For the record, non-fiction writer Ada Calhoun is *not* "also a poet." Her book wanted to be a biography of Frank O’Hara but it’s not that, either. ItFor the record, non-fiction writer Ada Calhoun is *not* "also a poet." Her book wanted to be a biography of Frank O’Hara but it’s not that, either. It almost wound up being a memoir, but alas, it’s not quite that, either.
Honestly, her book had no choice in the matter. Her father Peter Schjeldahl had collected all manner of taped interviews of people who knew Frank O’Hara, intending to write a biography of the New York School poet, but it all came to naught, partly because of his make-up and mostly because of the recalcitrance of O’Hara’s sister Maureen Granville-Smith, who is the literary executor of Frank’s estate.
Upon discovery of the tapes, daughter Ada decides to fill Dad’s big shoes by writing Frank’s bio herself, picking up where he left off. Only there’s this problem called Maureen Granville-Smith, still alive and well, still recalcitrant, and every bit as stubborn about blocking a bio by Ada as she was a bio by her dad.
This leaves Ada with little choice but to write a semi-biographical O’Hara book and a semi-memoir of herself book — the story of her attempt to write an O’Hara biography, how it brought to a head some lifelong issues she’d had with her dad, and how the manuscript wrestled on the floor, two genres fighting it out to a draw.
Thus you get word-for-word excerpts from Peter’s tapes of people who knew Frank O’Hara because Dad gave Ada permission to try where he failed. She fails, too, and provides a transcript of her phone conversation with Frank’s sister, who comes across as a termagant sure that no one can do her boy Frank justice.
Weird.
But the book itself is weirdly wonderful. It leans more frankly in a biography kind of way in the first half, then in a decisive memoir kind of way in the second. What is it about these artistic fathers who don’t know how to love their children, even when their children enter the same trade, in this case, the trade of writing? Rhetorical question.
Interesting? Firstly the excerpts from the tapes. Then, as the story builds, the dynamic between father and daughter. And trivia. Lots of trivia and odd bits, like Ada sharing her favorite O’Hara poem, which led me to my copy of The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara edited by Donald Allen. For the curious, here it is:
To the Harbormaster
I wanted to be sure to reach you; though my ship was on the way it got caught in some moorings. I am always tying up and then deciding to depart. In storms and at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide around my fathomless arms, I am unable to understand the forms of my vanity or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder in my hand and the sun sinking. To you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage of my will. The terrible channels where the wind drives me against the brown lips of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet I trust the sanity of my vessel; and if it sinks, it may well be in answer to the reasoning of the eternal voices, the waves which have kept me from reaching you.
No, not O’Hara’s most famous poem by any means, but probably one that speaks to Ada Calhoun because she reads “father-daughter” into it (whereas O’Hara had some other relationship in mind).
Another oddity: one of O’Hara’s (who worked at the MoMA) favorite paintings is Rembrandt’s The Polish Rider. Again, not something that comes to mind when one thinks of the Dutch Master smoking cigars while New York poets originally from Grafton, MA, (of all nearby places!) might choose one of his works as “great,” but Frank kind of liked the looks of the horseman. You can find him riding online. The Pole, not Frank.
OK, wrap-up time.
Who would like this unaligned genre of a book? Certainly peeps interested in poetry in general and O’Hara in particular. Or fans of the anything-goes NYC scene in the 50s and 60s (even were he never struck and killed in July of '66 by a dune buggy at the beach on Fire Island, I fear O’Hara’s liver would have taken him down soon enough). Or readers with a particular interest in problematic family relationships— in this case, a daughter who must forge a separate peace because the daddy she so wants to impress is who he is, as imperfect as any Y-chromosome can be.
If you fit one of those descriptions, you should pick it up. If not and you're curious, pick it up as well. Over, out, and also a poet,
Chronic pain affects around 10% of people worldwide. Most of them are “forgotten people” because modern medicine—busy as hell with people it CAN diagnChronic pain affects around 10% of people worldwide. Most of them are “forgotten people” because modern medicine—busy as hell with people it CAN diagnose—pretty much gives them a label (fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, myofascial pain syndrome) and wishes them luck because they’ll need it.
They have plenty of company, too. The CDC says each year half a million people in the U.S. are diagnosed with Lyme or some other tick-borne disease causing a constellation of chronic pain conditions. Add to that the Lyme sufferers who are NOT diagnosed and you get books like New York Times columnist Ross Douthat’s The Deep Places: A Memoir of Illness and Discovery.
Who reads books depicting misery like this? Chiefly people in chronic pain. Sick, isn’t it? I mean, the sick reading about the sick, hoping for succor, hoping for a blueprint on how to escape the maze.
The trouble? No Lyme sufferer is exactly alike. And once the CDC says you’re fine (when you feel anything but), no Lyme protocol from the “out there” doctors is exactly alike, either. Each patient reacts differently to various antibiotics, tinctures, herbs, not to mention (though Ross does) magnets, Rife machines, and medicines found on a veterinarian's shelf, not a doctor's.
Meaning: Peeps in pain read books about specific cases, like Ross’s, for a strange form of relief. Years, Ross suffered, going through a gauntlet of both physical and mental duress as well as doctors intended to treat them. The ELISA and Western Blot tests told him he did not have Lyme. The years of unsanctioned treatment that brought him back told him otherwise.
So yes, he got caught in the tug or war between the extremes of conventional medicine, backed by the now-dinged reputation (Covid, anyone?) of the CDC and the sometimes legit, sometimes whack job “Lyme doctors” who might lead lost sheep out of the darkness or might instead fleece them with no positive result. And yes, it's all here, in this book.
Sick, reading stuff like this, but also riveting in its way. Ross’s goal is to shed light on both sides of the somehow fanatical opponents in the world of Lyme (the two sides fight while people suffer). He sees points to both rivals' arguments, but definitely leans toward the side that saved him—the outliers.
In fact, he himself becomes an outlier, experimenting in a “don’t try this at home” kind of way, proving, as he does so, that Lyme victims who test negative on the CDC’s woeful ELISA and Western Blot tests often find relief after years of “other treatments” at great cost.
Don’t have much money for treatments and the doctors who don’t accept insurance? You might be doomed to a lifetime of chronic pain and the depression sure to ride shotgun. Do have money? Prepare to spend your savings to uncertain results (though no chronic pain victim believes money worth more than returning to the health they once took for granted).
Sick, sick, sick, reading this stuff. Bringing odd pleasure to equally sick readers. And less sick readers. And more sick readers. But, I have to believe, never to completely healthy readers, who’d have little reason to even pick up a horror story like this.
Thus, if you suffer chronic pain of unknown provenance, or if you have Lyme, or if you’ve tested negative for Lyme but feel like you’re an abandoned pawn on some medical chessboard, The Deep Places may just be the deep dive you need to spend an awful lot of money, starting with the blood test at a “predatory lab” where “everyone tests positive for Lyme” (quoting conventional doctors here).
Good God, what a mess. And the hope that Long Covid sufferers, who seem to be better accepted by modern medicine than the labeled crowd and the Lyme crowd, might help us learn more about unexplained pain (tests say they're healthy, but reality says they're anything but) could prove a false alarm. Here in Maine, for instance, a big Portland hospital just shut its novel and commendable “Long Covid Facility,” telling patients that their primary care physicians can now assume the role of treating them without a problem.
On the cover of Foster is a pithy David Mitchell blurb: "As good as Chekhov."
Wow. Go there, Mitch. Where angels fear to tread.
Really, if I were authorOn the cover of Foster is a pithy David Mitchell blurb: "As good as Chekhov."
Wow. Go there, Mitch. Where angels fear to tread.
Really, if I were author of this book, I might be flattered as hell with those words, but it would seem bad ju-ju to plaster them all over the cover, so either Claire Keegan is one confident scribe or the marketing team at Grove Press is one to be reckoned with (incoming Russian missile -- Chekhov, no less!).
Speaking of marketing, much like the other Keegan I read and enjoyed in October, Small Things Like These, this isn't really a novel. Novella, maybe? I suppose, at 92 pp., but when you consider the huge font, perhaps even a long short story is more honest.
Wasn't it Poe comma Edgar "Spell-My-Middle-Name-Right" Allan the one who defined a short story as a piece of literature one read in a single sitting, one that had a single powerful effect? Check (but not -hov) and check (but not Chekhov)!
Whatever. Call it a hedgehog, if you wish. It's a curious little period piece that reminds me of America's pastoral past. You know, a place where schools are actually off summers so children can help with the harvest.
No, wait. This is Ireland, not Indiana. One's a red state, the other a green state -- or in Keegan's adept hands, a "read" state.
Dunno. It just feels like comfort food reading tiny little books about family, everyday household and farm tasks, cows, milk, water in dippers, neighbors who drink, neighbors who want to know your business, families with secrets, families who claim to have NO secrets (when, like mammals with hair, shedding all secrets is a familial impossibility), so on, so forth.
And the plot. Simply the oldest in the book. Little girl goes to spend time with relatives on farm and finds in them a distant mirror, one that reflects parts of herself she never knew.
That's all, folks. A challenge to pull off, but Keegan does it with aplomb, with grace, with a minimalist style that hits the right spot as if in answer to a dare.
So, yeah. One sitting. Singular effect. Liked the book, even though not much happens. Makes you wonder if we're ALL novellas or long short stories because nothing much happens. In our lives, I mean (and I'm discounting those who put their every thought and move and dinner and day trip on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or TikTok, to which I can only say #whocares).
In this little protagonist's case, I did care. And if it's as much about subtext as text, so much the better. Unsaid sometimes fills a room more than said.
Or so I've heard said.
Bottom line: Recommended, if low expectations ride shotgun....more
Sadly, I didn't find this outing as strong as the first I read, Night Sky with Exit Wounds. In some cases, TMI to the point of distraction from the poSadly, I didn't find this outing as strong as the first I read, Night Sky with Exit Wounds. In some cases, TMI to the point of distraction from the poet's point. In others, leggy poems that go on and on and lose the narrative thread. Resting on laurels, maybe? Riding your name to Easier Acceptance Lane? (That address doesn't appear on my GPS.)
Dunno. I can't answer, and this is just my opinion. The poem I chose to share (below) is the first in the collection. It's not knock-your-socks-off great, but it had some nice moments worthy of cheer, so here:
The Bull
He stood alone in the backyard, so dark the night purpled around him. I had no choice. I opened the door & stepped out. Wind in the branches. He watched me with kerosene -blue eyes. What do you want? I asked, forgetting I had no language. He kept breathing, to stay alive. I was a boy-- which meant I was a murderer of my childhood. & like all murderers, my god was stillness. My god, he was still there. Like something prayed for by a man with no mouth. The green-blue lamp swirled in its socket. I didn't want him. I didn't want him to be beautiful--but needing beauty to be more than hurt gentle enough to hold, I reached for him. I reached--not the bull-- but the depths. Not an answer but an entrance the shape of an animal. Like me.
I like especially that bit about a boy being "a murderer / of my childhood. & like all murderers, my god / was stillness." That and the two-word finish....more
Written in 1991, so a lot of it is dated, but I really wanted to read it because I'd heard about so many "cures" via Sarno's mind-body connection. I mWritten in 1991, so a lot of it is dated, but I really wanted to read it because I'd heard about so many "cures" via Sarno's mind-body connection. I much enjoyed The Way Out: A Revolutionary, Scientifically Proven Approach to Healing Chronic Pain, read last year, but now I see there's nothing "Revolutionary" about that book's approach at all. It's all pretty much lifted from this one, then given a more modern spin and applied to the entire body vs. the back alone....more
Self-helpful but not really self-help. Philosophical but not really philosophy. Autobiography but the auto only pulls into a few years' parking space.Self-helpful but not really self-help. Philosophical but not really philosophy. Autobiography but the auto only pulls into a few years' parking space.
A different animal, in other words, as Dan Harris comes at us from the heights of ABC television journalism -- an unusual vantage point for a half-Jewish morning news anchor who caught the Buddhism bug. And man, does he struggle. He's intrigued by Buddhism, but also skeptical as hell. It's the skepticism part that appeals because, except for a few woo-woo cases, who ISN'T both intrigued by and left sputtering over Buddhism?
Harris' journey takes him through many "gurus" and writers in the trade, but it takes time to reach the "realistic" Buddhists he craves -- gurus who can help him practice mindfulness without turning into the type of person who gets chewed up and spit out by the dog eat dog world of broadcast journalism.
Two that most definitely don't do it for him are Eckhart Tolle and Deepak Chopra. Two that ultimately resonate with him are Mark Epstein and Joseph Goldstein (part of a group Harris, half Jewish himself, calls the "Jew-Bu" crowd -- Jews who have taken deep dives into Buddhism and become mentors for many others).
In the end, after going on an arduous 10-day retreat, Harris comes out both ambivalent and determined (if that's possible) about mindfulness. He creates his own list (noting how Buddhism has this thing about lists, starting with the Four Noble Truths) he calls "The Way of the Worrier" (get it?):
1. Don't Be a Jerk 2. (And/But...) When Necessary, Hide the Zen 3. Meditate 4. The Price of Security Is Insecurity -- Until It's Not Useful 5. Equanimity Is Not the Enemy of Creativity 6. Don't Force It 7. Humility Prevents Humiliation 8. Go Easy with the Internal Cattle Prod 9. Nonattachment to Results 10. What Matters Most?
Each is fleshed out to the reader's somewhat satisfaction (the reader being as skeptical as our skeptical hero). The end of the book also features a helpful Q & A appendix with answers to head scratchers like so:
1. Remind me, what's the point of this? 2. My mind keeps wandering. Am I a failure? 3. How come I don't feel relaxed? This really sucks. 4. You keep talking about this notion that "you can't help what we feel, only how you respond," but I want to feel different things. Won't meditation do that for me? 5. If I'm in physical pain, should I change position? 6. I keep falling asleep. 7. This is so unbelievably boring. 8. I keep trying to feel the breath as it naturally occurs, but every time I focus on it, I involuntarily start to control it, so it feels artificial. 9. What if I feel panicky and hyperventilate every time I try to watch my breath? 10. Isn't noting just a form of thinking? 11. Is being mindful the same thing as being in the moment? 12. Is meditation good for everyone? 13. You're not a teacher. What business do you have providing meditation instructions? 14. Can I meditate if I'm a believing Christian (or Jew or Muslim, etc.)? Will it erode my faith? 15. What is the least amount of time I can sit and still get the benefits the scientists are always talking about?
Is the book eloquently written? Nah. But the writing's far better than average, too, a tribute to Harris's background in journalism. Breezy reading, then, but with the occasional turn of phrase you might enjoy while learning.
Every once in a while, I need a hit of Buddhism. Something about the complex simplicity of it fascinates me. I would happily have lunch with a koan anEvery once in a while, I need a hit of Buddhism. Something about the complex simplicity of it fascinates me. I would happily have lunch with a koan and guess myself silly through coffee and dessert.
Epstein's book is a bit unique in that he's a psychologist AND practicing Buddhist. That means the ideal reader would be one versed in psychoanalytical as well as Buddhist terms. I got a bit lost at times when Epstein dove into the former. As for the latter, all good, except for occasional guesses (back to my restaurant date).
Plenty of anecdotes from the life of the Buddha and other famous monks (the Dalai Lama even makes a cameo!). Also tales from Epstein's own practice (names of the innocents changed, as Dr. Epstein shows you how the Buddha sometimes has better answers than Freud and Friends).
So, yeah. One of those books where you get lost for a few pages, find yourself, wander down the wrong path again, find yourself, and so forth. A reading experience not unlike monkey mind. If you're looking for a primer, this is not your best choice, though there are moments where Epstein offers some clear advice on meditation practice.
You could interpret the title of Haruki Murakami’s Novelist as a Vocation two ways: a.) as a vocation for you, the reader, or b.) as a vocation for meYou could interpret the title of Haruki Murakami’s Novelist as a Vocation two ways: a.) as a vocation for you, the reader, or b.) as a vocation for me, Murakami, the writer. Reading the book itself, however, will prove that the latter proves more true than the former.
Which is not to say that there are no tips. If you’ve thought about writing a novel, even in a desultory, pipe-dream kind of way, you’ll find all the encouragement you need here. Murakami is of the school that most anyone who can put together sentences can write a novel. It may not be very good, but it will be a novel.
He also sides with the no-way-José to outlining crowd. Just write and follow where your prose leads you. He repeats what I’ve read many, many places before: Characters have a will of their own and will take over like mutineers on the H.M.S. Bounty. For beginners, that has got to be a relief. Sharing the job duties with your characters lightens the load, after all.
Specialized training? No need. MFA? BS (“Be serious.”) It’s all a rather freewheeling, Nike-like “Just do it” kind of affair here.
I can disparage this attitude easily because, well, it’s hole-ier than Swiss cheese that goes to church every Sunday. But then I recall a dear poetry friend (now passed, sadly) who encouraged my early poetry writing all the way to publication. Without the “Just do it and don’t worry about the Ivory Tower types guarding the gates” encouragement she offered, I wouldn't have come as far as I have today. To me, that unabashed “If you like doing it, write” attitude of hers was very much in the Murakami School of Wing-It-and-Have-Fun (even though the hours and loneliness might be brutal and take a toll on your physical health).
But really, this book, originally released seven years ago in Japan, is more memoir like in its approach. Only a few chapters dabble in “How To” mechanics. For the most part, it’s memoir-like, seeing writing through the lens of Murakami’s past books.
When I consider that lens and the fact that this book is a past publication, I wonder how much its rerelease is designed to help sales of Murakami’s oeuvre overall. Not a bad plan, really. Because no matter how laissez-faire or contradictory (at one point saying the act of daily writing can be painful after earlier calling it a joy) or opinionated (with lots of “this is just my opinion" caveats) the book can be, it is interesting to read because Murakami himself is interesting.
And he’s honest. He writes, “I’ve never had the sense that I’m writing for someone else. And I don’t particularly have that feeling even now.” Meaning: This book reads like a love song from Haruki to Haruki. That his legions of readers would love it just as well makes sense. Just know, if you go, that this book is not part of that large stable of books telling you how to write. It’s one man’s journey and, like any man’s journey, that alone can encourage you to write. Or not.
Also, be prepared for some score-settling between a Japanese writer and his country's literary gate keepers. Murakami has had the last laugh already, so I guess this is a victory lap of sorts, a dragging of Hector's body around Troy's battle-scarred walls.
I hope this review helps. If it doesn’t, that’s not my problem. (See, I can be Murakami-like myself! This review, after all, was written for me. If you enjoy, I'm very pleased, of course, but if not, SHRUG.)...more
In poetry, these are salad days for previously underrepresented voices such as LGBTQ, Blacks, writers from different cultures, and yes, women. In thatIn poetry, these are salad days for previously underrepresented voices such as LGBTQ, Blacks, writers from different cultures, and yes, women. In that sense, Taneum Bambrick’s book, Intimacies, Received (I trip over the comma) rides the wave in a few ways. As she directly states in one of her poems when recalling a stranger who asks what she does (“Write”), then what she writes about, she answers, “Gender and sexuality.”
Then she quickly second guesses her response, stating something that’s news to me--the term “sexuality” is chiefly used in academic settings alone, not in other settings, and especially not when conversing with an Uber driver (as she does in the poem).
Bambrick is also inspired to write by a traumatic past. She was raped at age 17 and has struggled with a general fear of straight men ever since. She has undergone therapy and had relationships with men and women alike since then, but if the poems are any indication, it hasn’t been easy. By that I mean, Intimacies, Received is an open book, even if you don't open it.
Capturing some of this zeitgeist is the following poem:
Fever
That winter—without hot water, without a working furnace—I slept for two weeks, waking to swallow Tylenol, to bite at the crusts of one cheese pizza my neighbor placed by the door for me. Before my partner flew to Denmark with his family, he brought the wrong medicine saying my symptoms were like his baby’s when he had the flu. That it would pass quickly, and I wouldn’t need him. I stared off. I lost the weight on the back of my legs and saw triangles lift across my tongue. This is for Maya who told the doctor he diagnosed me wrong. A pale green hospital room. She translated blood test and kidney infection on her phone. For Maya who canceled half a trip to cook me carrots in butter, to sleep bent-legged in my living room with her husband. He doesn’t care for you, she said, come home with us. For my partner, the best part of sex was resting after: his hand on my head on his chest. Heat traveling my lower abdomen. I became immediately sick—my body, like a friend, reacting against him.
There’s a nice variety of styles in the book—narrative, prose, lyrical, ekphrastic, long, short, etc. You won’t get bored. It’s almost diary-like in its frank openness, the kind of thing that makes your typical New Englander squirm (oh, we’ll write about yellow woods and mending walls all right, but sex at every turn?).
Here’s a quick send-off for further flavor:
On the Nightstand, A Bowl of Fabric Roses
Behind our apartment an old river and, behind that, a field of hived bees.
From bed, a horse we could watch—freckled gray— walking the circle permitted by a long leash.
Each morning a farmer came, hammering the metal stake she was roped to a few feet over.
We were having sex when you asked if we could get married. Because I waited to say yes, you stopped moving....more
One oft-heard complaint of literary fiction is that nothing happens. I'm not sure the brow is quite high enough here to meet the "literary fiction" clOne oft-heard complaint of literary fiction is that nothing happens. I'm not sure the brow is quite high enough here to meet the "literary fiction" classification, but it sure meets and exceeds the rigorous requirements of nothing happening.
I mean, sure. SOMEthing happens and keeps happening. After a slow start and some getting used to such erudite silliness, you grow to like the unlikely and unwilling protagonist, math professor Walu Kitu (expert at nothing, which amounts to my sum feelings about what he teaches). And his best friend, the one-legged bulldog named Trigo (searching for a canine love named Nometry?) damn near steals the show.
But really, nothing's happening. It just takes nothing awhile to gain momentum. For me, I'd say around p. 100. By then the fun and games of a supposed James Bond takeoff was fun enough and game enough to increase my page-per-hour turns. And there's a brief cameo by the town of Quincy, Mass., birthplace of Dunkin Donuts (what's not to like, other than nothing)?
What really cheered me was the way Percival Everett fearlessly worked in so much wordplay. Like the Bard, he wasn't even above bad puns (which even good ones are labeled). Why? Because he's an established author and he can.
All in all, after the slow start, it grew more entertaining, but you have to play along. If you're unwilling to do that and your eyes are rolling too much and you just can't stomach use of the word NOTHING one more time, you're screwed. If that's the case, just say Dr. No and move on to something more (ahem) serious and better positioned for yes-men....more
Big Lies: From Socrates to Social Media is a book that should be read by conspiracy theorists, including people who believe Trump’s “Big Lie” that theBig Lies: From Socrates to Social Media is a book that should be read by conspiracy theorists, including people who believe Trump’s “Big Lie” that the election was stolen from him. Sadly, it will not be. As Mark Kurlansky aptly proves, if there’s one thing conspiracy theorists DON’T want, it’s to be disabused of notions that fit nicely with their own political agendas.
Thus, this book is more likely to be read by people who DON’T believe in conspiracies and who know a lie when they see it (or, if they don’t know initially, do the hard work necessary to find out).
Kurlansky’s chief targets here are big ones. He dips into both history and current events to tackle “big players,” including entire governments, movements, politicians, dictators, etc. The chapters break down like so: “Masked Revelers in a Carnival of Lies,” “The Enlightenment and the Unenlightened,” “Denial: The Short Way Around Science,” “Favorite Lies About Women,” “A Snowball in France: The Blame Game,” “Soviet Mathematics: 2 + 2= 5,” “The Truth about American Truth,” “Big Dictators and Big Lies,” “Photographic Lies,” “Saving Children: A Best-Loved Lie,” and “The Golden Lasso of Truth.”
Equally appealing, for readers who want to dive back in, is the Index. Here he breaks it down with these helpful categories (along with pages where you’ll find examples): “Defense against Lies,” “Motives for Lying,” “Sources of Support for Lies,” “Tactics of Liars,” “Targets of Lies,” “Tools of Liars,” and “Types of Lies.” Kurlansky also provides sources for all his material (putting his money where his mouth is).
Most interesting to me were all the roots and how deep they go into history. Sure, I knew about anti-semiticism, which goes way, WAY back, and, like racism, seems impossible to eliminate. But I never knew how much the Enlightenment set conservatives off. That movement, based as it was on science, facts, and knowledge, as well as democracy and the natural rights of man, immediately hit some powers-that-be’s the wrong way. And they’re STILL working against the Enlightenment today.
Worried about the fate of democracy in the U.S. and, indeed, the world over? Feel like it’s deja vu with a front-row view of the 1930s in your news sources? You can thank forces of the Unenlightened, who are still doing their damnedest to undermine liberal thought today. And yes, by doing so, the 'Unenlightened' are automatically at odds with the Founding Fathers, who were Enlightenment poster boys if ever there were any. After all, as was the case with Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, and Hamilton, believers in science, education, and democracy are nothing but out of touch ‘elites’ who read too many books and thus shouldn’t be trusted.
This book's mention of "elites" really hit home when I saw a headline in today's New York Times. It reads: "Putin Rails Against 'Western Elites' in Speech Aimed at U.S. Conservatives." (And how depressing is THAT?)
As for the Children’s chapter, in it Kurlansky goes after Q-Anon, showing how lies centering around children have been used throughout history, chiefly as a weapon against Jews.
Perhaps the best I can do in giving you an idea about this book is to offer some quotes from it, so I’ll finish with that and try to make it a representative mix, though of course that will be impossible.
“Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, and all the great modern liars acknowledge that the important trick is to be lowbrow. Goebbels said that ‘the rank and file are usually much more primitive than we imagine. Propaganda must therefore always be essentially simple and repetitious.’”
“Talk radio simply spews one person’s opinions nonstop, without challenge. The opinions may be racist, sexist, and absurd lies, but it makes no difference, for there is no one to challenge. Callers are selected and can be ridiculed or cut off. The most successful of these new hosts, Rush Limbaugh, spewed hate and lies until his death in February 2021. Talk radio was primarily local before Limbaugh, but in 1988 he found a spot on WABC-AM and soon had five million listeners.”
“For all their changing initials, Russian secret police retain the same approaches and techniques and the same view of the power of lies. The more untruths the government can plant, the more confusion and chaos it can spread. Russian Communists invented the word ‘disinformation,’ setting up a special agency for its spread in 1923. Stalin started using the word after World War II. During the Cold War, the KGB produced thousands of fake organizations and fake dissidents, false stories, and conspiracy theories to sow discord in the West. One of the most famous, thoroughly exposed and debunked but still alive in social media, is that the US military spread AIDS.”
“Researchers found 400,000 bots on Twitter in the 2016 election run-up, two-thirds of which were pro-Trump. Russian bots retweeted pro-Trump fake stories thousands of times. They also retweeted Trump tweets 469,537 times (that we know of). It is unclear what effect this had on Trump winning the election. He lost the popular vote by 3 million votes and won the electoral college by gaining tiny margins in a few states.”
“It would be a classic lie to claim that Russians are the fundamental source of lies in the US. There is no shortage of homegrown all-American liars.”
“Bannon became a top Trump advisor in 2016. Trump, by his own admission, doesn’t read, but Bannon does. With Bannon as an advisor, Trump followed many of the standard protocols of dictators of the past, people Trump probably knew little about. ‘Make America Great Again’ is a classic fascist statement. Hitler referred to Germany’s mythic greatness, and Mussolini referred to the Romans. Creating confusion by flooding the airwaves with lies is a standard totalitarian approach, as is arguing both sides of something. Trump pursued the lie that Obama was not born in the US, then repudiated it, then backed it some more.”
“Creating distrust of the electoral system is yet another standard totalitarian tactic. Trump warned that the 2016 election would be fraudulent, and then, when he won, he still claimed he had been cheated out of winning the popular vote. He made the same warning in 2020, and after he lost, he claimed he had won ‘by a landslide’ and the election had been stolen. After losing some sixty court cases—almost all of which were dismissed for a complete lack of evidence, even by the three Supreme Court judges he had nominated—his claim seemed a pointless exercise. Why would he pursue sixty cases with no evidence? As always, Trump was playing to his supporters, people well versed in conspiracy lies. He built a movement of people, including some elected Republicans, who would insist that elections could not be trusted. Always the huckster, he even raised millions of dollars from supporters for his cause. It all seemed worthwhile even without winning a single case.”
“Twitter, where stories have no backup, is ideal for this. If someone wants to say—as someone did—that Texas Senator Ted Cruz’s father killed JFK, they simply state it. Research shows that false stories spread on social media six times faster than real ones. They are just more exciting.”
(After referencing Carlos Collodi’s story of Pinnochio) “I imagine Ronald Reagan or Bill Clinton giving a State of the Union address and watching their noses grow. Imagine Donald Trump, his nose expanding after each sentence until finally the beak outweighs the man. Or what would a conference between Trump and Russian dictator Vladimir Putin look like? Which man would pitch forward first, unable to support the weight of his gigantic proboscis?”
“It is undeniable that journalists today, often from elite universities, have a pro-establishment bias. Let’s get reporting from ‘regular people’ free of that elite, insider, establishment viewpoint. Except that such contributors are also often free of the training, discipline, commitment, and ethical standards of professional journalists.”
“The big lie is that information is available on the internet quickly and easily. You have to go slowly and carefully. You might arrive at the right answer more quickly than by sifting manually through a dusty archive, but you have to put in some work. Critical thinking isn’t only about doubting; it’s also about finding out what is true.”
“In the 2015 Republican primary, journalists spent so much time and space debunking Trump’s lies that there was almost no airtime or newspaper space left to cover the policies and statements of the other sixteen candidates. Trump found that the more lies he told, the more completely he could dominate the news cycle. Perhaps special sections of newspapers and programming should be set aside for exposing lies so that the task doesn’t not consume all news coverage.”
In summation, I can only wish that more Americans, both conservative and liberal, would work harder at fighting lies big and small. Yes, it’s work, but isn’t a country worth it?...more
Only 114 pp., but if you weigh in the book's size (miniature), more like a novella at 57 pp. Christmas in Ireland, and a scandal I knew next to nothinOnly 114 pp., but if you weigh in the book's size (miniature), more like a novella at 57 pp. Christmas in Ireland, and a scandal I knew next to nothing about, the Magdalene Laundry asylums.
I'm a sucker for characters in crisis over that minor problem of living a life of quiet desperation. I just love it when Everyman stops and says, "What's this brief existence between dark eternities all about? Why am I living so brainlessly, just playing a card dealt to me in the game of life? Isn't there more to it than woke-up, got-out-of-bed, dragged-a-comb-across-my head?"
Yeah. All hands on deck for THAT plot, because there are a million variations of it, and the philosophical mouse of "What if?" nibbles at my own brain with some frequency.
In this manifestation, we get small-town, reasonably successful coal businessman Furlong, happy (?) with wife and kids until a certain Christmas season upsets the apple cart of complacency.
No, he's not a black and white case, an in-your-face overplayed hand like Chuck Dickens' Ebeneezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Instead, shades of gray. Internal crisis. Man vs. Himself on the conflict chart, triggered by a discovery while delivering coal to the local convent (a metaphor of sorts, when you consider bad boys and girls found coal in their stockings, once upon a made-up time).
By the time of the story's crisis, I was all-in with the guy's wandering-like-Joseph-and-Mary mind. And descriptions of him stopped in the night of his own moral confusion. And the moment when no one had to whisper in anyone's ear "What would Jesus do?"
Sure, the Truth will set you free. But what happens when you don't quite recognize the Truth, even when it's standing by your side?
Probably the biggest challenge for most readers will be the dialect, but once you get through 30 pages or so, you'll be fluent enough.
The two big relProbably the biggest challenge for most readers will be the dialect, but once you get through 30 pages or so, you'll be fluent enough.
The two big relationships for our protagonist, Janie, are the Mayor (an unhappy marriage) and Tea Cake (a happy one). From one to the other, she gains increasing confidence in her voice and her natural human rights (so to speak).
Characterization, chiefly done through dialogue, carries the day (and the reader) through the book, with some oases of lovely narrative along the way, including a great scene of people fleeing (not so successfully, in some cases) a hurricane in Florida (can you say "current events"?).
All in all, another great closing of a gap in my hole-riddled reading resume. I've meant to get to this book for years and now I'm glad I did....more
An interesting title, given the "remains" of any day might be the final hours from dusk on -- those to be enjoyed after a day in the life. Or, more reAn interesting title, given the "remains" of any day might be the final hours from dusk on -- those to be enjoyed after a day in the life. Or, more regrettably, the "remains" might be a symbolically dead thing. That is, opportunities offered and lost from your past.
Either way, then, in this rather sad tale of a butler who, like his father, took great great pride in his service -- in fact, counted his life of service to others above his consideration of self.
The father's deathbed scene hints strongly at sorrow, and he confesses as much to his son. No such drama with Mr Stevens (I'll omit the period after "Mr" for proper British sake). It's all for you to infer, though not terribly difficult. It's just there's no son to apologize to. Instead, the reader...
The back and forth between and Stevens and Miss Kenton is, to an American ear, painfully stiff. Almost a parody, as if you are listening to those Disney chipmunks, Chip and Dale, each trying to out-polite the other.
Then there is the absolute devotion to the boss, a Mr. Darlington, a supposed great man who lives in a great manor. A man who, when all is said and done, might not have been worth so much as a nod of the head after all.
Regrettably.
And so it goes. And so Stevens and Kenton meet one last time. And so the last opportunity is, fittingly, fumbled as well. In the end, what remains of the day is... not much. We are constantly admonished with the saying carpe diem, with the warning that our days left are few in number. And yet, like Stevens, we can't seem to get out of our own ways, for one reason or another. Until moving aside is too late, really, and the diems are all carpe-d out. But good....more
When you think of the term “well-researched history,” you seldom also think of the term “at times hilarious.” Dive into this gem and all that will chaWhen you think of the term “well-researched history,” you seldom also think of the term “at times hilarious.” Dive into this gem and all that will change.
With 240 reference notes and a 12-page index, Profiles in Ignorance: How America’s Politicians Got Dumb and Dumber shows academic rigor while at the same time keeping the reader entertained. To accomplish this, Andy Borowitz will typically provide facts and/or an anecdote and crown it with an aside, a zinger, or a sarcastic note that will crack you up.
Structurally, the book is divided into three stages as it tracks how we got to the scary place we find ourselves today. The stages are Ridicule, Acceptance, and Celebration. Historically, then, we go from the days where handlers worked hard to shield their ignorant charges from ridicule when said charges opened their mouths and revealed… not much furniture “upstairs.” This stage focuses on Ronald Reagan of Bedtime for Bonzo fame and Dan Quayle of “potatoe” fame.
From there we move to the Bushes, primarily G.W. (a.k.a. “Dubya”), who dragged ignorance into a heretofore unknown light – acceptance. He and his handlers did this by stressing what a regular guy he was (even though he was filthy rich), how only eggheads know a lot of stuff, anyway, and how not reading much (or caring much for books and people who read them) puts you in the same category as many Americans.
We also learn here that many voters vote for the person they’d “most like to have a beer with,” as if that is the crowning qualifier for the presidency. Acceptance is helped, too, if you constantly paint your opponent (in Dubya’s case, Al Gore) as a hopeless dweeb and wonk completely out of tune with most regular folk, who would put Gore’s type (as caricatured by Bush & Friends) in the category of weird Jeopardy! contestants.
Finally, we get Celebration, where idiocy is not only RIDICULE-FREE and ACCEPTED, but reveled in. Need I tell you where the history has brought us by this point in the book? I need not, because he just declared he wants to occupy the White House (for good this time, with the right sycophants and handpicked partisan judges) once more.
To give you a taste of Borowitz’s style, here is a bit focusing on Tony Schwartz, the “ghostwriter of [Trump’s] image-forging 1987 best seller, Trump: The Art of the Deal":
Schwartz was interviewed by Jane Mayer, a reporter for The New Yorker. In her piece based on that discussion, she wrote, “During the eighteen months that he observed Trump, Schwartz said, he never saw a book on Trump’s desk, or elsewhere in his office, or in his apartment.” There is, however, one book reportedly in his possession, according to his ex-wife Ivana: he kept a collection of Hitler’s speeches, titled My New Order at his bedside. His own oratory suggests that he might have dipped into that one from time to time.
“Trump’s aversion to reading the work of non-Third Reich authors posed a challenge to those at the White House charged with keeping him semi-informed. According to an email attributed to his chief economic adviser, Gary Cohn, ‘It’s worse than you can imagine… Trump won’t read anything—not one-page memos, not the brief policy papers; nothing. He gets up halfway through meetings with world leaders because he is bored. To brief a man with such a severe case of book hesitancy, his aides resorted to a throwback from the Reagan era, putting on shows featuring graphs, maps, photos, and other word-free visual aids. After noticing that Trump was more likely to read material that mentioned his name, National Security Council staffers tried to trick him into finishing memos by crowbarring ‘Trump’ into as many paragraphs as possible.”
Toward the end of the book, Borowitz turns his attention to the Republicans in Congress who enabled Trump (and still do):
“In their earnest effort to flood the zone with shit, some Trump acolytes in Congress wound up shitting the bed. Exhibit A was Mary Miller, a freshman congresswoman from Illinois, who, in remarks at a pro-Trump rally in Washington on the eve of the Capitol insurrection, made an ill-advised reference to the president’s favorite bedtime author. ‘Hitler was right on one thing,’ she declared. ‘Whoever has the youth has the future.’ Call it a rookie mistake, but someone should have told Miller that, when you start a sentence with ‘Hitler was right,’ it’s almost impossible to stick the landing. Since all she was trying to say was that children are the future, it’s baffling that she didn’t quote the far less genocidal Whitney Houston. In fairness, Miller was on the same page as her role model—Trump, that is, not the Führer—who once reportedly told his chief of staff John Kelly, ‘Hitler did a lot of good things.’ Her only mistake was saying in public what Trump had said in private. Knowing when and when not to praise Hitler can be tricky.”
In the final chapter, “Conclusion: Democracy’s Braking System,” Borowitz appeals to Americans who are upset with living so close to the precipice. He begs that we not just feel good about ourselves by staying informed and reading books like his and newspapers that can be trusted thanks to journalistic ethics. Giving money to campaigns is a cop-out, too (and he blames himself as much as the next guy). The true secret is getting involved on a grass roots level, and he provides plenty of examples on how to do that.
All in all, one of the most edifying and amusing books on the American political scene I’ve yet to read. Poor JFK, author (asterisk for “with the help of ghostwriter” inserted here) of Profiles in Courage. He must be turning in his eternally-lit grave these days. Reading Profiles in Ignorance might just help us turn the tide and give Pres. Kennedy some rest, but trust me when I say, it won’t be easy and it’s going to require real work. ...more
Whew. About met my match with this collection. That is, I waded slowly, at times turning back, going over the grounds a second and third time. Can youWhew. About met my match with this collection. That is, I waded slowly, at times turning back, going over the grounds a second and third time. Can you say "dense"? Rife with allusions and hidden quotes from other sources, too (for once the "Notes" at the back of the collection were not superfluous or narcissistic).
I feel guilty saying I didn't particularly enjoy this as a whole, but happy to say that bits and pieces sung off the page, winking at me. Oh, I reread those parts, too. The parts I not only understood right away but reread as a treat for my eyes and ears, greedy parties when it comes to poetry.
Here's a poem that I cannot format properly (indentations and GR being mortal enemies... hell, indentations and HTML being mortal enemies as well) to give you a flavor of Reeves way with words. I like it best when he plays fast and loose with parts of speech, with personification, with all those things other poets call you on when they read your work unless you're established. In that case, it's OK. (Funny how that works!)
Your Hand To Your Face Blocking the Sun
Because a revelation As the pear tree is a revelation to itself each spring
It sitting in the dead of itself and making something That which we call pear
Though was nothing more than water and a little ache in the branches A moan of white flowers Rocking the green river of a tree until full
Ache A revelation Unaccompanied by the requisite panic
Me along the curve of you A flower's moan So inelegant
It will be mistaken for dirt flung into the eyes A broken door opening Newport knocked and floating on a puddle's gray rose Which is how a man might describe something he loves That will kill him
Is that how we move When we move upon each other
As if whatever is leaving Is the prayer we've been meaning to come to
Uh-huh. You read it and say, "Interesting." Then you reread and try to connect the dots -- poem to title, lines to stanza breaks, meaning to life....more
When your average reader thinks of the word “poetry,” he doesn’t think of the word “macho” at the same time. And yet, macho poetry exists. That is, ifWhen your average reader thinks of the word “poetry,” he doesn’t think of the word “macho” at the same time. And yet, macho poetry exists. That is, if you’re willing to bend “macho” from its negative connotations and tag along instead with Edward Hirsch’s description of Edgar Kunz’s Tap Out –- “gutsy, tough-minded, working-class poems of memory and initiation.”
Then there’s Tap Out’s cover. A man’s hands clasped. True, they’re so greasy they look less like a wrestler’s hands than a miner’s or auto mechanic’s, but they certainly convey the idea. What’s most important, though, are the poems in this 2019 outing. Y-chromosome or no, many are damn good.
For instance, Kunz mines the tried and true (for poets) territory of an alcoholic, abusive father to good effect. I was especially taken with “Close,” which originally appeared, appropriately enough, in Narrative magazine.
Close
Off early from B&R Diesel, sharp with liquor and filtered Kings, he drifts across the double-yellow, swings into an iced-over lot. He runs me through the basics: K-turn, parallel, back-in. Jerks the Sierra into reverse and eases the bumper up against the side of the old bank building. We meet at the end of the loaded bed, exhaust and brakelight pooling around our knees. He balls the front of my coat in his fist, pulls me close to show the distance between bumper and brick, pulls hard until I’m up against the slender arc of his collarbone, the fine dark stubble shading his jaw, his hollowed-out cheeks. He’s still beautiful, my father. Fluid. Powerful. His bare forearms corded with muscle, bristling in the cold. Yes, he’s drunk. Yes, I have already begun the life- long work of hating him, a job that will carve me down to almost nothing. I have already begun to catalog every way he has failed me. Yes. And here he is. Home early from a day shift in Fall River. Teaching me what I need to know. Pulling me roughly toward him, the last half-hour of sunlight blazing in his face, saying This is how close you can get. Asking if I can see it. If I know what he means. Saying This. This close. Like this.
Like many poems in this collection, a narrative poem told with economy. A vivid snapshot in time. “Close” is particularly powerful thanks to the turn that begins with the line “He’s still beautiful, my father” – not words you’d expect from a teen whose father has him by the fist. And that bit about “the life- / long work of hating him, a job / that will carve me down to almost / nothing.” Whew. It’s lines like this that leave me wondering why there are so many readers who do not bother reading poetry, for it is only poetry that can deliver rabbit-punches like this. What these readers are missing!
While still on my heels from reading “Close,” I turned the page and read “After the Attempt,” which appeared originally in Gulf Coast. In this case, it was the closing that wowed me. Kunz nails the landing, as they say. Even the Russian judge is forced to say as much.
I'm not much of a mystery guy. I know they're popular as all get-out, not just with books but on television and in the movies. Whodunnit? Truth be tolI'm not much of a mystery guy. I know they're popular as all get-out, not just with books but on television and in the movies. Whodunnit? Truth be told, I don't much care. The genre comes across like a game to me. Intricately built to be just as intricately figured out. And bully for the reader if he or she steps over every red herring and figures it out. The challenge never much spoke to me.
I'm a bit amused, then, that I was so taken with this book. It is, in essence, a murder mystery. OK, a whole lotta murder mysteries. Always a white redneck, one or more, many connected somehow to the murder of Emmett Till. And always a been-dead-for-ages black body at the scene of the crimes, too, his hand holding the white dudes' semi-precious inheritances. As character after character (investigator after investigator) say in the book, in so many letters: "WTF?"
Truth be told, I inhaled this narrative despite the murders and despite the mystery. I read it for the dialogue. Just funny as hell, some of it, the sort of thing you chuckle out loud over (and I'm not one to chuckle out loud over books). If Everett wins a Booker (it's shortlisted), it'll be because of the wit.
No, that's not true. He's helped by the subject matter as well. Ironically in a book of such humor, it is a serious subject indeed -- the historical lynching of Black men in America. A key sequence on the matter appears some 2/3rds into the book:
"Less than 1 percent of lynchers were ever convicted of a crime. Only a fraction of those ever served a sentence. Teddy Roosevelt claimed the main cause of lynching was Black men raping White women. You know what? That didn't happen."
Those are the words of Mama Z, a 105-year-old Black woman whose own daddy was lynched in 1913.
Strange, isn't it? So much humor in a book designed to make such a deadly serious point. But it works. And the reader suspends his disbelief to let it work. How can these murders be pulled off so successfully, given the logistics? In truth, they cannot.
But in the creative mind of the author, they are a fitting revenge. A way to right deep wrongs. A reckoning America would rather not look at, so put away those mirrors so people can get on with their lives and continue to chant, "USA! USA!" and, of course (sigh), "Make America Great Again."
And yes, Virginia, if you're wondering, those very words appear in this book.
Poetry? So it says, but really "prose poetry" at best. But why bother? It's use of sentences and paragraphs makes it look like sketches. Tableau -- "aPoetry? So it says, but really "prose poetry" at best. But why bother? It's use of sentences and paragraphs makes it look like sketches. Tableau -- "a graphic description or representation."
I give up. Whatever you want to call it, it's a short jaunt from p. 3 to p. 74, most of the pages composed in white space. You won't even have to pack a lunch.
Some books automatically make me talk of parts and whole. This is a prime example. The parts are gorgeously dense examples of creativity, exploring the DMZ between non- and sequitur. The parts don't ostensibly connect, though there might be some strands reminiscent of war (Simic's early days are thus rooted). Let me give you an example of one entry. OK, "poem":
The dead man steps down from the scaffold. He holds his bloody head under his arm.
The apple trees are in flower. He's making his way to the village tavern with everybody watching. There, he takes a seat at one of the tables and orders two beers, one for him and one for his head. My mother wipes her hands on her apron and serves him.
It's so quiet in the world. One can hear the old river, which in its confusion sometimes forgets and flows backward.
Get it? Or are you as confused as a river? The good knight Sir Real, maybe. For me it brought Gogol to mind. The Gogol who wrote "The Nose," about a man's nose that declares independence, buys itself expensive clothes, and travels among Moscow's elite social circles.
Gezundheit!
Bottom line: As I read this, I enjoyed each individual piece for its sheer imagination. As a whole, though, it was less fulfilling. Like a creative writing drill assigned to class where, every time writing group's gather to offer critique, little Charles's work is chosen to be read aloud as an exemplar. Luckily, the students could give a good damn whether it's poetry or prose. They leave that to ivory tower heads with nothing better to do. The sort of people who gather to award books like this the 1990 Pulitzer Prize....more
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