
Glenn Loury's memoir opens with confessions of addiction, infidelity, and lies. The economist's intellectual evolution from South Side Chicago to Harvard is equally compelling, as he rejects easy labels on race, politics, and identity.
Glenn Loury's new memoir is not the typical academic autobiography. One of the most respected economists of his generation opens with a confession: he lied, he cheated, he used drugs and pornography, and he abandoned people who needed him. The opening chapter is among the most arresting I have read in a memoir. Loury writes directly to the reader, acknowledging the paradox of self-discrediting disclosure. He says he must tell it all because if he does not, nothing he says will be heard. The skeptical reader, he notes, will have observed that this game has already begun.
The book is structured around a recurring distinction between the “cover story” and the “true story.” Loury argues that his own life was full of cover spin, masking darker truths, and he suggests this is true for many of us in our presentation of self in everyday life. The moral confessions are jaw-dropping. He describes rampant infidelity, a long struggle with addiction to cocaine and porn, and a pattern of lying that extended to those closest to him. He speaks apologetically about these failings, though not with the scathing self-judgment one might expect. The tone is balanced, even as words of disapproval about himself appear frequently.
Loury’s intellectual evolution is equally fascinating. He grew up on the wrong side of the South Side of Chicago and made his way into the most prestigious corridors of academia. As an African American economist, he faced presumptions of allyship from both the political left and the right at different points in his career. But Loury is fiercely independent and rejects labels. On issues like affirmative action, race and crime, Obama, and Trump, he surprises people who thought they had him figured out. He describes the tension of being told by conservative colleagues not to think, to choose sides between his political affiliations and his race. He felt compromised.
One of the most striking passages in the memoir deals with the concept of stigma. Loury uses the example of a New York City cab driver who does not want to stop for young black men because he fears being robbed. Even if the cabbie is statistically correct, his rational behavior incentivizes law-abiding young black men to stop trying to hail cabs, leaving only robbers in the pool. The cabbie’s rational response brings into being the very state of affairs to which he is reacting. Loury showed that biased social cognition can explain racial inequality without relying on the idea that it is necessarily the result of racial animus or malice. Ordinary people and institutions can respond to incentives in totally rational ways that create and perpetuate the very stigmas they are responding to.
The memoir also draws a parallel between this dynamic and a bank run. Loury’s friend Larry suggested that his lecture had described something like a bank run on black people. A bank run happens when people believe their bank will run out of money. They all, in a totally rational fashion, attempt to withdraw their funds at the same time. But when everyone tries to withdraw, the bank actually does run out of money. A shared belief about some state of affairs brings that state of affairs into being.
Loury’s personal life is where the memoir generates the most attention. He describes a pattern of infidelity that became common knowledge between him and his wife, Linda. He writes about an intersubjective game of tacit consent and thinly veiled deceit, where neither party lets on that they know what they know. Linda, he discovered, had a self-help book about learning to forgive those who have wronged you. She had underlined passages and scribbled notes to herself in the margins, many of which referenced things he had done. She made a study of forgiving him. He had to be treated as a miniature research project.
The book is not without humor. Loury describes meeting Bennett, a crusader for family values and public morality, and being astonished by his appetite for alcohol. Who was he to judge? He had his own appetites. He also writes about the birth of his son as a threat to his lifestyle. A baby would mean he would have to curtail his affairs and flings. He knew what having an infant in the house was like, and it would be almost impossible to continue to exercise his right as a Master of the Universe to seduce any woman he could, whenever he wanted.
Loury’s reflections on Trump are revealing. He says that none of the disqualifications of Trump that his critics listed could negate the gut-level satisfaction he got from watching him. Sure, Trump lied constantly, but Americans had become so inured to the dishonesty of their politicians that it was actually a relief to hear someone lie with brazenness and glee, instead of prevaricating and equivocating while pretending they had a claim on moral authority.
The memoir closes on a reflective note. In his seventies, Loury writes, he has nothing left to prove and nothing to hide. He finds himself receiving honors that point backward to what he has accomplished in the past rather than garnering grants that anticipate what he might yet accomplish in the future. It is a fitting end to a book that is as much about the impossibility of a neat cover story as it is about the life of one of America’s most interesting public intellectuals.
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