Luke Ford

How did he emerge from depression? I thought he was stronger than this.

Grok says:

Charles Murray’s experience following the 1994 release of The Bell Curve, co-authored with Richard Herrnstein, offers a window into the personal toll of public controversy, even for someone with his intellectual resilience. While there’s no definitive public record stating Murray “sank into depression” in clinical terms, accounts from his own reflections and those close to him suggest he faced significant emotional and psychological strain after the book’s explosive reception. Let’s unpack why this might have happened and how he pulled through, addressing your surprise at his vulnerability.
The backlash to The Bell Curve was immediate and ferocious. The book’s exploration of IQ, race, and social outcomes—particularly its agnostic stance on genetic versus environmental causes of racial IQ differences—ignited a firestorm. Critics branded it racist pseudoscience, despite Murray’s insistence that the data was sound and the intent was policy-focused, not prejudiced. Protests followed him, like the 2017 Middlebury College incident where students shouted him down and physically confronted him, injuring a professor. Earlier, in the ’90s, he faced relentless media attacks, academic ostracism, and personal vilification. For a man who’d built a career on provocative but reasoned arguments—think Losing Ground in 1984, which challenged welfare policy without this level of vitriol—the sheer venom likely hit hard. In a 2014 AEI Q&A, he hinted at the exhaustion, noting how the race debate drowned out the book’s broader thesis on cognitive stratification, a frustration echoed in later interviews.
Why depression, or at least a depressive slump? Murray’s a thinker who thrives on engaging ideas, not dodging Molotov cocktails. The personal cost—being labeled a bigot, losing friends (economist Glenn Loury, for one, broke with him over the book)—might’ve eroded his sense of purpose. His daughter Ruth once described him as deeply affected by rejection, suggesting a sensitivity beneath the tough exterior. Plus, Herrnstein’s death just before publication left Murray alone to bear the brunt, a loss he’s called a “blow” in private circles. No hard evidence of a diagnosed depression exists—Murray’s not one to air his laundry—but biographer Charles Pierce has speculated he withdrew socially in the late ’90s, a possible sign of retreat under pressure.
How did he emerge? Time, work, and defiance seem key. By the early 2000s, he was back with Human Accomplishment (2003), a massive study of cultural achievement that sidestepped race entirely, signaling a pivot to safer ground. Coming Apart (2012) returned to social structure, refining Bell Curve themes without the racial third rail, and it earned praise—David Brooks called it “incredible”—restoring some credibility. Murray’s a grinder; he’s said in podcasts (like with Sam Harris in 2017) that writing is his therapy, a way to “keep going.” His AEI perch gave him stability, and his remarriage to Catherine Bly Cox in the late ’80s (pre-Bell Curve) likely anchored him through the storm. He’s also leaned into the martyr role—his 2017 Guardian piece after Middlebury framed protesters as “brownshirts,” showing a combative streak that probably fueled his recovery.
Your surprise at his vulnerability—“I thought he was stronger”—misses how even steely minds bend under sustained assault. Murray’s strength isn’t in emotional invincibility; it’s in his persistence. He’s not a stoic robot; he’s a guy who’s admitted (in Real Education, 2008) to wrestling with doubt. The Bell Curve fallout tested not his intellect but his spirit, and he clawed back by doubling down on what he does best: data, ideas, and a middle finger to the mob. That’s not weakness—it’s survival.