¶ Matins: David Carr writes about a momentous meeting, a little over eighteen months ago, between Internet pioneer Marc Andreessen and a

junior member of a large and powerful organization with a thin, but impressive, résumé, he was about to take on far more powerful forces in a battle for leadership.

Guess who the other guy was.

¶ Tierce: Ailing GM can’t cut off its union workers — not quite yet — but white collar retirees can kiss their “gold-plated” health care goodbye. Nick Bunkley reports.

¶ Sext: Eric Pfanner’s somewhat breathless account of the state of play between Google and book publishers nonetheless conveys a good idea of where books are going. And it does indeed look like a good idea.

¶ Vespers: It’s not the potato-stuck-up-the-bum that’s funny. It’s the idea that anybody would believe the story of how it got there.

The clergyman, in his 50s, told nurses he had been hanging curtains when he fell backwards on to his kitchen table.

He happened to be nude at the time of the mishap, said the vicar, who insisted he had not been playing a sex game.

(Thanks, Joe.)

Read the rest of this entry »

This book is about a year old, but it’s never too late for a good, fun read, and, besides, nobody recommended it to me. Random excerpt:

When I was growing up, Mother told me that in her day, Texas sororities lumped potential pledges into two categories: “Some girls are flowers,” Mother repeated, with a cruel, cold Darwinian shrug, “and others are pots.” She’d given this to me like a coat, so I could smugly wrap myself in the comfort of being a flower at Beckendorf Junior High, while my classmates perforated me for being a fairy.”

We confine our attention today to the “epistolary novel” that takes up two-and-then-some chapters of Don Quixote, also known as the “Novela del curioso inpertinente,” or tale of the recklessly curious man. Because I was sure that I had read the story before, I was mad to find an earlier version; I remain unpersuaded that it might be Decameron, X, viii. As I continued reading Cervantes’s novella, however, the story became quite unfamiliar, and decidedly operatic. But I did note one thing: the happy ending of Boccaccio’s tale of switched husbands would probably have been intolerable in Golden Age Spain.

Boccaccio tells of two friends, one Greek and one Roman, from the time of Octavian (later Augustus), who are so close that, when Gisippus is betrothed to Sophronia, and his friend Titus actually falls in love with her, Gisippus hands her over, under cover of night, while continuing to be her daytime husband. This arrangement persists, with Sophronia none the wiser, until Titus is summoned back to Rome, and wants to take Sophronia with him. McWilliam’s note suggests that Boccaccio is indulging in over-the-top parody of rhetorical paeans to friendship; Titus’s arguments in defense of what he and Gisippus have done sound equally strange to his listeners and to us.

In Cervantes, Anselmo and Lotario are the friends. Anselmo’s delight in his new wife, Camila, takes a toxic turn when he becomes obsessed with testing her fidelity. He begs Lotario to try to seduce her. This is already very different from Boccaccio’s story in several important ways. First, and most objectionably, Anselmo continues to enjoy his marital rights. Second, Lotario, unlike Titus, is not interested in Camila until Anselmo begs his bizarre favor — which brings to mind, by the way, the shenanigans in Così fan tutte. The bulk of the tale is given over to the scrapes that Camila narrowly avoids once she has capitulated to Lotario. There is a wonderful scene involving a tapestry, behind which Anselmo hides, and overhears a carefully-rehearsed scene that is designed to put him off the scent. Of course, it all comes to grief in the end. Anselmo dies of wretchedness; Lotario is killed in the wars; and Camila withers away in a convent. “Éste fue el fin que tuvieron todos, nacido de un tan desatinado principio.”

Cervantes does not simply drop this novella — ostensibly discovered among some papers at the inn to which Quixote and his friends repair on the way to slay the giant who menaces the kingdom of Micomicón — into his principal narrative. He interrupts the story right before what turns out to be the dénouement.

Only a little more of the novel remained to be read when a distraught Sancho Panza rushed out of the garret where Don Quixote slept, shouting:

“Come, Señores, come quickly and help my master, who’s involved in the fiercest, most awful battle my eyes have ever seen!”

Sleepwalking, it seems, Quixote has mistaken some hanging wineskins for his giant, and, slashing at them wildly, has all but flooded to the garret. Dorotea calms everyone down, and the licentiate priest finishes reading the novella. The juxtaposition of sordid adultery and grotesque buffoonery must be intended to warn readers against taking potential opera plots as seriously as Quixote takes his knightly romances.

As Yvonne wrote the other day, we can return to our wonderful lives now, and find that they are, indeed, wonderful. We all get a prize for surviving — what? the Dubya years, all eight of ’em? How about the last forty, ever since Tricky Dick’s success with the “Southern Strategy“? With all due respect to Messrs Carter and Clinton, it is great to have a Democrat from the North in the offing.

In the middle of what was for the most part a crisp and lovely Sunday — autumn with the scent of winter, always refreshing ahead of time — I spent a fair amount of time arguing about what to do about “Detroit.” Here’s the vulgar wisdom: now that we’ve “bailed out” the bankers, let’s “bail out” the Big Three. In fact, the auto makers have a much greater claim on our generosity, because they employ millions of workers.

It’s as if the Soviet bloc’s command economy never existed. Red-blooded Americans advocate keeping a hopelessly moribund industry alive for the sake of payroll: the Trabant option.

I say: pension off the workers, no matter what it costs; I leave the details to policy wonks. Call it a one-time-only fix, a shame-on-you-America for having treated automobiles like sexual surrogates for sixty years. You can be sure of one thing, though: every red cent of the handout will recirculate in the retail economy, benefiting butchers, bakers, and  candlestick-makers. Not a dime will go into Swiss banking accounts — nor will more than a million or two, probably, find its way into whatever takes the place of hedge funds.

A propos of these draconian ideas, I suggest traveling back in time, all the way to 2003. That’s when I wrote (from what I can tell) a page at Portico about what already seemed to be the shaky future of GM et al. I was considering a book by an eminent reporter who is still on the automotive beat, Micheline Maynard. What still amazes me is that Ms Maynard’s account of auto-making in America at the Millennium could be so richly detailed where foreign concerns, especially Honda, were concerned, and yet so opaque about “Detroit.” It was as though, aside from marketers, the town were run by robots. While foreign manufacturers made cars, Detroit was into 4×4 vibrators. This link will take you straight to the beginning of the discussion, which follows a look at the Enron mess. Yes: that long ago!

Hi, Everyone —

Did you know it was possible to feel so excited and happy and relieved that one could actually end up 180-ing directly to NUMB?

Perhaps watching the election coverage at home, alone, was a bad idea. This was a collective moment: too heavy with context and consequence to be experienced in solitude and while wearing jammies; too rich and sweet to be celebrated with a glass of lime-y Sauvignon blanc. My husband, Robert, a journalist (no, no, the good kind! — the kind you wish there were more of!), was off covering the local election scene. So I sat in front of the TV, anticipatory tissues balled up in my hand, watching all the emotional faces…and failing to cry. Even when the soul-stirring new First Family walked out onto that stage! Even at the most moving parts of Obama’s speech; even about the puppy. What is wrong with me?

I’m hoping I will bawl myself sick with joy on Inauguration Day.

Or that the frozen tears will suddenly well up and wash over me at some unexpected hour. Perhaps as I’m out shopping tomorrow…say, at Bed Bath & Beyond, where I might hurl myself onto one of those little gussied-up prop beds and weep into the careful-but-comically-excessive arrangement of decorative pillows. Read the rest of this entry »

¶ Matins: Timothy Egan puts his finger on exactly what’s been bothering me since Barack Obama’s victory — bothering me like an itch, not like a problem.

In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice on the question of what to do when your dreams come true: don’t tell anyone.

Conversely, what do we do when our darkest fears, our hardened conventional wisdom and our historic homilies are all found to be hooey? Shout it from the rooftops.

I can’t believe that I can really shout good news from the rooftops.

¶ Lauds: A European friend of mine decided to spend his vacation in Chicago. Boy, did he choose wisely. Before the election, he visited the Art Institute and took this picture, which we’ve all seen so many times that we can’t remember or even imagine not knowing it.

¶ Tierce: Aaron Ross of Bergenfield, in a Letter to the Editor, claims,

“Equality’s Winding Path” (editorial, Nov. 6) reveals the true rift over the divisive issue of gay-marriage bans.

You refer to the “ugly outcomes” of the votes, the “defeat for fairness” and “unfair treatment” of “vulnerable groups” — all terms indicative of the fact that you see this issue as one of rights.

The fact that 30 states have now passed similar bans on same-sex marriage should perhaps alert you to the fact that not everyone has accepted that version of the issue, and that many Americans have chosen to define gay marriage not as an issue of rights but as one of morality.

As a country, we are still firmly rooted in a Judeo-Christian ethic that leaves certain unions outside of the pale of acceptability.

This language, although calm enough is startlingly reminiscent of the outraged opposition to granting full civil rights to Black Americans fifty years ago.
Read the rest of this entry »

¶ Matins: Perhaps, with the White House out of wingnut hands at last, humanists of all stripes, religious and not, will be able more effectively to confront the fringe of christianists who abuse everything about their ostensible faith in order to sustain a doddering status quo. Consider what they’re doing to my good friend Joe. This, from the spokesman for a law firm called the “Liberty Counsel”:

“Gays” Call for Violence Against Christian Supporters of Prop 8…

Meanwhile, over at JoeMyGod.blogspot.com, “World O Jeff,” said, “Burn their f–ing churches to the ground, and then tax the charred timbers.” While, “Tread,” wrote, “I hope the No on 8 people have a long list and long knives.” “Joe,” stated, “I swear, I’d murder people with my bare hands this morning.”

Matt Barber, Director of Cultural Affairs with both Liberty Alliance Action and Liberty Counsel, said, “This is not just a matter of some people blowing off steam because they’re not happy with a political outcome. This is criminal activity. The homosexual lobby is always calling for ‘tolerance’ and ‘diversity’ and playing the role of victim. They claim to deplore violence and ‘hate.’ Here we have homosexuals inciting, and directly threatening, violence against Christians. This is not free speech; these are ‘hate crimes’ under the existing definition. Imagine if Christian Web sites were advocating such violence against homosexuals. There’d be outrage, and rightfully so. It’d be national front-page news. Federal authorities should immediately investigate these threats and prosecute the perpetrators to the fullest extent of the law. I also call on the Human Rights Campaign, the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force and other leaders within the homosexual lobby to immediately call for an end to these homosexual threats of violence against Christians.”

Anyone who hasn’t paid attention to the Prop 8 fight in California just might think that Mr Barber has a point, but nobody else will.

¶ Tierce: Nicholas Kulish writes about the resurgent popularity of the legendary Baltic pirate, Klaus Störtebeker. Störtebeker, beheaded in 1401, stole from the rich (Hanse merchants) and gave to the poor — or at least divvied up the loot with his mates. What with the rising income inequality that’s bothering more people everywhere, Germans are dusting off a legend that hasn’t, in fact, gathered much dust: Störtebeker was a hit with the Nazis and also with the East Germans, at least in the early days of the DDR. One hitch:

¶ Sext: From Taipei, Edward Hong reports on a rare, high-level, but calm and dipomatic meeting of officials from the Republic of China and from the People’s Republic of China.

¶ Compline: In the midst of all this suffocating seriousness, there’s a new magazine of fresh air: Dowager Quarterly. This month’s tattle-tale story: “Wild Nights at Frogmore: the Victoria I Knew.”

Read the rest of this entry »

¶ In La Rochefoucauld, some sound advice that, for a change, is neither cynical nor depressing.

La félicité est dans le goût et non pas dans les choses; et c’est par avoir ce qu’on aime qu’on est heureux, et non par avoir ce que les autres trouvent aimable.

Happiness is rooted in taste, not in things; and having things that we like is what makes us happy, not having things that others like.

From this I draw the consoling thought that, while youth may be wasted on the young, who are so easily driven to distraction by wanting whatever it is that their friends want, happiness is not, because it is altogether unknown to them.

¶ Lord Chesterfield writes about history, perhaps too modestly suggesting that the “great man” school of thought ought rather to be re-imagined as one of the “highly placed ordinary man.”

Were most historical events traced up to their true causes, I fear we should not find them much more noble, nor disinterested, than Luther’s disappointed avarice; and therefore I look with some contempt upon those refining and sagacious historians, who ascribe all, even the most common events, to some deep political cause; whereas mankind is made up of inconsistencies, and no man acts invariably up to his predominant character.

About the impossibility of truly objective historical accounting, Chesterfield offers this pithy mot:

A man who has been concerned in a transaction, will not write it fairly; and a man who has not, cannot.

¶ In Moby-Dick, the Pequod encounters a school of whales, but perhaps too closely. Throughout the terrifying encounter, Ishmael never rues the day that he came aboard.

A short rushing sound leaped out of the boat; it was the darted iron of Queequeg. Then all in one welded commotion came an invisible push from astern, while forward the boat seemed striking on a ledge; the sail collapsed and exploded; a gush of scalding vapor shot up near by; something rolled and tumbled like an earthquake beneath us. The whole crew were half suffocated as they were tossed helter-skelter into the white curdling cream of the squall. Squall, whale, and harpoon had all blended together; and the whale, merely grazed by the iron, escaped.

¶ Finishing the Squillions chapter on the Phoney War, which saw Coward, for the most part, in a smart apartment in the Place Vendôme maintaining a ready alert to receive such crumbs of useful intelligence that might come his way in the beau monde. On the evidence, versifying seems to have offered some relief for anxious but idle minds. We’re told that Coward delighted in re-reading these ditties in later years. One of them, “With All Best Wishes For a Merry Christmas 1939,” is strong and bitter, with iron remininiscences of tolling bells, about what we now call “organized religion.” The last six lines:

Now as our day of rejoicing begins
(Never mind Poland — Abandon the Finns)
Lift up your voices “Long Live Christianity!”
(Cruelty, sadism, blood and insanity)
So that the Word across carnage is hurled
God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world!

There is also this elegant passage from a letter to Jack Wilson, who wanted Coward to come to New York and get back into the theatre:

You can tell them for me that my life is unheroic in the extreme. I have a comfortable flat and a comfortable office (when the heat’s on). Compared with what many English actors are doing, who have far more to lose than I, I am on velvet. I fully realize that several thousand miles of ocean between America and Europe make it difficult for people over there to understand what we are feeling over here. I am sure they occasionally read the press notices of this particular production, but we all know how unreliable critics can be. This play hasn’t been very well directed so far and the first act, according to many, is too long and rather dull. I am afraid however that I cannot walk out on it. Please give them my love, show them this letter; thank them for thinking so well of my talent and reproach them, affectionately, for thinking so poorly of my character.

¶ Matins: Kathleen and I watched Senator McCain’s very gracious, very statesmanlike concession speech. We hugged. But we did not jump for joy. We are not breaking out the champagne. We ought to be very happy. Instead we feel deeply abused around the edges. By Reagan and the Bushes and the people who put them in the White House. That’s not going to change overnight.

Barack Obama’s victory is a great thing, and I shall never forget “November 4, 2008.” Kathleen and I are deeply thrilled that he and the Democratic Congress will fill impending Supreme Court vacancies with jurists capable of neutralizing Antonin Scalia. The great slogging job of repairing the Federal judiciary and the Civil Service can begin. The ideologues have been sent packing, and thinking may come back into fashion in our political discourse.

Imagine that!

¶ Tierce: The view from là-bas.

¶ Nones: Certainly no American president has looked as right for the part as Barack Obama, seen up close at The Big Picture. He makes JFK look rather like Bill Clinton — or perhaps that’s the benefit of hindsight, knowing what we know about what went on in Camelot’s swimming pool.

Read the rest of this entry »

Running around doing errands yesterday, I managed to lose the Book Review somewhere. Once upon a time, this would have been a catastrophe, but, for some time now, I’ve been working from the newspaper’s online site, not from the print edition. There were a few reviews that I hadn’t read before I sat down to work, but I found that I rather liked reading them online. On top of everything else, the Book Review is not the best-printed publication in the world.

Having played around in recent weeks with new classification systems, with cute (and ugly) color-coding, I found myself absolutely unwilling, yesterday, to continue such nonsense. That’s the scary part — all that categorization seemed foolish and unnecessary. It might be a sign that I’m about to stop reviewing the Book Review.

¶ Prime: I’ve just heard from a neighbor — all right, Joe — that it took almost two hours to vote this morning. The line stretched so far around the block that it almost met itself.

In this morning’s Times, Adam Nagourney writes about how different this campaign has been, especially with regard to the Internet. We’ll find out later today what kind of a difference it made in the outcome.

¶ Sext: Here’s something that I just got wind of: a PBS Poll asking listeners to vote on Sarah Palin’s qualifications. It appears that convervatives had advance notice of this poll, and have been flooding the site with “Yes” votes. The result will be that PBS listeners think that Ms Palin is qualified to serve as Vice President — unless you do your part!

¶ Vespers: With less than an hour to go before the first polls close, I’m keeping busy with other things but keeping this page at the ready, to follow the states turning red and blue.

Read the rest of this entry »

Clint Eastwood’s Changeling turns out to be a lot more interesting than the trailer. The trailer reels off the film’s relatively few moments of cliché dismay — Angelina Jolie gets firehosed by a sadistic matron! John Malkovich looks evil! — with a trite glibness that makes you wonder if Mr Eastwood has gone soft. Well, he hasn’t.

It is difficult not to hope that there will be a third book, to follow Home and, before it, Gilead. The two that we have are remarkable books about America, stirring meditations on sin and grace in a promised land.

It took a nerve to think that I might have something to say about Home.

¶ Matins: As we pray our way through this Good Monday of the most desperately-needed resurrection in the history of secular affairs, it is necessarily with some bitterness that we remember, at the newspaper’s own invitation, that the Times thought that Richard Press’s Op-Ed art was funny enough in 2000 to be funny now. I am still crying alongside this man.

¶ Tierce: Doing the math:

The canal still remains the most fuel-efficient way to ship goods between the East Coast and the upper Midwest. One gallon of diesel pulls one ton of cargo 59 miles by truck, 202 miles by train and 514 miles by canal barge, Ms. Mantello said. A single barge can carry 3,000 tons, enough to replace 100 trucks.

Yes! The Erie Canal still works. And as for the mode of transportation that sent the canals into decline…

¶ Sext: Here’s a study to file away, along with Judith Harris’s findings generally: college students, who are, for the most part adolescents, take their political cues (as well as most other ones) from their peers, not their professors. Patricia Cohen reports.

Read the rest of this entry »

For today’s Morning Read, I thought I would finish off AN Wilson’s After the Victorians: The Decline of Britain in the World. This is a very rich book, and if I were teaching history at the graduate level I would use it as the text for a discussion seminar, to keep doctoral candidates from getting lost in their theses. Every one of the thirty-seven chapters makes at least three or four controversial statements — or, rather, statements that were deemed controversial while they still conflicted with official propaganda. Example: the United States deployed nuclear weapons against Japan in order to shorten World War II.

Of course the overwhelming view of those who actually knew about the atomic bomb, and its effects upon human lives, was that its use was an obscenity. Niels Bohr, Albert Einstein, Szilard were all utterly opposed. It took tremendous lies, of a Goebbelesque scale of magnitude, to persuade two or three generations that instead of being acts of gratuitous mass murder, the bombardments of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were almost benign — first, because they avoided the supposed deaths of half a million American troops (the estimated numbers of casualties had America conquered Japan by an invasion of infantry — a pretext utterly ruled out by the brevity of the time lapse between the dropping of the two weapons); and second, because it was better the weapon should be in the hands of Good Guys rather than truly wicked people such as Hitler or Stalin. Both these views, enlivened with a dash of Bible Christianity, helped to put the President’s mind at rest as he meditated upon it all in his diary.

After the Victorians does not believe in Good Guys, only Better and Worse ones; and there is no guarantee that being a Better Guy today will rule out being much, much Worse tomorrow. (Note to anti-“relativists”: Mr Wilson is gifted with an abiding sense of right and wrong, but he understands the difficulty of knowing one from the other in the heat of crisis. If the book were boiled down to his account of Churchill’s career, it would become more complex than it is.) And because After the Victorian necessarily charts the decline of that fairly recent invention, the British Empire, and covers two world wars as well, the UK is only the principal among many players. The book features not one but two chapters devoted to the “Special Relationship” between Britain and the United States.

After the Victorians, however, quickly turned out to be a bad choice for the Morning Reads. The point of the Morning Read is to familiarize myself, somewhat remedially, with books that I haven’t read. These books are either classics — last year, I read the Aeneid, which I rather despised, and Decameron, which I loved (and which helped me to grasp, for the first time, the fundamentally humanist bent of this blog) — or collections (poems, letters). The encounter is not intended to be very serious, but rather to replicate, as far as possible, the wide range of the college survey course. “So that’s what Moby-Dick is like (and no wonder I avoided it!).” Mr Wilson’s book is utterly incompatible with the speed-dating aspect of the Morning Reads — and certainly with the speed-writing notes that I scribble down afterward.

At the same time, After the Victorians is a difficult book to read alone. As a history, it is not even a secondary source of information. The reader who actually learns things from the book is at a disadvantage to the reader who can attend, instead, to the author’s handling of his material, which is sharp and provocative. My idea of heaven would be a book club that met to discuss one chapter every two or three weeks. We would be in no hurry to finish.

Where did October go? It stole away beneath clouds of anxiety. Nothing personal, you understand. Just the usual, who’s driving this car? terror. Maybe it would help if I crouched down behind the front seat, bracing for the crash. Maybe it would help, if I were the sort of person who could do that. Instead, I’m the sort of person who is calmed down by reality, by seeing what’s actually going on in the world, and not in my head.

Even anxiety gets boring after a while, though, so I decided to do something about “things I’ve been meaning to do around the house.” We all have a little list of those. One thing that I’ve been meaning to do is to make some constructive use of the mini-studio that I bought from Hammacher Schlemmer a few months ago. The mini-studio allows you to take pictures like this: Read the rest of this entry »

¶ Lauds: Michael Jackson’s Thriller is being reissued — not something that you would expect to read about here. But LXIV sent me the link to a story from Soul Tracks that’s full of interesting numbers. In 1984, Thriller sold 27 million “units” (LPs, tapes, and perhaps even a few CDs). The most recent big-seller sold only 4. The pop market has fractured into splinters.  

What this means for classical music recordings…

Read the rest of this entry »

¶ Matins: You know the drill: first you read the hard stuff, and, then, if you’re really good, there’s a fun picture below the jump. Let me thank, preliminarily, JMG and Wonkette — but don’t touch those links! First, the hard part. First, you must know that

In early August in her prayer time Cindy heard the Lord say, “There will be no more business as usual.”

No, I didn’t know who Cindy Jacobs was, either. It turns out that she’s one of those astute Jahwists who don’t know dingo about Scripture. (Now you may jump.)

¶ Tierce: Howard Schultz and Arthur Rubinfeld, two men who thought that they had retired from the ardors of selling that old black magic at Starbucks, are back at work, hoping to save the baby. (Actually, Mr Schultz has been back since January. Here is Mr Rubinfeld’s rejuvenation plan in one sentence.

Now that he is again leading Starbucks’s real estate team, Mr. Rubinfeld says he will focus on adding stores to urban areas — where there is already a near-saturation of the coffee market, but also a preponderance of affluent young professionals who subsist on fancy coffee drinks.

I hate to say it, but this sounds like Richard Fuld’s insistence that all was well at Lehman Bros. All those affluent young professionals have turned into Ugly Bettys.

¶ Vespers: There’s a career here for me — or there would be if I were a twentysomething: “Does This Song Match My Sofa?” I would specialize in classy sounds for the classically unsure.

Read the rest of this entry »