copyright 2009, Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media
Jump Cut
, No. 51, spring 2009

The past isn't what it used to be:
the troubled homes of Mad Men

by Mark Taylor

"Nostalgia. It's delicate, but potent… In Greek, nostalgia literally means the pain from an old wound. It's a twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone."
— Don Draper, Mad Men, 1.13 (The Wheel)

Nostalgia is defined as "a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for the return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition." The term is often related to homesickness. AMC's series, Mad Men,[1][open endnotes in new window] set in 1960s New York, deals with this yearning. Both in and outside the narrative, the idea of "home," or more specifically a home that has been lost or is in some way unattainable, is central to the series.

Beginning in 1960 and set in the fictional ad agency, Sterling Cooper, Mad Men follows the exploits of the men and women of New York's Madison Avenue, the center of the advertising industry. A stylized portrait of the highly competitive world of mid-20th century advertising, Man Men is a sleek, Kodachrome pleasure craft depicting the social and sexual mores of an era at the dawn of various cultural revolutions. Everyone smokes and drinks with impunity, tossing off casually racist and sexist remarks, which both horrify and titillate our post-PC sensibility. The program's modern design is full of lines, like trajectories, that create a world in motion, generating a woozy, almost drunken hallucination of a bygone era that occasionally veers into vertigo. This feeling of disorientation marks every character and every social relationship in the series.

All of Mad Men's central characters have troubled home lives and uneasy relationships to traditional marriage, expressed through the repressed housewife, the philandering husband, the mistress/secretary, the single mother, the closeted homosexual and the inter-racial couple. Consequently, many of Mad Men's characters seem more "at home" in the workplace than they do anywhere else, even though the constant jockeying for position and subtle shifts in traditional sex roles have created a destabilized environment where belonging is an ever-present concern.

For a workplace drama, the meaning of home is complicated. According to Karl Marx, the worker

"is at home when he is not working, and when he is working he is not at home."[2]

This is part of Marx's definition of alienation, that the worker is separated from himself because his labor is not his own. Over one hundred years after Marx, in The Society of the Spectacle, Guy Debord describes this alienation as permeating all of modern existence. Being has been transformed into having and having into appearing, so that the modern world is dominated by appearances. The individual constructs his identity based on image — clothes make the man — and, since he can never fully live up to that image, he becomes alienated in all aspects of his existence:

"The individual's own gestures are no longer his own, but rather those of someone else who represents them to him. [He] feels at home nowhere…"[3]

Home is an image that we carry with us, like a snapshot, of people and of places that are always changing. We may have a fixed image, but its contents are already a part of the past. Advertising builds on our personal needs and preoccupies itself with generating images of the perfect life, the perfect family and the perfect home. Basing a dramatic series on the creators of such fictions, Mad Men reveals the artifice behind these constructions. Additionally, by playing against notions about the 1960s as modern, assured, hopeful and less complicated, Mad Men forces us to confront our own homesickness, which is the idea that we can return to a simpler time or that such a time ever existed. The ad men in the series know how to manipulate reality. It is their manipulation that will formulate their future, which is our present.

Mad Men draws on a tradition that includes the 1947 film The Hucksters, which used the story of a radio ad man, back from WWII and in hot pursuit of a job selling soap, to explore many of the less attractive features of the era's competitive yet conformist culture. In pop sociology from the fifties, Vance Packard's best-selling book The Hidden Persuaders, published in 1957, scrutinized advertisers' use of motivational research and psychological studies to manipulate the public. The book critiqued the employment of these techniques in political campaigns. In a slightly broader vein, the novel and 1956 film-version of Sloan Wilson's The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit examined the New York executive culture of the post-WWII era. The title became a part of the U.S. vernacular, symbolizing the conformity and questionable integrity of the U.S. businessman. A number of public intellectuals, such as David Reisman (The Lonely Crowd), wrote well-known books about the change in U.S. corporate culture in the post-war era. Much of this was the subject of standard Sunday newspaper supplement discourse.

The series begins with self-definition, informing us that

"'Mad Men' is a term coined in the late 1950s to describe the advertising executives of Madison Avenue. They coined it."[4]

The term as used here is both shorthand and strategy. If these men are "mad," they are liable to do anything, which is a power move, a way to claim as much freedom as possible. This madness is both the intangible source of creativity and a tangible excuse for bad behavior. As image workers, they are both fashioning society and apart from it, making a home, but too knowing to live there comfortably.

For Mad Men, the series, the additional meaning of "mad" also applies. These men (and women) are angry and the source of that anger is what fuels the show. A nagging discontent troubles the edges of the perfectly appointed modernist sets. Anxiety, revealed through visual style, is the one detail that is most important in Mad Men, a program slavishly devoted to detail. From skinny grey suit to torpedo bra, the hairstyles, dress, furniture, buildings, cars and homes of the early sixties are meticulously rendered, as is the anxiety. This apprehension stems from an uncertainty about the social structure, not only about where one belongs inside that structure but also about how one behaves within it.

In the world of Mad Men, image and belonging are connected. No character embodies this point more fully than Don Draper, Sterling Cooper's Creative Director. Draper is the dapper "alpha male" in the office, the one to whom the others look for guidance and the one of whom they are most afraid. He is a hard-drinking workaholic, whose beautiful wife and two children are safely tucked away in Westchester, an upper-middle class suburb of New York. Draper is literally a "self-made" man. It is revealed in the first season that he has stolen the identity of a fellow soldier who was killed in the Korean War. He is Mad Men's central mystery. Even his name implies hiding or shrouding.

Don Draper as played by Joe Hamm is beautiful, but dangerous like all things of beauty: it is so easy to get lost in them. The perfect 007 hero, he is a cipher, fully self-contained. Draper is an unreconstructed man, a collector of women and trophies. Women want to ride and tame him; men want to ride and harness him. He has no needs that he cannot fulfill for himself. He is full already, of secrets, of mystery.

All of the show's other characters are equally perplexed as they try to anticipate his needs and understand his behavior. But he is not really there; he is just a projection, or the outline of a man, like the one in the show's title sequence.[5] Perhaps it is just another projection to see Draper's duplicity as stemming from some basic weakness that he is trying to cover up, symbolized by the past he has abandoned, the home he has escaped. Everything in his life is a lie,

"and only as liars do [he-men] truly become sadists, agents of repression."[6]

Draper's relationship to home is complicated by his secret past. After winning an advertising award in season 1, episode 5 (5G), Draper's picture appears in a trade magazine, which inspires a visit by his younger brother, Adam (Jay Paulson), now a janitor living in a Manhattan residential hotel. This visit functions as a catalyst for the script to uncover Draper's previous life as Dick Whitman, an orphan raised by his stepmother and her second husband. When Adam and Draper meet for lunch, Adam recalls seeing Dick/Draper on the train delivering his own dead body to the Whitman family. Knowing that Dick was still alive, Adam has lived the rest of his life with the hope that he and his brother would be reunited. When Don rejects his familial advances and offers him $5,000 to leave Manhattan and never make contact again, Adam breaks down. Draper is his home. Eventually Adam's loneliness overtakes him and he hangs himself.

The visit destabilizes Draper's façade. His previous life begins to intrude on his current one. In season 1, episode 6, (Babylon), Draper takes a fall delivering a Mother's Day breakfast to his wife, Betty (January Jones). He lands on his back at the foot of the staircase, and he is briefly transported into the past, which invades his home. Young Dick Whitman has also taken a fall and is scolded by his stepmother's husband. In a further plot development related to his brother's reappearance in his life, before committing suicide, Adam sends a box of old photographs to Don/Dick at Sterling Cooper. Pete Campbell (Vincent Kartheiser), an ambitious younger accounts executive, intercepts the box and uses the information in a failed attempt to blackmail his boss Draper into giving him a promotion.

Draper's assumed identity has provided him access to a world filled with all the trappings of success: a good job, a beautiful suburban home, two children and a lovely wife. His identity becomes multiple: the successful businessman, the loving husband and father, the playboy, and the war hero, but he inhabits none of them. In multiple instances throughout the first two seasons, Draper seeks escape; he doesn't belong. Despite the advantages of class, Don Draper is as big a trap as was Dick Whitman.

In season 1, episode 12 (Nixon Vs. Kennedy), Draper begs one of his mistresses to give up everything and run away with him. She realizes that he doesn't really want to run away with her, he just wants to run away, and she rejects him. In season 2, episode 11 (The Jet Set), while on a business trip to California, Don accepts an advance from a wealthy young heiress. He spends the final few episodes of the season deciding whether or not he will run off with a group of jet-set Europeans who like and will support him because he's "beautiful and doesn't talk too much." In these instances, as Draper's façade cracks, a viewer can feel a sense of suffocation and occasionally desperation. Even though Draper is married, he insists on playing the field; even though he is named partner at Sterling Cooper, he resists a binding contract with the firm. He is always leaving the door open, and in so doing, never committing to his life.

Just as he abandoned his former identity when a new one presented itself, it is possible that Draper may, at any moment, desert his family or his career should a more advantageous opportunity arise. He is an image and images can be unreliable; this is his "madness." As Foucault writes,

"It would not be possible for power relations to exist without points of insubordination, which, by definition, are means of escape."[7]

Draper's unpredictability is his power, and he wields it most cruelly against members of the upper class, his wife included. Draper dominates Betty; competes with Roger Sterling (John Slattery), the agency's junior partner who inherited the position from his father; and stifles Pete Campbell, the account executive who was hired because of his wealthy family's connections. Draper is antagonistic toward each because of their sense of entitlement.

But their privilege doesn't translate into stability. Betty's marriage has alienated her from her father who dislikes Don because he can't "trust a man who doesn't have any family." Roger's wife and daughter have turned against him. Pete's father belittles his career and refuses to support his new marriage.

In season 1, episode 4 (New Amsterdam), Pete Campbell's new wife manipulates him into buying a co-op apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side, using his family name to smooth the way with the co-op board. Pete's mother is a Dykeman, the family that once owned most of Manhattan north of 125th Street. Pete is alienated from his wealthy family, an outcast, yet his family name is his entrée to both his wife, who has married the name as much as the man, and to the co-op. Since he is rejected by his family, abused by his father and ignored by his mother, the home that is purchased and (unknown to him) the job that is saved with their name are not his own. He is doubly alienated by the privileges secured with his family name. Later, in season 2, episode 2 (Flight 1), Campbell discovers that his father has spent all the family money and become insolvent; even his privilege was an illusion.

In contrast in terms of class and career trajectory, Draper promotes his secretary, Peggy Olsen, a working class Brooklyn girl, to Copywriter and champions her development inside the office. When Peggy is promoted, not only is she forced to create the role (no woman has ever made such a move) and assert her place within the social structure of the office, but the structure itself shifts, forcing everyone inside it to rethink their position. Inside the office, Peggy is always separate, always apart from the crowd. Not only has her role changed from secretary to copywriter, but she has also put on weight, so she is doubly perplexed about how to behave. She is forging a path that no woman has ever trod inside an unfamiliar body. However, she also gains power inside the workplace as she becomes more substantial physically. Her weight distinguishes her from the other secretaries, making her less of an object.

Peggy is pregnant, though nobody knows it, with Pete Campbell's child. She has the ability to generate more than images and ideas; she is potentially producing a family and a home. At the end of the first season, much to her own surprise and indicative of how alienated she has become from her own body, Peggy gives birth and goes into shock. The state declares her incompetent and contacts her family, resulting in her sister's adoption of the child. For most of season two, Peggy struggles with family obligations. Instead of following the traditional path for a young woman from her neighborhood, she has decided to become a professional, but her family resents her for the decision and continuously seeks to put her back into her rightful place. Peggy rejects this path, ignoring her son and redoubling her efforts inside the workplace, which is more of a home to her than the one her family inhabits.

During the show's second season, Peggy's mother and sister force her to become active with their church. They accept Peggy when she knuckles under and conforms to the image they have of her. Whenever she asserts her independence, whenever she strives to live up to her full potential, she is opposed and rejected. She can be at home as long as she reaffirms her family's worldview, which is working class. Having discovered another way of seeing, Peggy cannot return to her home. Perhaps this is why, in the second season, Peggy's storyline is so closely aligned with the church. The forbidden fruit comes from the tree of knowledge. Peggy's eyes are opened and she wants more out of life, even presumptuously expects more, but her mother and sister are determined to hold her back, to teach her to accept her rightful place in life alongside and not beyond them.

Additionally, Peggy keeps Pete's illegitimate child secret from him until the end of the second season, when she reveals that she gave the baby away. She rejected the creation of a potential family with him, preemptively destroying another possible home for Campbell. Peggy's character is socially mobile, moving between classes and beyond traditional sex roles. She casts off her childhood home along with the one she has accidentally made (with the baby) in favor of one she has yet to create. Her storyline emphasizes the challenges women face in the workplace. She is forced to deny all things homely, her mother, sister, church and child, in order to thrive in the office and to move away from her working class roots.

Perhaps it is our perspective, but even the smallest actions seem to carry tectonic implications. We know the upheavals the characters of Mad Men have to look forward to: assassinations, Vietnam, race riots, culture wars, Watergate, the Reagan Revolution, 9/11 and the current financial meltdown. So when something apparently small happens, we can project the consequences and either hope or despair.

In season 2, episode 8 (A Night to Remember), when Office Manager, Joan Holloway (Christina Hendricks), temporarily takes on the job of script reader for the newly formed TV sales department, the opening may be in part due to Peggy's earlier successes. It's easy to project some proto-feminist movement, even as the harsh sexist environment reasserts its dominance through the hiring of an inexperienced man to permanently take over the new position. The department has become successful because of Joan's insight into how to sell soap to women and when interest will be piqued on daytime TV. When Joan discovers that she has been unceremoniously replaced — the torpedo bra torpedoed — and is expected to train her replacement, her disappointment is overwhelming. (Or is that our disappointment?) The emotion is allowed only the briefest moment of escape before Joan's façade reasserts control.

The program's richest moments are ruptures like these, brief moments when the characters experience confusion or disappointment but then struggle not to let it show, when their real selves and the images they have constructed come into conflict. These are moments of vulnerability, of reality asserting itself briefly into the world of the image. Our clean, colorful 60s fantasy is interrupted by such casual brutality. We are reminded of the real constraints under the binding clothing, the actual challenges and limitations of the period.

Mad Men's producers reanimate 60s iconography in order to level it. Most scenes are shot from a low angle, which gives the impression the characters are rising up and looming over. It is the shot usually reserved for the heroic, but in this case it is used so democratically that the device is disabled. The style elevates the characters while tearing down the larger-than-life, making the heroic ordinary, but somehow still iconic.

Mad Men is set firmly against the backdrop of nearly mythic events from our own recent history. Much of the first season is taken up by the agency's pursuit to represent Richard Nixon in his 1960 bid for the White House against John Kennedy. Later, Jackie Kennedy's televised 1962 tour of the newly refurbished White House plays in the background throughout one episode (For Those Who Think Young). TV news reportage of the Cuban missile crisis is foregrounded in another (Meditations in an Emergency), pointing out the real hopes and real risks of a turbulent history we wish to romanticize.

In season 1, episode 6 (Babylon), Sterling Cooper executives have a meeting with the Isreali Tourism Bureau, which seeks to capitalize on the popularity of Leon Uris's recent bestseller, Exodus in order to improve the country's image. In the meeting, one of the clients remarks that the word "utopia" comes from utopos, meaning the good place and útopos, meaning the place that cannot be. Don contacts Rachel Menken, his other Jewish client, and also a woman he is sexually pursuing, to get some advice on the campaign. Her response, "Jews have lived in exile for a long time." As a Jew, she says, "I don't have to live there. It just has to be." This strikes a chord with Don, because he, too, is an exile, from his own past.

In Mad Men, homeland and home are fragile concepts. Israel is a struggle, but it must exist. The Cuban missile crisis reminds us of a world on the brink of self-annihilation; the characters react with the proper amount of uncertainty and fear.

Even though the people of Mad Men understand the power of the image to create new realities, and endeavor to make over reality using these images, they also understand that images are real. In season 1, episode 11 (Indian Summer), Peggy's family sets her up on a blind date with a deliveryman from her old neighborhood. When he claims that advertising doesn't work on him, she replies that when advertising is good, you don't know it's working. Later, after Peggy's date disparages her job and insults her by pointing out that she may pretend to be from Manhattan but doesn't look like the women who live there, Peggy leaves in a huff, saying, "Those people in Manhattan… are better than us. They want things they haven't seen." They want an illusion and are working toward its creation.

In season 1, episode 8 (The Hobo Code), Don takes a Polaroid of his bohemian girlfriend, Midge (Rosemarie DeWitt) and her beatnik friend, Roy (Ian Bohen). After the image develops, Don remarks that Midge and Roy are in love. He spends every day faking such images and knows when he sees the real thing. Realizing that he doesn't belong in the West Village, that Midge is not his home, Don ends the relationship. The Polaroid has shown him the truth; it's an image he cannot ignore.

In the first season finale (The Wheel), Draper is charged with selling a new Kodak slide projector, which the company refers to as "the wheel." Even though we know that Draper's personal life is coming apart, he fills the slide projector with family photos. During the meeting, Draper describes nostalgia (quoted above) as "the pain from an old wound," and he tells his clients that they are not selling technology but memory.

"This device isn't a spaceship; it's a time machine. It goes backwards and forwards. It takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It's not called the wheel. It's called the carousel. It lets us travel the way a child travels, around and back home again to a place where we know we are loved."

Draper transforms the object into an idea, filled with fantasy images of a life well lived. The images represent something that is not there and never really was; they are only a representation of a wished-for reality. This is what Mad Men is all about. It’s an unfaded memory of a time gone by.

The Kodak Carousel might mimic the childhood conveyance, family photos rising and dropping as it advances. But the images tell half-truths of idealized moments, birthday candles about to go dark and smoke. It's not a time machine after all, because it's not possible to go back. The wheel is a closed system that keeps replaying the same scenes over and over. It's just another set of images, a selection of those moments we have chosen to remember and to share, that were documented for the purpose of remembrance.

We don't photograph the parts of our lives we know we will want to forget. We are already in the process of choosing when we take out the camera, and of editing as we depress the shutter. We are constructing a vision of the wished-for life when we shoot, but the camera is a machine that only partially submits to our control. It sees what it will, capturing that something in the background we failed to notice, waiting to come into focus, to take over and become what really happened, after we have put the camera down. This is illustrated in season 1, episode 4 (The Marriage of Figaro), when Don takes out a home movie camera to drunkenly capture his daughter's birthday party. The scenes the camera captures are intercut with the action. Draper not only films children charging about in party dress and an intimate kiss between a husband and wife, but also the moment when one married guest is rebuffed after making an inappropriate pass at the divorcee who has just moved in down the block.

Mad Men captures those gleaming images of a perfect place and an idealized time, but also turns to reveal the specter in the background that is waiting to come into focus. In it we find the source of our unease.

Perhaps this is why the series is set in the early 1960s, the "golden age" of advertising. Perhaps it is an attempt to explore the tenuousness of modern existence. It's fun to think of these characters as naïve or even as sleek but primitive versions of our much more sophisticated selves, to think of their world and their time as "simpler" than ours. Much political discourse is centered on the wish to return to a "simpler time," but there are no simpler times. The wish to return to the past is a wish to stop time, to use the "time machine" of the Kodak Carousel to go back to a place where the living was "easy." As Foucault describes this way of thinking,

"In this hatred of the present or the immediate past, [there is] a dangerous tendency to invoke a completely mythical past."[8]

The 60s, a decade that culminated with a man setting foot on the moon, will forever be identified with progress in the U.S. imagination. Change was rapid and inevitable, but slow in coming. When we think of that decade, we remember the hope of Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr.; the non-violent protests of the Free Speech and Civil Rights movements; the Summer of Love, Woodstock, a youth explosion. We remember the good, choosing not to remember that all of these "good fights" were in reaction to war, discrimination and oppression. It is the folly of memory and part of the pain of nostalgia, the pain of the thing we wish to return to vanishing in a mist, irretrievable because memory is faulty, memory fades. Mad Men undoes the relation between wholesomeness and the past, and in so doing, the fiction reveals the true nature of our home, the real resistance inside the heroic struggle.

Looking back on these characters and this era, one can see the excesses wrought by the desire to ignore history, the desire to pretend that the problems we now face came out of nowhere and haven't been with us all along. The men and women of Mad Men are the architects of the world we now inhabit. Their activity is to modify reality, to create a desire so strong it becomes a social force. We watch them develop our world and fabricate our dreams, but we must also recognize that these people and these dreams are flawed. This is the birthplace of the information age, when we learned to reach and lost our grip. The men and women of Mad Men cannot be shielded from the turmoil to come, because they are the people who will make it happen out of the materials of their own turmoil. They inhabit the pictures in our family album, resplendent in their gorgeous youth, captured in frozen smile at the office party — the cheating husband crushing the soul of his doormat wife, the aunt whose nephew is actually her son, the casual bigot, the bachelor uncle, the scheming social climber — tragic heroes all. We would like to believe they were otherwise, but they were just people. History is littered with them, our history — the story of our home.


1. The American Movie Classics series Mad Men is set in 1960s New York and follows the lives of the men and women of Madison Avenue, the U.S. center of advertising. Created by Matthew Weiner, a writer and producer on The Sopranos, the series opens in 1960 and centers on Don Draper, the Creative Director of the fictional advertising agency, Sterling Cooper. The program, which finished its second season in the fall of 2008, has won three Golden Globe Awards and six Emmys. The series stars Jon Hamm, Elizabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, January Jones and John Slattery.

2. Karl Marx, "Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844," The Marx-Engels Reader (New York: W.W. Norton & Company), 74.

3. Guy Debord, The Society of the Spectacle (New York: Zone Books, 1995), 23.

4. Appears as a title card at the start of Mad Men, Season 1, Episode 1 (Smoke Gets In Your Eyes).

5. Each week Mad Men begins with a silhouetted figure of a man stepping into an office and putting down his briefcase to the sound of slowly descending violins. As he contemplates the far wall, the office dissolves and the man begins to fall through a cityscape of gleaming skyscrapers. Updated lounge music tinkles along with the descent, offering a jaunty counterpoint to the melancholia of the violins. Animated billboards dominate the landscape, featuring mostly images of women, or various parts of women. The man is reflected in them as he falls. The buildings dissipate, leaving a sea of floating advertisements that rush forward. The figure continues his fall, his jacket flapping in the wind. One expects the character to land broken on the street, but instead he dissolves and is found again, sitting comfortably, his arm slung over the back of a couch, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. It is a representation of Debord's world of the spectacle, "the commodity contemplating itself in a world of its own making."

Is this the silhouette of Don Draper? Is it the expression of Draper's worldview, the imagined dream world of an alienated image worker who creates and consumes his own dreams? Are we witnessing his world crumbling? Or does the sequence represent the character's fear, that the illusion he has created will be shattered and he will be discovered as a fraud? Is it a representation of a splintered reality dominated by images, a world which briefly dissolves into just advertising and nothing more, no character, no landscape, just image? Or is it our own experience of a fracturing world? Seen weekly, from the vantage point of early 2009, it is so easy to read this sequence as a comment on recent events, on towers crumbling, banks failing, a society unraveling.

Ultimately, the sequence is destabilizing, it removes the floor, cracks the landscape and, like a trip through a time tunnel, lands in a more stable place, the world of the past, where everything has already happened. But it's only a dream of stability, one that shows us what dreams are made of, or at least where our current information-economy dreams were born.

6. Theodor Adorno, "Tough baby," Minima Moralia: Reflections on a Damaged Life (London: Verso), 45.

7. Michel Foucault, "Afterword: The Subject and Power," Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press), 225.

8. Michel Foucault, "Space, Knowledge, and Power," The Foucault Reader (New York: Pantheon Books), 24

Works cited

Adorno, Theodor, "Tough baby," Minima Moralia: Reflections on a Damaged Life (London: Verso)

Debord, Guy, The Society of the Spectacle (New York: Zone Books, 1995)

Foucault, Michel, "Afterword: The Subject and Power," Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press)

Michel Foucault, "Space, Knowledge, and Power," The Foucault Reader (New York: Pantheon Books)

Marx, Karl, "Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844," The Marx-Engels Reader (New York: W.W. Norton & Company)

Packard, Vance, The Hidden Persuaders (New York: Random House, 1957)

Riesman, David, The Lonely Crowd: Revised edition, A Study of the Changing American Character (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001)

Wilson, Sloan, The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit (New York, Da Capo Press, 2002)

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