They know that he always wears a blue suit of
clothes cut on an invariable model, which he adopted years ago.
They know that he worked his way through college as a waiter. They
know that he grew rich as a mining engineer in the East. That is
all. They think of him as a symbol of efficiency, as one who may
save their money, as one who may find markets for them and develop
their trade, as one who may help the world upon its feet again
after the War, as a superman, if you will; but not as a man, not as
a human being.
All his advertising has made him appeal to the American
imagination, but not to the American heart. He is a sort of
efficiency engineer, installing his charts and his systems into
public life,--and who loves an efficiency engineer? There are no
stories about him which give him a place in the popular breast. It
is impossible to interest yourself in Hoover as Hoover; in Hoover
as the man who did this, or the man who did that, or the man who
will do this or that, yes,--but not in Hoover, the person.
The reason is that he has little personality. On close contact, he
is disappointing, without charm, given to silence, as if he had
nothing for ordinary human relations which had no profitable
bearing on the task in hand. His conversation is applied efficiency
engineering; there is no lost motion, though it is lost motion
which is the delight of life.
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