Prejudices

In 1911, a sharp-tongued Minnesota writer published a book of essays about the things he hated, loved, and couldn't stop observing, and accidentally created a minor classic of American humor. Charles Macomb Flandrau's "Prejudices" isn't about prejudice in the modern sense; it's a collection of "prejudices" in the older meaning: personal quirks, pet peeves, and the peculiar things that reveal who we really are. The book opens with an essay on dogs that remains genuinely wonderful, a meditation on how one's feelings toward animals serve as an X-ray of the soul. From there, Flandrau wanders through topics like the social crimes of elevator operators, the type of people who send anonymous letters, and why certain acquaintances exhaust us. His wit has the gentle bite of a man who notices everything and forgives little, but with a warmth that prevents him from ever becoming cruel. These essays feel like sitting across from a witty uncle at dinner, someone who makes you laugh, think, and quietly reconsider your own habits. They capture a vanished America with precision and affection, written in a style that feels both antique and startlingly current.