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In Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, Agee dispenses with traditional methods of ethnography in
favor of a new, experimental one. His narrative is a fusion of sociology, philosophy, philology,
and autobiography, that means to capture the universe of details surrounding the three tenant
families. Where other sociologists might leave the families lifeless and stale, Agee explores the
bleak lives of the farmers and uses his words and extreme attention to minutia to “make an
opening in the darkness...as nothing else can” (232). He is aware of his limitations as a single
pair of eyes, as a single voice, but aims to compensate for this with careful consideration of each
person or object he encounters. It is as though Agee hopes that by being nearly exhaustive in his
descriptions, he will translate seamlessly the lives of his farmers into the pages of his book. If he
is successful, Agee would create a perfect copy of the tenant farmers who, without his narrative,
would never have existed for anyone but themselves. As soon as something happens to the
farmers, it is gone, surviving only in Agee’s mind. We would never know the Gudgers, the
Ricketts, and the Woods without Agee’s text. They are the trees in the forest, falling.
The construction of these images is an exercise in history in which Agee’s text serves as
an admittedly subjective attempt at one form of the truth. Despite his unceasing valorization of
reality and “what is,” Agee is eventually reluctant to conclude that what he writes is the one and
only truth. But he believes himself closer to the truth than he does his predecessors, as he
continually questions the efficacy of any book in capturing the totality of an experience. What
he seems to desire is a new narrative, a new method of seeking the truth, but he is uncertain of
the exact nature of this innovation. He tells of his confusion, of his uncertainty, in writing.
Struggling to change his pen into a camera, Agee yearns to create a holistic, unblinking copy of
the tenant farmers’ existence. Eventually, he realizes he is doomed to failure, but this does not
prevent him from pushing forward, in search of an original narrative process. In the end, Agee’s
selfconscious, imagebased and multifaceted text in large part abandons modern ethnographic
technique and acts as a tenuous, but distinct, prototype of postmodern ethnography.
Agee’s use of nontraditional narrative and Walker Evans’ photography is an attempt to
reify the notion of “tenant farmer” for his audience. Underlying the whole of Agee’s text seems
to be the a fear that the general bourgeois readership does not care about, or at least does not
understand, the plight of the southern American tenant farmer. By dedicating an entire volume
(and proposing two others) to these people, Agee puts them squarely in the spotlight, where his
readership cannot help but notice. But in so doing, Agee risks squashing the farmers into one
dimension, or convoluting them with artificial characteristics. Agee believes religiously that the
best way, perhaps the only way to avoid this with Gudger, for example, is to copy him exactly,
to be “as faithful as possible to Gudger as [Agee] know[s] him” (239).
Remaining true to his own perception is the way to reify Gudger for his audience and,
perhaps, for Agee himself. “It is my business,” he writes, “to reproduce him as the human being
he is; not just to amalgamate him into some invented, literary imitation of a human being”
[emphasis added] (240). The literary reproduction of the families and the setting, Agee hopes, is
to be so exact it would to deconstruct the ancient divide between narrator, subject, and audience.
Through his writing, Agee’s audience will know the tenants, they will read Famous Men just as
Agee implores his readers to listen to Beethoven: “You are inside the music; not only inside it,
you are it” (Agee, 16). 1 The readers will be inside the farmers and of them. In his book,
Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, Frederic Jameson, discusses how a
readership can be taken in by such perfect likenesses, or simulacra, in “a world transformed into
sheer images of itself and for pseudoevents and ‘spectacles’.” (Jameson, 74). In postmodern
parlance, a simulacrum is “an identical copy for which no original ever existed” (Jameson, 74).
Agee’s mission, then, goes beyond simple mimetics, it is an attempt at a simulacrum.
This attempt begs two questions, however. First, on what level has the original of the
farmers never existed? And second, has Agee escaped mere imitation of his farms and farmers?
The first question operates on the assumption that Agee is striving for simulacra, rather than the
base imitation of mimetics. By definition (above), simulacra can have no originals. The quick
objection is, these farmers lived, these houses stood, these events happened, and all served as
Agee’s originals. But closer consideration of the issue reveals several problems with that
objection. If we embrace unabashed skepticism, a fairly common philosophical approach in
Agee’s shaken times, we might argue that those farmers, houses, and events, existed only for the
farmers and their observers, Agee and Evans. As Agee rightly points out, his words are “simply
an effort to...tell of a thing which happened and which, of course, you have no other way of
knowing” (246). That is to say, Agee “perceives” (to use his oftrepeated word) that these things
happened, but is fully aware that they never happen to his audience until they read his printed
recollections. His audience constitutes the new reality into which Agee throws the farmers. That
reality is far from the tenants’. Agee himself employs a skepticism typical of his lonely
modernism, as he wonders dejectedly, “Do we really exist at all?” (53). With Agee evincing such
skepticism, it is certainly possible to argue that beyond the small circle in Alabama, the original
of his simulacrum did not really exist at all.
That conclusion helps to establish the answer to the second question of whether Agee
succeeds in more than simple imitation of his subject. Does he achieve a perfect simulacrum?
1Agee, much later in the work, likens his text to music, rather than other books. “[T]he book as a whole
will have a form and set of tones rather less like those of narrative than like those of music.” (244)
2
The answer seems to be no, but he comes remarkably close. To begin with, Agee must go
beyond the romantic / modernist approach to suspend disbelief. He must remove any disbelief
whatsoever. The reader must by wholesale into Agee’s account, she must believe the spectacles
and the events, and accept Agee’s recollections as reality. In furtherance of his creating a new
reality for his readers, he continually equates his text with reality, but is careful to almost always
include talk of his “perception.”
This softening of tone is crucial to the work’s status as prototypical postmodern ethnog
raphy. At the same time as convincing his audience of his words’ reality, he must not speak as
though he has the only truth to tell. Where the moderns would write univocally as though the
truth were monolithic, Agee quickly and often reminds the reader of his limitations, his inability
to play an omniscient God. “I might say for the sake of clear definition, and indication of limits,
that I am only human” (11). Agee as much says, he is only a human, a single human, since he
“can tell you...only what [he] saw” (12). He most succinctly addresses the book’s point of view
when he writes, “I would tell you, at all leisure, and in all detail, whatever there is to tell: of
where I am; of what I perceive” (52).
Agee’s flexible perception allows him a flexible narration that gives suitable attention to
many, if not all, of the elements of tenantry. He lends voice to the voiceless, the poor wives and
women who participate in the drudgery of everyday life. Agee conflates his voice with that of
his surroundings, he is becoming the farm. Without being overbearing, he uses a variation of
freeanddirect discourse to emulate the child thinking, “These are women, I am a woman, I am
not a child any more, I am undressing with women, and this is how women are, and how they
talk” (72). In the same way, the discourse, unbroken, follows the evening valedictions as the
family goes off to sleep: “Good night Louise; good night George; night, Immer; night Annie
Mae...night; good night, good night:” (73). Later, the narration shifts to one of the farm women
commenting at length on various other tenants. The firstperson narrator commingles with
Agee, and it is unclear in the text precisely who is saying what. 2 At the same time he obscures
the identity of the narrator, Agee clouds the secondperson as well, perhaps meaning to again
cloud the divide between reader and subject: “I made her such a pretty dress and she wore it
once, and she never wore it away from home again: Oh, thank God not one of you knows how
everyone snickers at your father” (79).
Agee similarly brings the reader into the text when he leads the reader from the
Gudgers’ house to the Ricketts’. His secondperson imperative grabs the reader by the hand and
carries her “very quietly down the open hall that divides the house, past the bedroom door, and
the dog that sleeps outside it....” (75). This detailed verbal mapping helps the reader construct
2This raises some postmodern concerns with the Self and the Other, or Identity and Alterity, of
which Agee may have had some conception, but which will not be examined at length here.
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an image of the farmers’ surroundings and, perhaps to Agee’s mind, prompts the reader to unite
with him and the farmers. This technique appears in another protopostmodern text that
appeared twenty years earlier. James Joyce’s Ulysses guides the reader through Dublin with a
similar accuracy, care for particularity, and hodgepodge narrative voice as Agee’s work. Joyce’s
influence appears elsewhere in Famous Men when Agee opens his chapter “Shelter” with the
epigram, “I will go unto the altar of God.” The phrase derives from Psalms and the Catholic
Mass, but also appears in the first few sentences of Ulysses and is repeated occasionally
throughout the novel, as it does in Agee. Agee acknowledges Joyce once more when he laments
the difficulty of exhausting the details: “It took a great artist seven years to record nineteen
hours and to wring them anywhere near dry. Figure it out for yourself; this lasted several
weeks, not nineteen hours” (242).
This method of narration is part of a larger scheme of supplying as much detail as pos
sible about the families. Agee seems to feel that the more “real” details he provides, the more
believable, the more perfect his story will be. By extension, he would seem to maintain that in
finite detail brings infinite believability. Trying for the perfect simulacrum, Agee begins his
work with a zeal almost as large as the scope of his project. With language fit to inaugurate an
original undertaking, a mission, he writes in his Preface, “it is intended that this record and
analysis be exhaustive with no detail, however trivial it may seem, left untouched, no relevancy
avoided, which lies within the power of remembrance to maintain, of the intelligence to
perceive, and of the spirit to persist in” (emphasis added, xlvi). His hope to exhaust the par
ticulars of the families is evidenced in his painstaking description of seemingly every item in
every room of every house. His outline of the chapter “Shelter” illustrates his devotion to sys
tematic exploration and textual explosion of the Gudger house. He goes on to describe the altar,
the tabernacle, the fireplace, the mantel, the closet, the beds, the table, the lamp, and general
information about each room (123). Boring the reader is little concern of his — “If I bore you,
that is that” (10) — so he undertakes the task of exhausting the details with energy and resolve.
Somewhere along the way, however, Agee seems to have realized the impossibility of
encompassing the totality of his experience, and he recants his prefatory commitment repeat
edly, in effect admitting defeat. “I am under no illusion that I am wringing this experience dry,”
(242) he writes. But he remains convinced of the nobility of his purpose, and seems uncertain
how to proceed. In a streamofconsciousness rant, perhaps unprecedented in ethnography,
Agee posits
that each of you is that which he is; that particularities, and matters ordinary
and obvious, are exactly themselves beyond designation of words, are the mem
bers of your sum total...: nevertheless to name these things and fail to yield their
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stature, meaning, power of hurt, seems impious, seems criminal, seems im
pudent, seems traitorous in the deepest: and to do less badly seems impossible:
yet in withholdings of specification I could betray you still worse (100101).
This dedication to his subjects and to his audience is remarkable, and appears to be the product
of some deep soulsearching in which the tempestuous Agee came to terms with the essential
weaknesses of his craft and of his perception. To be sure, he has overrun the bounds of modern
mimetics, but his simulacra has failed to achieve a brilliant perfection — his perception is be
yond the designation of words. His attempt to translate the lives of the farmers into words has
left them decontextualized. This leaves open the question of whether any written work, no
matter how scrupulously documented, can substitute for “real” life. He immediately follows
this realization with a remarkably selfconscious discussion of “how [he] would wish this ac
count might be constructed” (101).
Dissatisfied with the words as a medium of conveying hardship and joy, “ruin or won
der” (101), Agee muses over other means of communication. Central to his dissatisfaction with
books is his strong belief in the power of the camera as imagemaker and imagepreserver. His
choice of Walker Evans, over a sentimentalist photographer, underscores Agee’s desire to por
tray the families realistically. Evans’ photographs certainly are straightforward and unemo
tional, but they do not offer the “absolute, dry truth” of the farming experience Agee believes
they do. The planning, the singleperspective, the focus, the posing of photographs is an effec
tive and perhaps more permanent method of capturing a scene and creating an image, but even
the truth of photographs are not absolute. Agee in many ways is right to say that “it is [his]
business to show how through every instant of every day of every year of [a farmer’s] existence
alive he is...bombarded, pierced, destroyed” (110) by naming particularities, but he may be
overly optimistic if he believes this business — mere words and photographs — will give his
audience any real idea of how these farmers suffer. Having read the book and seen the pho
tographs, his audience carries only a likeness of the pain, and feels no extended consequence, re
gardless of how close to reality Evans and Agee come. Agee’s declaration that the book “was
written for all those who have a soft place...for the laughter and tears in poverty viewed at a
distance” (14) precisely locates a fundamental fault with his project. Despite all his efforts to the
contrary, there still remains an impassable gap between the suffering farmers and the armchair
audience.
Still, the reader plays a key part in determining the best medium for such ideas. despite
his disinterest in whether the reader is bored, Agee must concern himself with the involvement
of his audience in the work. He begins the work by hinting at his discontent with the book as
medium, but he engages the reader and wrests much of the burden onto her. “This is a book
only by necessity. More seriously, it is an effort in human actuality, in which the reader is no
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less centrally involved than the authors and those of whom they tell” (xlviii). The latter
statement is especially strong when one realizes its context is a nonfiction, ethnographic work.
Such a sentiment in part suggests a naive faith in the strength of the word, but it does much to
destroy the barrier between narrator, subject, and audience, a key to the postmodern narrative.
At the same time, Agee seems concerned about the status of his readers, and whether they are
appropriate to his medium and message. There is no doubt he expects his work to elicit some
definite reaction from his readers, and his litany comes across almost as an attempt to give the
reader a voice in the workings of the text and the manufacture of the whole image. He is con
frontational in his initial approach, demanding “Who are you who will read these words and
study these photographs, and through what cause, by what chance, and for what purpose, and
by what right do you qualify to, and what will you do about it?” (10).
Agee asks these questions of his readers because he is at least somewhat afraid of com
modifying his subjects, whom he grew to love and value as living individuals. He fears that in
his effort to preserve the image of them by casting a simulacrum in the form of a book, he will
reduce them to commercial objects, thereby dehumanizing them and rendering them flat.
Jameson discusses this phenomenon in his Postmodernism, in which he describes the famous
subjects of Andy Warhol “who — like Marilyn Monroe — are themselves commodified and
transformed into their own images” (Jameson, 71). This view gives Agee’s title a dark irony that
befits an almost epic work about a handful of poor tenant farmers. Agee expresses his fear of
commodification when he realizes the lives of his farmers “are now being looked into by
[readers], who have picked up their living as casually as if it were a book” (13). Agee’s feeling
seems an extension of his discomfort over being seen as “monstrously alien human beings”
“spying” on the farmers.
Early in the work, Agee half injest decides on what might be the best, albeit an unac
ceptable, means of telling the farmers’ story. It would be an effort at unadulterated material
history, that would not require the translation from reality to simulacrum, in which something,
perhaps everything, is invariably lost. Instead, it would be, to Agee at least, pure. He hopes to
escape “the breakdown of identification of word and object” (237). “I’d do no writing at all here.
It would be photographs; the rest would be fragments of cloth, bits of cotton, lumps of earth,
records of speech, pieces of wood and iron, phials of odors, plates of food and of excrement....A
piece of the body torn out by the roots might be more to the point” (13). With the exception of
the photographs, Agee’s relics of tenantry truly might capture the suffering and destruction of
the lives, but the relationship between these objects and the thoughts which accompany them —
between the signifier and the signified — is too unpredictable. Rather than interpret the records
of speech as redolent of suffering, an audience member may understand it as a joke or an
absurdity.
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This leaves Agee in a difficult, if not impossible, situation. By his own admission, he
cannot verbally communicate the pain of the farmers, but neither can he use photos or objects to
elicit predictable and desirable responses. He has abandoned many precedents of modern
ethnography, but is caught struggling to scribble down infinite details in a finite book. All the
while, he is aware that he is engaged in an “experiment” (xlvii), a search for “new forms” (245)
of art and knowledge that revolve around images and are partly responsible for the birth of the
postmodern. In the end, he cannot perfectly pull the farmers from their context and transplant
them in language. But his efforts at giving voice to the silent, being selfconscious, offering a to
tal depiction of an experience and a people, and manipulating and redefining narrative, are
major steps toward a postmodern ethnography. Famous Men is certainly a prototype for a tech
nique which, fifty years later, has yet to find a consistent and widely accepted definition.
3300 words
Sources
Agee, James. Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.
Jameson, Frederic. Postomodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism.
Joyce, James. Ulysses.
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