1929: Inside the Greatest Crash in Wall Street History--and How It Shattered a Nation

“The room was furnished with the high formality befitting an eighteenth-century statesman: antique wood chairs, a grandfather clock that stood against the cream-white woodwork flanked by portraits of George Washington orchestrating the newly independent nation with the purpose and resolve that Mitchell sought to emulate in his own life.”

This description of Mitchell’s office uses physical setting to reveal his character and self-perception, and example of Sorkin’s story-telling style. The comparison to a statesman and the specific reference to George Washington illustrate Mitchell’s grandiose view of himself as a foundational figure guiding the nation’s economic destiny. This self-image establishes the theme of The Tensions Between Private and Public Stakeholder Interests by framing his authority as overweening. It prefigures his hubristic downfall following the 1929 crash.

“Q: Is not commercial credit based primarily on money or property? A: No, sir, the first thing is character.”

This exchange from J. Pierpont Morgan’s 1912 congressional testimony distills the traditional ethos of Wall Street, which valued reputation and personal relationships above all else. With this dialogue, Sorkin establishes the old-world personal nature of business prior to the emerging corporate-financial world of the late 1920s, implicit exposition which helps ground the reader in this historical context.

“There was not a single word about the runaway stock market or the need to rein in speculation. If these were to be priorities of the new administration, he was keeping them under wraps for now.”

Occurring at the end of the chapter describing President Hoover’s inauguration, the narrative voice employs dramatic irony to create suspense and foreshadow future events. This establishes a key aspect of the theme The Importance of Political Leadership in Times of Crisis by highlighting Hoover’s critical failure to address the market’s instability at the outset of his new presidency. This passage introduces Sorkin’s argument that Hoover’s tentative approach contributed to the causes of the 1929 crash.

“Then the crew began to ‘paint the tape,’ making the stock look hot by trading among themselves. […] By Wednesday, The Wall Street Journal reported that RCA had soared to ‘fresh record levels on the activities of big operators who have sponsored RCA’s market for the last several weeks.’”

This passage explains how Michael Meehan’s pool artificially inflated RCA’s stock price. The jargon “paint the tape” is an example of Sorkin’s diction, which immerses the reader into this clique. By embedding this with a gloss, the narrative also ensures a level of accessibility to the general reader.

“I am, however, always prepared to condemn mutiny, such as I think may be directly charged to Mr. Mitchell […] There are many reasons for the flowing of credit into the wildly speculative New York market which need to be taken into account and very carefully considered. About these matters men may differ; but never about insubordination nor about the vice of avowing one’s obligation to stock gambling as superior to one’s sworn obligation to his country.”

Writing to a colleague, Senator Carter Glass frames Charles Mitchell’s market intervention in starkly moral and political terms. By directly quoting from a primary source, Sorkin establishes the central ideological conflict between Wall Street’s private interests and the nation’s public good, foreshadowing the political reckoning that will follow the crash. This enables the reader to directly experience Glass’s condemnatory diction like “mutiny,” “insubordination,” and “vice,” terminology which contrasts with the book’s more objective narrative voice.

“‘I have been accused of being the bull leader of the market,’ Durant said. ‘If this means that I am a bull on the United States of America, I am forced to plead guilty.’”

In his radio address opposing the Federal Reserve, William Durant employs a rhetorical strategy that conflates stock market speculation with patriotism. By framing his bullish stance on stocks as a belief in the nation itself, Durant recasts regulatory concern as a lack of faith in America’s future. This passage is an example of the book’s exposure of self-interest posing as public interest, central to the theme of The Relationship Between Financial Manipulation, Risk, and Deception.

“In the twenty-two years since it had opened, the famous hotel, which sat at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South, and which had been modeled after a French château, had become both a tourist attraction—famous for its afternoon teas—and a haunt for New York’s business elite.

The doormen and bellhops knew Mitchell well: He was on the board of directors of the real estate company that owned the hotel.”

This passage demonstrates Sorkin’s story-telling technique, often imbuing his narrative with a novelesque level of descriptive detail in order to engage the reader. Here, incidental description—such as the “afternoon teas” is used to enliven the portrayal of 1929 New York, especially the luxury and excess of the 1920s. Sorkin uses the perspective of the “doormen and bellhops” to soften the exposition of the next sentence. Placing the Plaza Hotel enables readers to identify a present-day landmark, emphasizing the sense of parallel between the book’s content and the present day which supports the work’s didactic relevance.

“Stock prices have reached what looks like a permanently high plateau…I do not feel there will be soon, if ever be, a 50 or 60 point break from present levels, such as [bears] have predicted. I expect to see the stock market a good deal higher within a few months.”

This quote from Yale economist Irving Fisher, is used by Sorkin to demonstrate the hubris of the speculative fever in the late 1920s, relying on common knowledge of the cyclical nature of the economy to create dramatic irony and sardonic humor. As the concept of a “permanently high plateau” departs from a common-sense analysis of market patterns, this quote is an example of the more egregious errors of economic prediction in 1929.

“It certainly would be ill-advised ‘by premature action of any kind, to throw a monkey wrench into financial and economic machinery which appears to be functioning, on the whole, for the greater good of the people.’”

In a letter to President Hoover, Lamont uses a mechanical metaphor—the “monkey wrench”—to argue against government intervention in the stock market. The phrasing portrays the market as a complex but well-functioning machine and regulation as a crude, destructive act, revealing the laissez-faire ideology that dominated high finance. Lamont’s paternalistic claim that this machinery functions “for the greater good of the people” falsely frames the bankers’ self-interest as a form of public service, a key focus of Sorkin’s investigation into the causes of the crash. By quoting Lamont directly from primary sources, Sorkin allows these words to stand for themselves against their writer, while explicitly providing the evidence which confers his argument with rhetorical logos.

“‘There has been a little distress selling on the stock exchange this morning,’ Lamont dryly acknowledged […] ‘We consider the situation on the floor of the stock exchange this morning a technical one rather than fundamental,’ Lamont continued, adding the market was ‘susceptible to betterment.’”

This passage is part of 1929’s presentation of the role of public confidence on the markets. During the panic of Black Thursday, Lamont addresses the press with carefully-chosen language designed to control the public narrative and quell hysteria. The use of litotes in “a little distress selling” is a deliberate understatement that minimizes the scale of the financial collapse unfolding just across the street. By framing the crisis as “technical rather than fundamental,” Lamont attempts to project an image of control and reassure investors that the economy’s underlying health is sound, an act that directly engages with the theme of the importance of political leadership in times of crisis.

“‘To my fellow former millionaires,’ Mitchell began, his usual ebullience touched by sarcasm.”

At a dinner party hosted by Baruch, Mitchell offers this toast while privately grappling with the knowledge that his bank is on the brink of collapse. The line employs irony, as Mitchell uses dark humor to acknowledge the incipient ruin of himself and his hearers. This dinner party contrasts with previous episodes in the book such as Raskob’s lavish dinner in Chapter 10, emphasizing the narrative’s dramatic arc of hubristic downfall.

“Liquidate labor, liquidate stocks, liquidate the farmers, liquidate real estate […] It will purge the rottenness out of the system. High costs of living and high living will come down. People will work harder, live a more moral life.”

In a private meeting, Treasury Secretary Andrew Mellon offers this advice to President Hoover, articulating a stark, liquidationist philosophy for dealing with the crash. The anaphora in the repeated command “liquidate” reflects Mellon’s political experience and use of rhetoric. Mellon’s biblical diction frames a possible economic crisis in puritanical and moralistic terms, casting speculation as “rottenness” and the downturn as a necessary “purge,” a perspective that directly informs the Hoover administration’s initially laissez-faire response. This is central to Sorkin’s theme of the importance of political leadership in times of crisis, as the victims of the crisis will be ordinary people, as well as the corrupt financial elites.

“‘At one of the trading posts,’ reported The New York Times, ‘the newspaper record of the trading on October 24, the 16,000,000-share day when the greatest breaks in prices occurred, was burned as an indication of desiring never to be reminded of it again.’”

This passage describes a symbolic act on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange on the last trading day of 1929. The ceremonial burning of the newspaper record represents a collective, and ultimately futile, attempt to erase the trauma of the crash through a ritual of purification and denial. Here, Sorkin relies on historical foreknowledge to create dramatic irony, as the traders’ futile desire to forget the event precedes the Great Depression, which would permanently sear the crash into the nation’s memory.

“I can now see that I have not been a banker. I really wonder if I have not been a pirate.”

This quote from Julian Sherrod’s exposé, Scapegoats, crystallizes the post-Crash moral awakening and the disillusionment of Mitchell, quoted anonymously by Sherrod. This evidence is part of the relative rehabilitation of Mitchell’s character toward the end of 1929, based on the regret he expressed. The language “pirate” is echoed Sorkin’s later passage describing the Mitchell’s study, designed like a ship, and “an ironic sign of [his] perilous state” (297), an example of Sorkin’s use of imagery to build his narrative argument.

“‘In this emergency, it is just one fixing job after another,’ he complained. ‘There is an international crack to fill up, then an industrial leak and then an agricultural flood. I am just a repairman. I don’t have any time to do anything new.’”

President Hoover’s private complaint reveals his governing philosophy and its limitations during the escalating crisis. The metaphor of a “repairman” dealing with “cracks,” “leaks,” and “floods” frames the Depression as a series of discrete mechanical failures rather than a systemic collapse requiring a new political or economic vision. Hoover’s own language reflects his nickname “The Great Engineer,” used sarcastically by Wall Street to suggest that he lacks creative vision and ambition. This characterization of his leadership as reactive and technical, rather than inspirational, directly illustrates the theme the importance of political leadership in times of crisis by highlighting the mismatch between his engineering mindset and the nation’s need for bold, reassuring action.

“God help you when they get through with you.”

Hoover delivers this warning to Wall Street’s most powerful bankers after they resist his plea to create a private credit pool to save weaker institutions. By positioning himself as an intermediary between the bankers’ self-interest and the coming political retribution, Hoover’s words signal that the era of unchecked private power is over. By quoting Hoover directly, Sorkin emphasizes the ideological clash between the financial and political world, and the retribution that will follow.

“They stood, in the mind of the financially unsophisticated public, for safety, strength, prudence and high-mindedness, and they were supposed to be captained by men of unimpeachable integrity, possessing almost mythical business genius and foresight.”

This passage articulates prosecutor Pecora’s strategic motivation for targeting Mitchell. The narrator’s diction—“mythical business genius,” “unimpeachable integrity”—establishes the inflated public perception of financial leaders that the Pecora hearings were designed to dismantle. This quote emphasizes Sorkin’s argument that the public were the innocent victims of the crash, part of his exploration of ethics in relation to capitalism, power, democracy, and regulation.

“‘I realize that if these declarations be made by the President-elect, he will have ratified the whole major program of the Republican Administration; that is, it means the abandonment of ninety percent of the so-called new deal,’ he wrote […]. ‘But unless this is done, they run a grave danger of precipitating a complete financial debacle. If it is precipitated, the responsibility lies squarely with them for they have had ample warning—unless, of course, such a debacle is part of the “new deal.”’”

In a letter, President Hoover reveals his bitter understanding of the political stalemate with President-elect Roosevelt during the banking crisis. Hoover’s tone is a mix of astute political analysis and personal resentment, framing Roosevelt’s refusal to cooperate as a cynical strategy to ensure a “clean slate.” The concluding sarcastic phrase, “unless, of course, such a debacle is part of the ‘new deal,’” uses rhetoric to cast his opponent’s inaction as a deliberate, destructive choice. This quote directly contrasts the two men’s philosophies, illustrating the theme of the importance of political leadership in times of crisis by showing how their personal and political calculations directly influenced the nation’s economic trajectory.

“‘If I go in and buy a pound of coffee there is no indication as to what the grocer paid for it and what profit he got for it,’ Mitchell said, defending his approach.”

During his testimony before the Pecora Committee, Charles Mitchell uses a flawed analogy to defend his bank’s practice of selling securities without disclosing its profit margins. By comparing a complex financial instrument to a simple commodity, Mitchell minimizes the inherent risks and the fiduciary duty owed to his customers. This statement reveals a worldview that equates investment banking with simple retail, a perspective that justified opaque and manipulative practices under the guise of normal business, as explored in the theme the relationship between financial manipulation, risk, and deception. The simplicity of the analogy, offered in a formal hearing, underscores his profound disconnect from the growing public demand for transparency and accountability.

“On November 13, 1929, while National City Bank had been mercilessly closing out thousands of its customer accounts for insufficient margin, it had sought to ‘sustain the morale of the organization and to protect the officers in the existing emergency’ by establishing a fund of $2.4 million […] By comparison, low-level employees who had pledged deductions from their salary to buy stock […] had not been let off the hook and were forced to keep making payments toward the full purchase price long after the crash.”

This passage is an example of Sorkin’s investigation into the double standards of the bank’s behavior, showing that ordinary people were the victims of the bank’s self-serving survival strategy. The author uses emotive language such as “mercilessly” to portray this explicitly as an injustice, an example of the book’s combination of objective and subjective rhetorical techniques.

“‘Practices of the unscrupulous money changers stand indicted in the court of public opinion, rejected by the hearts and minds of men,’ he said. […] ‘The money changers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths.’”

In his inaugural address, Franklin D. Roosevelt uses a powerful biblical allusion, comparing Wall Street financiers to the “money changers” cast out of the temple by Jesus. This rhetoric reframes the financial crisis as a moral failure requiring a national restoration of values. The speech is quoted to signal a fundamental shift in the relationship between Washington and Wall Street, establishing the theme of the importance of political leadership in times of crisis by asserting moral authority for new financial regulation.

“You know that men like Jack Morgan, Russell Leffingwell, Parker Gilbert, and George Whitney would cut off their right arm before doing anything wrong. But we’re not infallible; we’ve made mistakes. Don’t put us in City Bank’s class. Don’t make the mistake of breaking Jack’s heart and your own policies at the same time.”

In a private meeting with President Roosevelt, Thomas Lamont attempts to separate the House of Morgan from the disgraced National City Bank. His plea reveals the Wall Street establishment’s belief in its own exceptionalism and its failure to grasp the totality of public condemnation. The use of hyperbolic, character-based appeals (“cut off their right arm,” “breaking Jack’s heart”) shows Lamont relying on an outdated code of personal honor that is ineffective against the new political demand for systemic, impersonal regulation.

“‘The most dramatic show in town is the trial of Charles Mitchell, lately head of America’s largest bank,’ wrote columnist Howard Vincent O’Brien. ‘It is not the trial of a man, but of an era.’”

This secondary quote, used by the author to open the chapter on Charles Mitchell’s trial, frames the proceedings as a symbolic referendum on the financial culture of the 1920s. This explicitly highlights how Mitchell was viewed as emblematic of the 1920s—and the 1929 crash—prefiguring the book’s later discussion of how Mitchell was used as a public example in the courts and press.