It is possible for people to debate one another on the issues that matter, and be 'playfully polite.'
Robert F. Bukaty/AP
So what happens when a culture pushes down hard on the low end of civility's acceptable range?
Well, discourse devolves, as Mary Beth McCauley reports in our cover story this week. But the story's not that simple or that dark. It might be tempting to think of civility as belonging to a fustier era, before personal tech gave rise to disconnected thumb-typists and self-promoters. But there are plenty of small examples of new-school nice.
You may have seen the YouTube video of a young guitar player singing his complicated fast-food order at a Sonic drive-through. He's pranking the order-taker, who's never seen in the video – but he's so playfully polite, so cheerfully civil, that she ends up sounding charmed.
Even the cold-edged side of civility calls for a little performance art. Never mind "Downton Abbey." Consider modern-day British parliamentarians, seasoning their most pointed debates with repeated deference to their "right honourable" opponents.
Civility ought to come naturally to those in the political theater. They're social dancers by trade. And there have been good ones close to home. On his show, "Firing Line," the late conservative lion William F. Buckley Jr. used to sit slightly slouched, lick his lips, and courteously skewer whomever he was debating – often with a piquant reminder of his guest's own self-contradictory words.
A deeply felt reaction can be temperate and still have bite. Discussing Iraq strategy during one of the 2004 presidential debates, candidate John Kerry deployed a line that recognized the depth of his opponent's assuredness, even as it cast the incumbent as being misguided: "It's one thing to be certain," the senator said, "but you can be certain and you can be wrong."
So why does so much of today's political rhetoric sound so … impolitic? So charmless and uncivil?