Marshall McLuhan started out like most of the celebrated academic oracles of the past 100 years or so, namely, writing things that were incomprehensible to l’homme moyen intellectuel, which is French for what I call your average culturatus. Your average culturatus has a B.A. from Rutgers, a thin wife, a Volkswagen, a subscription to Architectural Forum, white Saarinen pedestal chairs in the dining alcove, a Fisher hi-fi, all the Beatles albums from Revolver on, brown bread in the bread box, a McCarthy button, a lapsed pledge card from core, and an idea for a science-fiction novel about a planet inhabited by holy primitives.
Source: wiktionary
In short, every culturally literate person, every culturatus, must know who Oblomov is, if he or she intends to participate in the cultural discourse, but no one will ever be blackballed from that discourse for not recognising the name “Goncharov” or not having read his novel from cover to cover.
Source: wiktionary
Still, one has only to meet Professor Malcolm Coppleson, Macquarie Street gynaecologist and culturatus, a regular on the world medical-lecture circuit, to recognise a man of wit.
Source: wiktionary
Of all the careers embodying the Gilded Age’s beau ideal of the musical gentleman culturatus, the most spectacular was that of Rupert Hughes (1872–1956), the only classical music critic to become a millionaire and Hollywood celebrity.
Source: wiktionary
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