Alexis de Tocqueville, perhaps the greatest French export to the United States, took special notice, during his travels, of what he called the “philosophic method” of Americans:
This “philosophic method”—or what we might call the “American way”—is an apt description of the manner in which a tradition starting with Benjamin Franklin, carried along nicely by Thomas Edison, and residing somewhere today in central California has been conveyed throughout the course of our history. Two links in this chain of American inventors deserve special attention for their love of knowledge unalloyed by any desire for fame or monetary gain. They are the Wright brothers.
David McCullough’s dual biography focuses primarily on the scientific process behind their success. Little or no ink is wasted on unnecessary biographical details—why neither brother married, for example, or the precise nature of Orville’s “peculiar spells”—and McCullough’s presentation is a wonderful reflection of the matter-of-fact sensibilities that never deserted the Wright clan. The narrative rarely slips into moral valuations or sentimentality. Instead, McCullough allows the brothers and their inner circle to speak for themselves.
Orville (1871-1948) and Wilbur (1867-1912) Wright, sons of an itinerant preacher who valued intellectual curiosity and hard work, were tinkerers from the start: fashioning toys for their siblings, designing a printing press, founding their own newspaper, and (what would initially finance their aviation exploits) running a successful bicycle company. The brothers were autodidacts, American-style.
In 1896, Orville fell ill with typhoid. Bedridden, he was cared for by his sister, Katharine—a constant companion and confidante to both brothers—and by Wilbur, who had recently been interested in the German aeronautical inventor Otto Lilienthal and began reading aloud about Lilienthal to his convalescing brother. That was the turning point. Soon, both Wrights were “read[ing] up on aeronautics as a physician would read his books,” according to their father. Much time was also spent watching birds—which, in a few years, would find themselves side-by-side a curious new airborne species.
Success, once arrived, did not abate. It became increasingly difficult for the Wrights to find peace with the near-constant swarm of press, government functionaries, hangers-on, and just plain curious people hounding them on both sides of the Atlantic for face time or a glimpse of the new marvel. That the brothers were able to remain psychologically grounded would make fine fodder for further inquiry, except that the answer is obvious. This passage from McCullough is particularly revealing:
The spiritual core of the Wright brothers, what both drove and sustained them throughout their lives, was a pure and simple devotion to scientific exploration or, more generously, a love of knowledge—and as wealthy as they became, they might gladly have cashed out to return to their earlier inquiries. Sadly, neither brother was able to recapture those halcyon days on the streets of Dayton, Ohio, or on the sands of Kitty Hawk. In a letter to a friend in 1912, Wilbur lamented, “We wished to be free from business cares so that we could give all our own time to advancing the science and art of aviation. . . . [W]hen we think what might have been accomplished if we had been able to devote this time to experiments, we feel very sad.”
A few months later, he would be dead of typhoid.
David Bahr is an editorial assistant at The Weekly Standard.
