A Word In Edgewise: BS: No, Not Bachelor of Science — the Other One

There’s a lot of BS in the air these days, and would that more of it involved getting an education in some area of Science; climate change solutions or the like. But this is the other kind when proponents bound from one BS assertion to another, like little Liza over the ice floes.

I read an article on the subject recently, and, like any good writer, the author referred to an earlier book(let) on the subject written by Harry Gordon Frankfurt (1929-2023), published first in the Raritan Quarterly review in 1986 then by Princeton University Press in 2005. Frankfurt joined Princeton’s faculty in 1990, transferred to emeritus in 2002, and at his passing in 2023, was sent off by his university with an obit that proclaimed a “renowned moral philosopher, ‘gentle spirit,’ and surprise New York Times bestselling author, dies at 94.”

Along with “major contributions” in the studies of Descartes and Hume, he “specialized in foundational questions in metaphysics, epistemology, moral philosophy, philosophical anthropology, political philosophy, and religion.”

He also, and this is central to any discussion of BS, was interested in people. As Benjamin Morrison, professor of philosophy and department chair at that time stressed, Harry Frankfurt devoted himself to understanding humans: “what we do, what we could have done, what we want to do and even what we want to want to do.”

He might have extended that to, “and what we will do to get what we want.” Perhaps Professor Frankfurt did mention that as well; he certainly made it clear in his slender volume (Princeton University Press, 2005) titled “On Bullshit.” Its 76 pages make clear the difference — and the different usages of heightened BS from run-of-the-mill, everyday lies. There are cloudy crossovers, but most folks can tell the difference between these two replies to “Did you send your mother-in-law a birthday card?”: “Yes indeed!” (Thinking, “OMG, gotta do that quick and no one will know!”) and “I was on my way to work when a griffon swooped down and carried off my briefcase!”

The first respondent knows he didn’t send anything, knows he did not tell the truth, figures a finagle. The second makes no mention of MIL or card, just a giant mythical bird, big enough to carry off an elephant. The questioner is now completely off-balance and topic. In neither case did the MIL receive a birthday card. The BS-proficient have the total insouciance toward reality as Gilbert Shelton’s Freewheelin’ Frank (“Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers”) who approaches a mark with his banjo saying, “Give me money now, or I’ll follow you home and play under your window forever…”

Each achieves different aims, although the lie has some foundation in fact. Our first liar knew it was his mother-in-law’s birthday, he knew that he had not sent a card — perhaps had never intended to send one. The BS practitioner makes no attempt to tether himself to the mother-in-law, her birthday, nor a card. BSers come bearing banners with strange devices: a fantasy creature, to catch the eye and the attention of the unwary mark who, once used and wrung dry, is skinned and discarded. They thread through history; our own most prominent, Phineas Taylor Barnum (1810-1891) whose first circus burnt to the ground in 1865, as did his Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey 3-ring on July 6, 1944 (I was there).

Twain knew Americans from the beginning were attracted to the big top, dancing chickens and the carney showman’s sleight-of-hand pitches. We still are; wrestling aficionados call it kayfabe, and cheer the villain.

And that ain’t BS.