Five Years, by Paul Goodman
Paul Goodman has gotten around a good deal during the past decade. As a teacher, journalist, and lecturer, a sort of Johnny Apple-seed of unconventional thought, he has found ways to share his ideas with tens of thousands of Americans. His effect, both as a speaker and as a writer, has been greatest upon the young. Wooed by the patient, folksy style he adopts on the platform, the intimate practicality of his ideas on subjects like city planning and economics—subjects which they tend to find specialized and removed—Goodman’s college audiences have come to regard him as a sort of professor-prophet: one of the few elders who can transmit complex, traditional ideas in something resembling the modern language. Indeed, for all the momentary controversies he may inspire, Goodman’s popularity keeps increasing. Americans from Maine to Oregon have come to regard him as their own Prince Kropotkin, nourished on native soil: angry sometimes, cranky always, but tame and friendly nevertheless.
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