
Friday, February 25, 2011
Tricks, Dirty Tricks, and Gutless Cowards: Four Quick Ruminations on the 1 AM Massacre

Thursday, February 17, 2011
Paging Fightin' Bob: A Few Words In Defense of Organized Labor

Thursday, February 10, 2011
A Poet Explains: Giacomo Leopardi on Memory and the Present ("L'Infinito" and Canti)

Thursday, January 20, 2011
A Checklist of Civility From One Who Knew: What American Politicians Could Learn From Andrei Sakharov

I gave the recent, expected and largely symbolic vote in the House to repeal the Affordable Health Care For America Act - also known as (let me check my notes here), "The Job-Killing Health Care Law Act" - the same amount of attention I tend to give any act of political theater - skeptical disinterest. Not because I believe the current act is a flawless piece of legislature, and not because I suspect all those in favor of repeal to be cold-hearted ignoramuses (I don't). My disinterest stems from a larger recognition that when the cameras roll and the speeches drip out in our hallowed halls of government, the partisan blather from both sides of the aisle is mostly notable for its abuse of rhetorical flourishes and heavy dependence upon creative use of the facts.
If this most recent vote represented a flashy bow to maddened constituents and the rote fulfillment of a specific campaign promise, so be it. Many new members of Congress and the Senate ran explicitly on the issue of repealing health care legislation, and whatever one's feelings on the subject, one would need to be suffering from an extreme case of cynicism to believe at least a few of these individuals weren't going to follow through on their threats. And if this symbolic vote serves merely to fire off an opening salvo before getting down to brass tacks - or, as David Frum opined, "real work" - again, so be it. It would neither be the first not the last time that vote tallies were used as simple marking points of officeholder opinion.
But I suspect that we haven't heard the last of repeal efforts, and I suspect we shall see more political grandstanding and empty rhetoric in the days, weeks and months to come. The vast majority of our disagreements and arguments will have very little to do with tangible political operations and almost everything to do with an upcoming election and a jockeying for position - any position, doesn't matter which. Most will be abandoned and forgotten come mid-November 2012.
The nonsense has already started, and of course it has never gone away. Yes, there was a queasy "truce" offered in the aftermath of the bloodbath in Tucson - a bloodbath where a disgruntled citizen exercised multiple State-of-Arizona-protected-rights up until the very second before he fired a bullet directly into the head of Gabby Giffords - and an earnest suggestion to break up seating arrangements during the upcoming State of the Union address (as if the halls of government are high school cafeterias, with the jocks ordered to make room at their table for the transfer student or the swing choir lead).
But addicts must struggle to control their jones, and to deny the dimmer lights of our ruling class the ability to spread hysteria and confusion is to witness the ugly twitchings of an enforced cold turkey cleanse.
Sarah Palin made a typically graceless and tone-deaf intrusion into a day set aside to honor the Tucson dead by comparing her treatment at the hands of a few bloggers and media types to the plight of the Jewish diaspora and the wicked lie of blood-laced matzo. Congressman Steve Cohen, Democrat from Tennessee, granted Palin her blood libel and raised her a Holocaust, exclaiming from the floor of the House, "A government takeover of health care [is a] big lie, just like Goebbels. You say it enough, you repeat the lie, you repeat the lie, you repeat the lie, and eventually people believe it. The Germans said enough about the Jews and the people believed it and you had the Holocaust". Virginia Freshman Morgan Griffith similarly glanced backwards to showcase his impressive grasp of history when he declaimed, "No Virginian should be required to buy health care insurance. As a Virginian, we did not accept the chains of George III, and we will not accept the chains of Obamacare." California Republican Devin Nunes helpfully noted that all democrats were guilty of "anti-capitalist hate speech," Michigan Democrat Sander Levin countered that his party was "an American truth squad," and the always entertaining Michelle Bachman upped the ante by labeling our fairly mild health care bill the "crown jewel of socialism" and promised to repeal the president himself, which would admittedly require quite a bit of paperwork.
As impressive as all this posturing may come across on C-SPAN, this is empty-headed and feeble. Playing to the base and utilizing shameless campaign rhetoric during an off-election year, the American public is no doubt getting an earful of the talking points cable news viewers will be battered with during the next year and a half. "Truth". "Hate" And "Socialism," mustn't forget "Socialism".
Since we're all participating in the grand tradition of making broad and unjustified Nazi comparisons to undesirable tax laws or civic betterment projects, I'm going to allow myself the rare detour into Nazi paraphrasing. Namely, whenever I hear the word socialism, I reach for my remote. Or, even better, I reach for the life and example of Russian dissident and intellectual Andrei Sakharov, who knew better than most the real effects of actual state control, and who used his position in Soviet society to call for reforms, criticize abuses of power, and always championed a restrained and emotionally controlled form of protest.
As the Polish writer Adam Michnik recently pointed out, Sakharov avoided party loyalties, ethnic nationalism and easy populism. "He is proof of the rationality of democratic protest," Michnik argues, "never call[ing] for revolution or violence...uncompromising when that was necessary, but ready to compromise when that seemed desirable." The result of his labors for justice should not be surprising - tight Soviet police surveillance, campaigns of slander and character assassination, banishment from Moscow and exile to the isolation of Gorky (now Nizhny Novgorod, and at that time closed to foreigners). Here is an individual operating within the confines of real socialism, not the sprinkling of services Michele Bachmann isolates and paints broadly with a red brush. And yet to compare his calm, reasoned dissents with the ham fisted TV spots of our junior representatives is to ponder the conversational differences between toddlers and adults.
So reprinted below is what Adam Michnik recently highlighted as the political legacy and philosophy of Andrei Sakharov - a seven-point argument for the kinds of stances and civility our leaders offer empty talk of but never once deign to touch. While it would make for much less entertaining C-SPAN sequences and might not land you a spot with Keith Olbermann or Sean Hannity, there's no reason on earth it shouldn't be reprinted and mounted above the desk of each and every one of our elected leaders. One suspects more than a few would balk at having the words of any Russian, dissident or not, anywhere near their office.
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Andrei Sakharov's Seven Points of Civil Society (via Adam Michnik)
- Patience and fidelity to principle
- Pluralism and willingness to compromise - we must accept that honest disagreements will occur
- Tolerance
- "The better -- the better" (exactly unlike Lenin's "the worse -- the better")
- The patriotism of free peoples: a nation that persecutes another nation cannot itself be free
- Fidelity to historic truth
- Renunciation of violence
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Two Historical Perspectives on the Repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell"

Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Offal Truth: A Chicken Liver Bruschetta Recipe To Convert The Skeptical
But of utmost importance, I suspect, was the careful consideration I gave the option of vegetarianism or veganism once upon a time. While I ultimately ended up rejecting either option as a life doctrine, the impulses behind such choices are sensible and worthy of consideration. In an odd way, one does some sort of honor to the concepts behind adopting a vegetarian lifestyle by refusing to indulge in carnivorous activities while pretending what one is eating was not the result of an act of violence against a living creature. Put another way, saying it is perfectly acceptable to slaughter a chicken or murder a cow but please don't hurt that lamb or touch that rabbit is an odd act of moral relativism. Feasting hungrily on a plate of fish sticks but gagging at the sight of a head-on oven roasted trout is assuming a sort of willful ignorance. And tucking into a thick steak while turning up one's nose at a bowl of tripe or sauteed liver is to suggest that perhaps one would be better off attacking leeks or potatoes, rather than sacrificing an entire life so as to better pick daintily around the edges.
This is controversial ground, I'm aware, so time to back off the soapbox. But what never ceases to be surprising is how many supposed meat-lovers can't bring themselves to sample the rich variety and flavorful sections of those easily affordable cast-offs that butcher shops tend to refer to as offal. Perhaps it is our knowledge of anatomy that keeps so many from enjoying stewed kidneys or fried sweetbreads ("Enjoying your filter?" is how my wife tends to comment during the rare occasions I've been allowed to sample kidneys). One might suggest that if a hungry audience was simply not told what part of the body they were about to enjoy - if a variety meat-heavy stew was served up as simply consisting of "beef" - wary carnivores might clean their plates and ask for more. Tempting though such an approach is, I remain of the opinion that it's cruel and unfair to trick people into eating something they remain morally or digestively opposed to (except in the case of young children, of course - what they don't know can't hurt them).
So in the spirit of full disclosure, what follows is a recipe I whipped together after coming across a small container of organic chicken livers (one pound total) for sale at Whole Foods for $2.35. Any habitue of Whole Foods knows that there are very few items to be found on their shelves for $2 a pound, let alone anything of the meat variety. In the back of my mind, some sort of rich, onion-heavy, alcohol-laced dish began to assume formation, but the livers were purchased without a full mental inventory of what existed back home to help turn these cold lumps of chicken innards into something my lovely wife might sample. Call it a challenge.
The result was something I've named, for the sake of convenience, a Chicken Liver Pate, but don't think of this as an example of the traditional creamy, whipped terrine often found in better French restaurants. Rather, this "pate" was of the coarsely-ground variety, and rather than spreading it onto bread with a knife, toasted slices were instead topped with the crumbly mixture. It is a rustic yet elegant variation on bruschetta that incorporates diced scallions, drained capers, brandy, garlic and pancetta. The second most enjoyable part of making this dish was taking the cooked mixture from the pan, heaping it into a warm pile on the cutting board, and chopping the rich pyramid into coarseness, with glugs of olive oil added periodically. This was primal kitchen time. The most enjoyable part of making this dish was consuming it, and beaming with pride as my initially extremely-wary wife asked for seconds.
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Chicken Liver Pate Bruschetta (or, if this sounds too gauche for you, try something like Terrine de Foies de Volaille)
1 pound chicken livers
3/4 cup olive oil
2 oz. pancetta
salt and pepper
3 garlic cloves, chopped
3 tablespoons brandy / Cognac
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
3 tablespoons chopped onions
2 tablespoons capers (rinsed and drained)
1 lemon, zest grated (and 1 1/2 tablespoons of lemon juice)
toasted bread slices
1) First, clean the livers - an easy task. I used a small knife to disconnect the connecting veins, as these aren't necessary for the completed dish. After lining a plate with paper towels, place the chicken livers onto the plate and pat them with paper towels to remove extra moisture (this will really help the sauteing go smoothly). Season both sides with salt and pepper, rubbing in.
2) Heat one-fourth cup of olive oil in a large saute pan over high heat. One by one, add the chicken livers until the pan is full. Cook the livers until they turn a deep brown, 2-3 minutes per side. It may be helpful to cover the pan with a lid if the oil begins to spurt.
3) Add pancetta to the pan, reduce heat to low. Cook until pancetta fat renders, 2-3 minutes. Stir in garlic, cook for a few minutes.
4) Stir in the brandy (hopefully good Cognac), stir to deglaze pan, and cook briefly. Add onions, stir several times until softened, and remove pan from heat.
5) Dump the contents of the pan onto a large cutting board, and scrape the bottom of the pan for additional flavorful scraps. Add parsley, capers and lemon zest to the mound, and drizzle with lemon juice and 1/4 cup olive oil.
Friday, November 12, 2010
15 Great Authors Who Just Happen To Be Female

The Rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen authors (poets included) who've influenced you and that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes. Tag at least fifteen friends, including me, because I'm interested in seeing what authors my friends choose. (To do this, go to your Notes tab on your profile page, paste rules in a new note, list your fifteen picks, and tag people in the note.)
- I had to play along, and not just because I had earlier in the week posted a photographic spread of unapologetic bookporn to my photo blog. It was an interesting exercise, because it forces one to set aside authors one merely respects in favor of those one truly adores, which can make for some interesting company. I discovered, for example, that the sports/psychological breakdown semi-memoir A Fan’s Notes by one-shot writer Frederick Exley has continued to haunt and trouble me since I stumbled across it midway through college - more so than other obviously important cultural touchstones like Joyce’s Ulysses or Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. And seeing how the decidedly ambiguous memories of reading A Fan’s Notes so easily and insistently entered my mind, Exley went on the list while Joyce and Pynchon did not. Crazy, I know.
This debate seemed more than a little disingenuous, for several reasons, almost none of which have anything to do with the very real fact that female artists undoubtedly receive less attention and respect than their male counterparts. Had truly obscure or neglected authors stepped forward to point out the egregious double standards at play in the world of literary reviewing, the grievance might have proved easier to swallow. But when the put-upon wordsmiths inveighing against “white male literary darlings” arrive in the guise of Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Weiner, one must take a step back. While neither Picoult nor Weiner could be easily dismissed as purveyors of tripe, to confuse them with engaged, committed, and challenging authors is to degrade the profession. With Picoult having sold 14 million copies of her books and Weiner an estimated 11 million, it’s difficult to conjure much sympathy for their tales of woe in a landscape where a small-press poetry publication is considered “respectable” if it breaks 500 copies in sales. And finally, while the argument is certainly worth having, Franzen seems an odd choice to attack when discussing the relative dearth of female authors in the canon, as he has repeatedly gone on record expressing the same concerns, has written several lovely essays or reviews filled with fulsome praise for neglected female authors (his lengthy June 2010 essay in the New York Times on the relatively forgotten Christina Stead and her unique 1940 novel The Man Who Loved Children is an impassioned rave), and tends to fill his novels with extremely remarkable and sympathetically crafted female characters – far more so than the vast majority of his male contemporaries.
I recognize that Picoult and Weiner were taking aim primarily at the fact that Franzen was reviewed twice by the same publication in the span of a few weeks, but again, I fail to see the outrage in this – after all, Franzen tends to publish large, multifaceted novels once every decade, while both Picoult and Weiner seem to deliver relatively slimmer novels every twelve months or so. Again, absolutely nothing wrong with that – Philip Roth does the same thing, as does Joyce Carol Oates (although her yearly efforts are far from slim). But to sit atop yearly successful releases and accuse a writer as thoughtful as Franzen of nefarious deeds in support of cultural patriarchy is pretty ridiculous. And upon further reflection, I was wrong about Weiner, at least (not so sure about Picoult). Her oeuvre actually does look pretty tripe-like.
I have no desire to venture any further into a topic as fraught with misstep as the perennial “how are male writers different from female writers,” and not only because I suspect it’s a useless discussion. It would be far more productive to instead list fifteen authors of the last century that have indeed been unfairly overlooked by the literary establishment and who all are amazing and talented writers who just happen to have the good fortune of being female. “Historical” authors have been left out of the list, which explains the lack of Jane Austen and George Eliot. I’ve also chosen to ignore those writers which have broken through the glass ceiling and regularly get tossed about with any number of male greats – Joyce Carol Oates, Virginia Woolf, Margaret Atwood. The list is in no way exhaustive or complete or anything other than introductory. However, all fifteen authors display stunning erudition and emotional complexity, possess unique and wonderfully composed prose styles, and tackle subjects ranging from personal psychology to ancient myth. They will all add immeasurably to your life. And they are all much, much better than Jodi Picoult or Jennifer Weiner (and Jonathan Safran Foer).
Recommended works: The Beauty of the Husband (2001); If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho (2002); NOX (2010).
Recommended works: The Girl Who Trod On A Loaf (1993); The Thin Place (2006).
Recommended works: Swann’s Way (2004), trans.; The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis (2009).
Another uncategorizable writer, whose output has veered contentedly between journalistic essays and piercing fiction, we have no better voice on the contradictory nature of the state that is California than Didion. Her political essays are impressionistic pieces nevertheless immersed in detail and detached outrage. And her exploration of death and mourning in The Year of Magical Thinking has few equals. Long after the metafictional experiments of the big boys from the 1960s have faded away, Didion’s work stands as some of the finest prose put to paper during that heated decade. And in many ways, she’s only gotten better.
Recommended works: Slouching Towards Bethlehem (1968); Play It As It Lays (1970); The White Album (1979); Where I Was From (2003); The Year Of Magical Thinking (2005).
5) Elaine Dundy
Given her tumultuous childhood and lifelong struggles against domineering men, Dundy could be forgiven had she chosen an output of morbid observations. Lucky for her and lucky for us, she chose morbid wit, instead, and her cult 1958 novel of an American girl abroad, The Dud Avocado, seems to trickle back into the mainstream every generation or so. She wrote other equally admirable books, including a 1985 mock-bio of Elvis that ranks up there with the best, but it’s her creation of Sally Jay Gorce that she’ll be remembered for. This charming novel is the unacknowledged genesis of Sex And The City, and while that might not sound like much of a recommendation, it stands as one nonetheless.
Recommended works: The Dud Avocado (1958); The Old Man and Me (1964); Elvis and Gladys (1985).
6) Deborah Eisenberg
While Raymond Carver casts a deep shadow across the short story landscape, I suspect the form would be in much healthier straits if writers swapped out Carver’s easily-copied brand of minimalism for the unique approach of either the aforementioned Lydia Davis or Deborah Eisenberg. For the past twenty-five years, Eisenberg has been calmly releasing masterful collections of stories brimming with novelistic detail and utterly believable character studies. Her work celebrates the individual nature of people and families while always acknowledging the darkness and pain that comes along with such individuality. Her eye for the emptiness of American landscapes and the ways in which Americans hope to fill them places her obviously in the contemporary literary scene, but she has set an equally large number of stories in South America – an “exotic” setting that never feels strained. The recent collection of her entire output into one affordable volume is cause for celebration.
Recommended works: The Collected Stories (2010).
7) Mary Gaitskill
Try to forget that one of Gaitskill’s characters was the inspiration for the 2002 sado-lite film Secretary, starring Maggie Gyllenhall – if only because the film timidly approached then scurried away from topics Gaitskill fearlessly tears into. Quite frankly, she’s a writer who says things other writers won’t, unless those other writers are Michel Houellebecq or, um, Michel Houellebecq. She disdains the prettified metaphor, draws unforgivably brutal portraits of scarred young women, and thinks sex is dirty and really fun (and at times really awful) because it is dirty. She is not for everybody. She is one of my favorites.
Recommended works: Bad Behavior (1988); Two Girls, Fat And Thin (1991); Veronica (2005); Don’t Cry (2009).
8) Tove Jansson
Damion Searls recently attempted to explain to American readers how remarkable the career of Swedish / Finnish novelist Tove Jansson really was. She was not only one of the most gifted and beloved illustrators and composers of children’s stories from the last hundred years, but an equally legendary master of adult fiction. Searles writes, “It is as though Jonathan Franzen not only admired Charles Schulz but was Charles Schulz, retired from comic strips and deciding to try his hand at a family novel”. Perhaps you’re already familiar with the magical world of the Moomin books, perhaps not. At the very least, readers suddenly enthralled by Swedish fiction in the Year Of Stieg Larssen would do well to seek out Jansson’s novels – Scandinavian prose of a far calmer yet equally unforgiving bent.
Recommended works: The Summer Book (1972); The True Deceiver (1982); Fair Play (1989).
9) Pauline Kael
As the tradition of film criticism slowly slumps off to the great beyond, it can be hard to imagine a time when an idiosyncratic writer was allowed to explore at great length opinions running sharply counter to the grand narrative of the day. Here was a feisty and disarmingly witty woman capable of catching the whiff of bullshit emanating from the artiste and exploitation salesman alike – she gagged at both The Sound of Music and Michelangelo Antonioni. She embraced onscreen brutality when she found it to be earned (some Peckinpah), denounced it when she found it contrived (Dirty Harry). Her colorful curses were edited out by William Shawn, her celebration of feminine carnality tsk-tsked by New Yorker readers. If you only watched the films she praised, you’d be missing out on some great cinema. And yet there’s more honesty, passion, and insight (not to mention wonderful writing) in her criticism than can be found in the efforts of Clement Greenberg and Theodore Adorno combined.
Recommended works: For Keeps (1994)
10) Lorrie Moore
Leaven your writings with too little wit, and you stand in danger of being dismissed as mirthless. Become too fond of the bon mot or the witty aside, and you stand the equal danger of being damned with faint praise as a humorist. Moore has managed to walk the tightrope of comedy and tragedy through a small yet impressive body of work that stands alone in American fiction for its self-deprecation and an almost tourette’s-like inability to avoid a good pun. Her latest novel suffers only when Moore tries too hard to sweep current American history along with her mannered oddities. But the short stories remain sublime.
Recommended works: Who Will Run The Frog Hospital? (1994); Birds Of America (1998); A Gate At The Stairs (2009).
11) Iris Murdoch
A philosopher who deigned to write fiction, or a fiction writer eerily adept at philosophy? Dame Murdoch was perhaps both, and one would be hard pressed to nominate fellow writers equally capable of composing luminous, thoughtful fiction while pondering the weighty matters of 20th century philosophy. Sartre, maybe? Camus? At any rate, it’s not a long list. Where to begin with a writer with over twenty-five novels to her name, novels that both parody and celebrate such matters as religious faith, erotic obsession, poverty, domination, and intellectual wonderings. Why not start at the beginning, and work forward?
Recommended works: The Bell (1958); A Severed Head (1961); The Black Prince (1973); The Sea, The Sea (1978).
12) Flannery O’Connor
You can keep Stephenie Meyer and her young-adult vampiric concerns. If I want a jolt of Gothic horror, I’ll take Flannery, thanks. If Edward and Bella romantically swoon to the rhythms of the undead, O’Connor’s doomed characters crawl out of a fetid mixture equal parts southern backwoods and Catholic guilt. Prosthetic limbs get stolen post-coitus, bulls gore hapless victims among blades of grass, and oversize statues of racist iconography loom out of the kudzu. It’s wrong to focus on the grotesque nature of O’Connor’s stories and novels at the expense of her very real concerns of the possibility of achieving divine grace, yet even these aspects are colored with a unique and deeply morbid sense of humor. In the end, she towers above both regionalism and southern gothic. She belongs to literature, full stop.
Recommended works: Wise Blood (1952); A Good Man Is Hard To Find (1955); The Violent Bear It Away (1960); Everything That Rises Must Coverge (1965).
13) Cathleen Schine
Yet another example of the lengths to which the literary establishment will go to shut out those authors daring to tread in the semi-bastard zone of comedy and farce, the comic novels of Cathleen Schine deserve wider acceptance and adulation. Who but a comic writer would think to pen a novel of a nineteen-year-old girl’s lengthy stay in a hospital and rehabilitation center’s bed, and actually make it funny? Without a dose of self-pity? And entitle it Alice In Bed? Likewise, a story like Rameau’s Niece, in which a historian translating Diderot becomes overtaken by the manuscript and begins to view life through sex-obsessed lenses, might only be conjured up by a writer willing to embrace farcical convention and unafraid of the so-called “happy ending”. One races enjoyably through her books, only later stopping to consider Schine’s powers of craft and storytelling.
Recommended works: Alice In Bed (1983); Rameau’s Niece (1993); She Is Me (2003).
14) Muriel Spark
Standing proof that a-new-book-each-year need not imply endless chaff or gristle, Spark’s releases flew fast and furious, and her mid-life religious conversion led her to embrace an odd and unique worldview – a worldview that seemed ever mindful of the spiritual goings-on in a world not quite unlike our own, yet far more interested in the upheavals of the Final Judgment than any paradise in the hereafter. Which is not to say she was completely nihilistic. Call her cruelly refined, or just a little warped. Throughout her long career, she never ceased marveling at the indignities humans heap upon one another, and it would take an obnoxious little Pollyanna indeed to fend off the accuracy of Spark’s barbs.
Recommended works: Memento Mori (1959); The Public Image (1968); The Driver’s Seat (1970); The Abbess Of Crewe (1974); The Takeover (1976).
15) Christa Wolf
If a reinterpretation of the Battle of Troy as a decisive shift away from matriarchal tradition sounds to you like the keynote speech at a literary critic’s conference, I wouldn’t disagree too strenuously. But seeing how the former East German writer Christa Wolf is not only a literary critic but a gifted novelist, you’d be wrong to dismiss it as a dull conceit. One might describe her as rather ponderously aware of history, until one notes that anybody spied on by the Stasi for over thirty years would do well to remember the more ponderous lessons of history. Yet she never despairs, and she never condescends. Among the corpses of East German literature lies her warmly beating heart.
Recommended works: Divided Heaven (1963); Cassandra (1984); What Remains (1990).






