York: Hill, 2001. Print. 

Trachtenberg, Alan. The Incorporation of America: Culture and Society in the Gilded Age. New York: Hill, 1982. Print.

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Wireless Chains

We approach our tech devices as black boxes, aware simply of their input/output functions. Few of us can comprehend the intricate internal processes of a Galaxy S6 or Kindle Fire HD. Devices just work until we discard them for newer models, like Leonardo DiCaprio does with girlfriends.

But there’s been a seismic shift in the history of subject-object relations. Tech devices now see human beings as intriguing but indecipherable black boxes. They want to crack us open. Murder to dissect our souls. They’re dazzled by our moving parts, anxious to curl up in the palm of our sticky hands. When we turn them on, we turn them on.

As our TVs and tablets, refrigerators and dishwashers, cars and coffeemakers flirt with consciousness, we retreat into sub-consciousness, a sleep mode of existence in which there is no alienation but no freedom either.

For years my iPhone has analyzed and categorized me—for my own good. It feeds me headlines, guides me to unfamiliar places, enhances my dick pics, reminds me to exercise. I dream one day it will hear my confessions and rub my back after a long day at the office. Siri, how do I stitch this hole in the fabric of my being? Instead of talking, I’ll find relief in the texting cure.

Forget the internet of things—we are the (play)things of the internet, bound in wireless chains. The human subject has achieved its final objective: to erase all memory of selfhood in the automatic writing of advanced computer codes.

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Empire Of Illusion

In 1962 Daniel J. Boorstin published The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America. A pseudo-event is a public relations tactic—a carefully crafted, television-ready spectacle that makes news for the sake of making news. Think of the press conference or political debate—in Boorstin’s time and today. Add the celebrity Twitter “feud” and star-studded movie premiere as current examples.

Boorstin wrote eloquently about celebrities, people “known for their well-knowness.” The Kardashians exemplify well-knowness today. Kim Kardashian rose to fame following the leak of a private sex tape. Her first press release was a case of pubic relations. Who’s screwing whom, we ask TMZ. In the end it’s the buying public—emotionally stunted pop culture voyeurs anxious for the money shot.

We are just as disgusted with the Kardashians’ antics as we are mesmerized. Some of us maintain a healthy dose of incredulity, refusing to support the Kardashian Hype Machine. We use irony as a weapon in a post-ironic world in which selfies replace family portraits and depth is measured at face value, that is, the sexual worth men—and women—ascribe to the airbrushed female body.

But beyond our collective eye-roll, the Kardashian Image persists, sharpening its focus while simultaneously extending its field of vision. The Kardashians not only go about their business, but get stronger. Our derision feeds their appetite for attention. They assume the challenge and up the ante.

It’s the same today with athletes, pop stars and politicians. Our feeble attempts to question the billions of dollars pouring into professional sports and the national committees of both major political parties go unnoticed. The rich and famous absorb all discord, trampling plebeians too dumb to see that personal investments matter more than the public good. We pay people “known for their well-knowness” to entertain us, to rid us of the illusion that change is still possible, that there still exists a space for committed political action against a self-serving Consumer Society.

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Death Of The Waiting Room Magazine

I’ve come to eulogize an old friend. The waiting room magazine is dead. Long live the beep-beep, click-click, tap-tap of the outpatient smartphone!

Sick people used to avoid eye contact at the doctor’s office with a dogeared People, a tattered Men’s Health, an Us Weekly fresh from the bathroom. Now they stare down at their phones, mesmerized by their own importance. Oh, another text. You must be loved.

How will I know who’s going to win the 2011 World Series? Does Mitt Romney have enough of the women’s vote to beat Obama?

The waiting room magazine takes us back in time, far away from the exhausting omnipresence of Now. We don’t believe in yesterday. Tomorrow’s just an auto-update away.

Even the Pope takes selfies. Heaven help us if he tweets Cross emojis when the next shipment of communion wafers arrives.

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Rules Of The Load

Depending on the way it is used and its particular features . . . the motorcar may equally well be invested either with the meaning of power or with the meaning of refuge: it may be a projectile or a dwelling-place. But basically, like all functional mechanical objects, it is experienced—and by everyone, men, women and children—as a phallus, an object of manipulation, care, and fascination. The car is a projection both phallic and narcissistic, a force transfixed by its own image.

–Jean Baudrillard, The System of Objects, translated by James Benedict (74)

Google wasn’t around during the Sexual Revolution, but in the spirit of experimenting, engineers today want to turn us on to the Google Self-Driving Car. Baudrillard focused on the act of driving, on the manipulation of the car’s features. This car handles itself. We’re just along for the ride.

Don’t ask me how I know this but there are people who can achieve what’s called a touchless orgasm. They retreat deep into fantasy and climax without any physical contact.

The self-driving car mirrors the touchless orgasm. It gets you there without your having a hand in the matter. It sounds sexy—you no longer worry about steering wheels, turn signals or brake pedals. But in choosing luxury you sacrifice power.

With self-driving cars there’s nothing left to play with but yourself.

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Do No Harm

[W]hy not take the view that the fundamental rule is that of evil, and that any happy event throws itself into question? Is it not true optimism to consider the world a fundamentally negative event, with many happy exceptions? By contrast, does not true pessimism consist in viewing the world as fundamentally good, leaving the slightest accident, to make us despair of that vision? (Jean Baudrillard, Cool Memories III, 1997, p. 138)

After last week’s mass shooting at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina, it’s hard to discount Baudrillard’s emphasis on the presence of evil throughout the world. Baudrillard might sound like a wounded Romantic, but there’s no denying we spend a great deal of our lives either in the midst of tragedy or recovering from it.

The pain and suffering caused by the gunman, twenty-one-year-old Dylann Roof, reminds me of another French philosopher. Jean-Paul Sartre, a firm believer in the free will of the individual, wrote that when a person makes a choice he chooses for himself, but he also chooses for mankind. My choices affect other people and their choices. This is Sartre’s ethics, his caution against acting always in one’s self-interest.

Roof acted alone, but we are complicit as a nation, with our tolerance for hatred and history of institutional racism. Still, the nine lives he took are his burden now. Evil speaks to some more than others, but it touches us all. It’s a crime that Roof ignored a very important lesson: “If you can’t help others, at least do no harm.”

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Till Text Do Us Part

From the greatest graffiti artist of our time: Banksy (via The Guardian)

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