MILGRAMWASCERTAINLYnotthefirstpsychologist toexperimentwith obedience, nor the first psychologist to deceive his subjects (theshock machine was utterly fake, the learner and the experimenterpaid actors Milgram had hired to do the job), but he was the first todo so, on both accounts, systematically.However,before Milgram,there was a mysterious experimenter by the name ofC. Landis, whoin an unnamed laboratory in Wales in 1924 found that seventy-onepercent ofhis subjects were willing to decapitate a rat at the experi-menter's insistence.In 1944 a psychologist by the name of DanielFrank realized that he could get his subjects to perform the oddestacts just because he wore the white coat when he made the request:"Please stand on your head,-"Please walk backward with one eyeclosed,""Please touch your tongue to the window."It is unlikely that Milgram was influenced by these peripheral blipsofresearch. For one thing,Milgram, who had aspired to become apolitical scientist, had not taken a single psychology course in his fourundergraduate years at Queens College, so he was by no means inti-mate with the literature ofthe field. For another, Milgram, a volublelittle man, gave credit where credit was due. He points to the socialscientist Solomon Asch as being the man who made him, ifany oneman can make another,While obtaining his graduate degree, Milgramserved as Asch's research assistant at Princeton. Asch was hard at workon an experiment involving group pressure.In a study using lines ofdifferent lengths, Asch found that his subjects would capitulate to thegroup's perceptions, so ifthe group said line A was clearly longer thanline B, even when it obviously wasn't, the baffled subject would say sotoo,abandoninghis own beliefs in an effortto conform.Back then, and still now, Asch was a giant in social science research,but Milgram, inches shorter than he and smaller in stature in all sortsofotherways,wouldsoon outpacehismentor.Milgram admiredAsch. But lines, well, lines lacked lyrical power, and Milgram, likeSkinner, was a lyricist at heart. He wrote librettos and children's sto-nes, quoted Keats and Rilke.He saw his fifty-one-year-old father dieofheart failure and always believed he too would go early, so he was
MILGRA M WAS CERTAINL Y not the first psychologist to experiment with obedience , nor the first psychologist to deceive his subjects (the shock machin e was utterly fake, the learner and the experimente r paid actors Milgram had hired to do the job) , but he was the first to do so, on bot h accounts, systematically. However, before Milgram, there was a mysterious experimente r by the name of C. Landis, wh o in an unname d laboratory in Wales in 192 4 found that seventy-one percent of his subjects were willing to decapitate a rat at the experimenter's insistence. In 194 4 a psychologist by the name of Danie l Frank realized that he could get his subjects to perform the oddest acts just because he wor e the whit e coat whe n he made the request: "Please stand on your head," "Please walk backward with on e eye closed," "Please touch your tongue to the window." It is unlikely that Milgram was influenced by these peripheral blips of research. Fo r one thing, Milgram, wh o had aspired to becom e a political scientist, had not taken a single psychology course in his four undergraduate years at Queen s College , so he was by no means intimate with the literature of the field. Fo r another, Milgram, a voluble little man, gave credit wher e credit was due. He points to the social scientist Solomo n Asch a s being the man wh o made him, if any on e man can make another. Whil e obtaining his graduate degree, Milgram served as Asch's research assistant at Princeton. Asch was hard at work on an experiment involving group pressure. In a study using lines of different lengths, Asch found that his subjects would capitulate to the group's perceptions, so if the group said line A was clearly longe r than line B, even whe n it obviously wasn't, the baffled subject would say so too, abandoning his own beliefs in an effort to conform. Bac k then, and still now, Asch was a giant in social science research, but Milgram, inches shorter than he and smaller in stature in all sorts of other ways, would soon outpace his mentor. Milgram admired Asch. Bu t lines, well, lines lacked lyrical power, and Milgram, like Skinner, was a lyricist at heart. He wrot e librettos and children's stones, quoted Keats and Rilke . He saw his fifty-one-year-old father die °f heart failure and always believed he to o would go early, so he was
powered by a bright light."when we married,"says his widow,Alexandra Milgram,"Stanley told me he wouldn't live past fifty-one,because he looked just like his father, He always had a sense of hisfuture as very short. Then, when Stanley developed heart troubles inhis thirties, he knew, we both knew, his days were numbered."And perhaps it was for this reason he didn't want lines, somethingstraight and narrow. He wanted to devise an experiment that wouldcast such a glow, or a pall, over the earth it would leave some thingssimmering for a long,long time.Hewanted somethinghugewithheart."I was trying to think of a way to make Asch's conformityexperiment more humanely significant," he said in an interview withPsychology Today."I was dissatisfied that the test of conformity wasjudgments about lines. I wondered whether groups could pressure aperson into performing an act whose human import was more read-ily apparent, perhaps behaving aggressively towards another person,saybyadministering severe shocks to him."Milgram was no stranger to shocks.Even before he'd seen hisfather die, he knew about fear. He had spent his childhood years inthe South Bronx,where wildflowers grew in gutters and cockroachesscuttled across buckled linoleum. In his family's living room, heavycurtains clamped out sunlight and the radio was big and boxy, with apiece ofbubbled glass protecting the channel pad.Milgram was fasci-nated by that radio. He was fascinated by its tiny plastic pores, its ser-rated dials that moved the white wand up and down, so there wasmusic,nowlaughter,now weeping,nowwaltzing-so many sounds,but they always resolved into this: It was 1939 and Stanley was six.Itwas 1942 and he was just on the cusp ofa certain sort ofdeepening.Through the radio, which his family listened to every day becausethey had relatives in Europe, came the death reports and the soundsof the Ss and shovels on hot concrete.He grew into adolescencewith this as his background musicbombs and burnsand mean-while his bodywas doing its own detonations.How confusing:sexand terror.We can only guess; it says so nowhere
powered by a bright light. "Whe n we married," says his widow, Alexandra Milgram, "Stanley told me he wouldn't live past fifty-one, because he looked just like his father. He always had a sense of his future as very short. Then , whe n Stanley developed heart troubles in his thirties, he knew, we both knew, his days were numbered. " A n d perhaps it was for this reason he didn't want lines, something straight and narrow. He wanted to devise an experimen t that would cast such a glow, or a pall, over the earth it would leave some things simmering for a long, long time. He wanted something huge with heart. " I was trying to think of a way to make Asch's conformity experimen t mor e humanely significant," he said in an interview with Psychology Today. "I was dissatisfied that the test of conformity was judgments about lines. I wondered whethe r groups could pressure a person into performing an act whos e human import was mor e readily apparent, perhaps behaving aggressively towards anothe r person, say by administering severe shocks to him. " Milgram was no stranger to shocks. Eve n before he'd seen his father die, he kne w about fear. He had spent his childhood years in the Sout h Bronx , wher e wildflowers grew in gutters and cockroache s scuttled across buckled linoleum. In his family's living room, heavy curtains clamped out sunlight and the radio was big and boxy, with a piec e of bubbled glass protecting the channe l pad. Milgram was fascinated by that radio. He was fascinated by its tiny plastic pores, its serrated dials that moved the whit e wand up and down, so there was music, no w laughter, no w weeping, no w waltzing—so many sounds, but they always resolved into this: It was 193 9 and Stanley was six. It was 194 2 and he was just on the cusp of a certain sort of deepening. Throug h the radio, whic h his family listened to every day because they had relatives in Europe , came the death reports and the sounds of the SS and shovels on hot concrete . He grew into adolescenc e with this as his background music—bomb s and burns—and mean - while his bod y was doing its own detonations. Ho w confusing: sex and terror. We can only guess; it says so nowhere
INI96oMILGRAMleftPrinceton andhismentorAschto takeanassistant professorship at Yale. Soon after his appointment he begansubmitting expense reports for switches and electrodes; in the Yalearchives are mock-up scripts and notes dated around that time inMilgram's handwriting:"audio cable through ceiling ...sparks, prac-ticeelectrode application procedure.James Justin McDonough,excellent victim, A+ victim, perfect as victim, mild and submissive."Reading these notes it is difficult to avoid the sense ofMilgram aspart imp,a littleJewish leprechaun, his science soaked injoke.In fact,Milgram did have a keen sense of comedy,and it may be he,morethan any other scientist, who has shown us how small the spacebetween art and experiment, between humor and heartlessness,between work and play."Stanley loved, LOVED what he did,' saysMrs. Milgram. How could he not have? He used to address letters,drop themon the NewYork City sidewalks, and then observe whowould pick them up, who would mail them, how and why.He devel-oped a technique called "queue barging,"a kind of guerrilla socialscience in which Stanley sprung from a hiding place and darted intoa queue, all the while observing the reactions ofthose he had cut infront of. He went outside, into a bright blue day, pointed at the sky,and timed how long it took to amass a crowd, all of whom stoodthere, staring at nothing. He was ingenious, subversive, absurd. But,unlike Sartre, or Beckett, Milgram measured absurdity."He bottledit," says psychology professor Lee Ross of Stanford University."Hebottled absurd behaviors in his lab, so we could see themStudythem.That'swhat makes him...him."SOMILGRAMPUTin ordersfor electrodes,thirty switches,blackbelts, and audio equipment-all the props for the dangerous play hewas about to enact, the play that would, quite literally, rock the worldand put such a dent in his career he would never quite recover. Hestartedwith Yalestudents, and,much to his surprise, every one ofthem complied, shocking their way blithely up the switchboard
IN I96 0 MILGRA M left Princeto n and his mento r Asch to take an assistant professorship at Yale. Soo n after his appointment he began submitting expense reports for switches and electrodes; in the Yale archives are mock-u p scripts and notes dated around that time in Milgram's handwriting: "audio cable through ceiling . . sparks, prac - tice electrode application procedure. Jame s Justin McDonough , excellent victim, A+ victim, perfect as victim, mild and submissive." Readin g these notes it is difficult to avoid the sense of Milgram as part imp, a little Jewish leprechaun, his scienc e soaked in joke . In fact, Milgram did have a keen sense of comedy, and it may be he, mor e than any othe r scientist, wh o has shown us ho w small the space between art and experiment, between humo r and heartlessness, between wor k and play. "Stanley loved, LOVE D wha t he did," says Mrs. Milgram. Ho w could he not have? He used to address letters, drop them on the Ne w Yor k Cit y sidewalks, and then observe wh o would pick them up, wh o would mail them, ho w and why. He developed a technique called "queu e barging," a kind of guerrilla social science in whic h Stanley sprung from a hiding place and darted into a queue, all the whil e observing the reactions of those he had cut in front of. He went outside, into a bright blue day, pointed at the sky, and timed ho w long it too k to amass a crowd, all of who m stood there, staring at nothing. He was ingenious, subversive, absurd. But , unlike Sartre, or Beckett, Milgram measured absurdity. "H e bottled it," says psychology professor Le e Ross of Stanford University. "H e bottled absurd behaviors in his lab, so we could see them. Study them. That's wha t makes him . . him. " SO MILGRA M PU T in orders for electrodes, thirty switches, black belts, and audio equipment—all the props for the dangerous play he was about to enact, the play that would, quite literally, rock the world and put such a dent in his career he would never quite recover. He started with Yale students, and, muc h to his surprise, every on e of them complied, shocking their way blithely up the switchboard
"Yalies," his wife Alexandra told me he said."We can't draw any con-clusionsfromYalies."Says Mrs. Milgram, "Stanley was sure ifhe went beyond the col-lege community he would get a more representative sample, andmore defiance," so he did. Milgram put an ad in the New HavenRegister, an ad calling for able-bodied men between the ages oftwentyand fifty,"factory workers, skilled laborers, professionals,cooks."He recruited a young Alan Elms, then a graduate student atYale, to help him find and keep a steady supply ofvolunteers.Elms,who is now sixty-seven and teaching at the University of Davis,clearly remembers his work with Milgram.Elms's voice is slow,tired.I cannot help but think it is the voice of a man who has beenshocked himself, seen something bad. "Are you glad you werethere?"I ask him."Oh yes,"Elms says.He sighs."It was a very,verypowerful thing.It is not something you would forget."He pauses,"1will neverregretbeing involved."And so started the experiments, that summer of 1961, the summerofabnormally warm weather, ofa bat infestation in the church's bel-fry,the summer you went stumbling down the sidestreets, adclutched in your hand. All together, Milgram recruited, with Elms'shelp, over a hundred New Haven men.He tested them almost alwaysat night. This gave the whole thing a ghoulish air, which it did notneed, for there were mock screams and skulls on the generator.Milgram alerted the area police:You may hear of people being tor-tured.Itis nottrue.It isanact.An act, apparently,that was quite convincing to the subjects, whosweated and squirmed their way through at the experimenter's prod-dings. Many were visibly upset at being told to continue administer-ing the shocks;one subject had a laughing convulsion so severe theexperiment had to be stopped.Laughing?Why laughing? The oddthing was, there was a lot oflaughter going on, a lot ofstrangled hee-haws and belly-aching bursts. Some have said the laughter indicatesthat everyone knew Milgram the Imp had struck again, that this wasjusta frivolousjokeSome sayhissubjectswerelaughing athim,such
"Yalies, " his wife Alexandra told me he said. "W e can't draw any con - clusions fromYalies. " Says Mrs. Milgram, "Stanley was sure if he went beyond the college communit y he would get a mor e representative sample, and mor e defiance," so he did. Milgram put an ad in the New Haven Register, an ad calling for able-bodied me n between the ages of twenty and fifty, "factory workers, skilled laborers, professionals, cooks. " He recruited a young Alan Elms, then a graduate student at Yale, to help him find and keep a steady supply of volunteers. Elms, w h o is no w sixty-seven and teaching at the University of Davis, clearly remembers his wor k with Milgram. Elms's voic e is slow, tired. I cannot help but think it is the voic e of a ma n wh o has bee n shocked himself, seen something bad. "Ar e you glad you wer e there? " I ask him. "O h yes," Elms says. He sighs. "It was a very, very powerful thing. It is not something you would forget." He pauses. "I will never regret being involved." A n d so started the experiments, that summe r of 1961 , the summe r of abnormally warm weather, of a bat infestation in the church's belfry, the summe r you wen t stumbling down the side streets, ad clutched in your hand. All together, Milgram recruited, with Elms's help, over a hundred Ne w Haven men . He tested them almost always at night. This gave the whol e thing a ghoulish air, whic h it did not need, for there were moc k screams and skulls on the generator. Milgram alerted the area police : Yo u may hear of peopl e being tortured. It is not true. It is an act. An act, apparently, that was quite convincing to the subjects, wh o sweated and squirmed their way through at the experimenter's proddings. Man y were visibly upset at being told to continue administering the shocks; on e subject had a laughing convulsion so severe the experimen t had to be stopped. Laughing? Wh y laughing? Th e odd thing was, there was a lot of laughter going on, a lot of strangled hee - haws and belly-aching bursts. Som e have said the laughter indicates that everyone kne w Milgram the Imp had struck again, that this was just a frivolous joke . Som e say his subjects wer e laughing at him, such
anobvious bitoftrickery-Elms disagrees."People werelaughing outofanxiety.Wewere laughing,Milgram and I,out of discomfort."Milgram and Elms observed the subjects behind a one-way mirror,and in between filming the unbelievable obedience they themselvescould not have predicted, they dabbed at their eyes with hankies, forsomethingherewas horribly,horribly funny.That scholars and writers have used the laughter present duringthe experiment as a sign of its essential frivolousness shows littleabout the experiment and a lot about the rather simplistic notionswe hold in regards to comedy,tragedy, and the connections betweenthe two. Comedy and tragedy are inextricably intertwined, in sign, insymbol,in etymology.Milgram himselflaughed one moment,andsaid inanother that what he had discovered was "terrifying anddepressing."Alexandra Milgram reports,"The results, which he didNOT expect to be so high,made him cynical about people."Ofcourse they did. Milgram had expected compliance, but not at theastounding rate of sixty-five percent of subjects willing to deliverwhat they believed were lethal shocks.No, he had not expected that.In an attempt to coax more defiance out ofhis subjects, he varied theconditions. He moved the learner into the room with the subject,removed the microphone,and had the subject deliver the shocks byforcing the learner's hand onto a metal plate.Compliance did dropthen, but not by much. Terrifying, Depressing, yes. A full thirty per-cent of subjects were willing to repeatedly slam the learner's handonto the shock plate,endure the sound ofhis screams, and watch himslump over, all under orders from the experimenter.Milgram'sexperiment was funded by the National ScienceFoundation,The monies came in June.July and August passed in asizzle ofblue sparks.In September,only three months into the exper-iment, Milgram wrote to his backers, telling them ofhis results:"In anaive moment some time ago, I once wondered whether in all oftheUnited States a vicious government could find enough moral imbe-ciles to meet the personal requirements ofa national system ofdeathcamps, of the sort that were maintained in Germany.I am now
an obvious bit of trickery. Elms disagrees. "Peopl e were laughing out of anxiety. We wer e laughing, Milgram and I, out of discomfort." Milgram and Elms observed the subjects behind a one-wa y mirror, and in between filming the unbelievable obedienc e they themselves could not have predicted, they dabbed at their eyes with hankies, for something here was horribly, horribly funny. Tha t scholars and writers have used the laughter present during the experimen t as a sign of its essential frivolousness shows little about the experimen t and a lot about the rather simplistic notions we hold in regards to comedy, tragedy, and the connection s between the two. Comed y and tragedy are inextricably intertwined, in sign, in symbol, in etymology. Milgram himself laughed on e moment , and said in anothe r that wha t he had discovered was "terrifying and depressing." Alexandra Milgram reports, "Th e results, whic h he did N O T expec t t o b e s o high, made him cynical about people. " Of course they did. Milgram had expected compliance , but not at the astounding rate of sixty-five percent of subjects willing to deliver what they believed wer e lethal shocks. No , he had not expected that. In an attempt to coa x mor e defiance out of his subjects, he varied the conditions. He moved the learner into the room with the subject, removed the microphone , and had the subject deliver the shocks by forcing the learner's hand ont o a metal plate. Complianc e did drop then, but not by much . Terrifying. Depressing, yes. A full thirty percent of subjects were willing to repeatedly slam the learner's hand onto the shock plate, endure the sound of his screams, and watch him slump over, all under orders from the experimenter. Milgram's experimen t was funded by the Nationa l Scienc e Foundation. Th e monie s came in June . Jul y and August passed in a sizzle of blue sparks. In September, only three month s into the experiment, Milgram wrot e to his backers, telling them of his results: "In a naive momen t some time ago, I onc e wondered whethe r in all of the United States a vicious government could find enoug h moral imbe - ciles to mee t the personal requirements of a national system of death camps, of the sort that were maintained in Germany. I am now