Rightwing Justices as the Dursleys

Griffiths, Melling, Shaw as the Dursley family

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Monday

I’ve been looking for a literary analogue for our Supreme Court and have decided the rightwing members are a lot like Vernon and Petunia Dursley from the Harry Potter books: they spoil their son Dudley (Donald Trump) while forcing their orphaned nephew Harry (Trump’s opponents) to sleep in the closet underneath the stairwell.

The spoiling came most recently in their decision to prevent lower courts from issuing national injunctions against Trump’s desire to strip the children of immigrants of their birthright citizenship. Never mind that SCOTUS had no problems with lower courts issuing national injunctions against various of Biden’s policies, especially regarding student loans and Covid regulations. It’s only an issue when courts block Trump measures.

To overrule the lower courts in this case is particularly alarming since gaining citizenship upon being born here is one of our most fundamental rights, guaranteed by the 14th Amendment. The Trump administration can now go ahead and start stripping individuals of citizenship here or there with no court other than SCOTUS able to stop him. And who knows how they’ll rule? As Ruth Marcus notes in the New Yorker,

Friday’s decision means that courts are now hobbled from stopping any of the Administration’s actions, no matter how unconstitutional they may be, nor how much damage they will inflict. Once again, the Court’s conservative super-majority abandoned its constitutionally assigned role and dangerously empowered the President. As Justice Sonia Sotomayor put it in her dissent, “its decision is nothing less than an open invitation for the Government to bypass the Constitution.”

And of course, this is the only most recent instance of SCOTUS favoring Trump. Recently, it has allowed people to be sent to foreign prisons without any right to contest their deportations. And last year it decided to grant Trump immunity for all “presidential acts,” which apparently include instigating a coup attempt. Increasingly, Trump sees himself as having been giving blanket permission to break any law he chooses, and he has proven himself more than willing to do so.

To be sure, SCOTUS was already trending towards to the extreme right even before Trump, especially with its Citizens United decision, which allowed corporate and foreign money to flood the political system. But with Trump in the Oval Office, the trend has accelerated.

Think of SCOTUS’s gifts to Trump as the presents than Dudley receives on his eleventh birthday: 

The table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise—unless of course it involved punching somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was Harry…

Once one starts comparing Dudley to Trump, the resemblances don’t stop. For instance, there’s Dudley’s physique and his hair:

He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel—Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Dudley even has the same insatiable appetite that Trump does:

Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell. “Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.”

The three liberal justices, along with most lawyers and judges, are keenly aware of how Trump games the system. The rightwing justices, however, blithely ignore his legal shenanigans, doing a version of the Vernon-Petunia dance. After pointing out that Dudley missed one present, Petunia then promises him more goodies:

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?”
Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty…thirty…”
“Thirty-nine, sweetums, said Aunt Petunia.
“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. “All right then.”
Uncle Vernon chuckled.
“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. “Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.

Think of Justice John Roberts essentially ruffling Trump’s hair.

One doesn’t need to be a child psychologist to know how bad this is for a child. Nor does it take an expert on authoritarianism to know that attempting to placate a tyrant never ends well. After receiving 37 presents, Dudley is upset that Harry will be allowed to join them on his birthday outing. His display of self-pity bears no small resemblance to Trump’s incessant complaints that “nobody’s been treated badly like me”:

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really crying—it had been years since he’s really cried—but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

“Dinky duddydums, don’t cry. Mummy won’t let him spoil your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms around him.

“I…don’t…want…him…t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. “He always sp-spoils everything!” He shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother’s arms.

Thanks to such parenting, Dudley follows a Trump-like arc, at first becoming immensely fat and then, when he starts boxing, using his new-found strength to become an even bigger bully. The only difference from Trump is that Dudley does undergo a conversion of sorts, becoming softer and more friendly after Harry saves him from the Dementors.

The Dursley parents, however, never apologize for what they have done, nor does it appear that SCOTUS’s rightwing members will do so. John Roberts, even as he decries increasing attacks on the judiciary, does not acknowledge the role the 6-3 majority has played in delegitimizing the court. They were tasked with a sacred mission, to uphold the rule of law, and have been bending the law to suit their own political biases. One wishes that there was someone in a position of authority who could lecture them as Albus Dumbledore lectures Vernon and Petunia. 

Telling them that their sacred duty was to care for Harry “as though he were your own,” Dumbledore continues,

You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy [Dudley] sitting between you.

The damage SCOTUS has inflicted upon Trump is removing all guardrails to his behavior. And because he will appear to cry bitterly every time he is thwarted, it appears that they will not be changing their behavior anytime soon.

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The Deep Truth of the Christian Story

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Sunday

I report today on a forthcoming article, “The Greatest Story Ever Told: How Theism Predicts Christianity,” co-written by Robin Collins and Joshua Rasmussen. Collins, a close friend who teaches philosophy at Messiah College, shared it with me, and I love how it emphasizes the “story” part of the Christian story. 

Collins and Rasmussen argue that the power of the story, rather than historical testimony, is the best evidence that the Jesus narrative actually happened. As Collins writes, “this argument has become the cornerstone of my Christian faith, with other arguments—such as the Apostolic witness to the Resurrection—serving as confirmation rather than foundation.”

Collins and Rasmussen start by noting that, while various scraps of historical evidence exist about Jesus’s ministry, death, and resurrection, an event so extraordinary requires more than scraps. After all, would we believe it if today someone claimed that “their leader, Achmed, was the Holy Spirit who was born of a Virgin and witnessed to be alive in the flesh after being executed for sedition in Iran”? It is because the Christian story has worked so powerfully on the world, the authors conclude, that it can be seen as something more than a fiction.

Their argument starts with the premise—which to be sure atheists will not buy—that God exists and that this deity is omniscient, omnipotent, and perfectly good. Robin, deeply knowledgeable about physics as well as philosophy and religious studies, has elsewhere made scientific arguments for the existence of God, being (as his Wikipedia entry notes) a leading advocate for the Fine-Tuning argument.  According to this, life as we know it “could not exist if the constants of nature—such as the electron charge, the gravitational constant and others – had been even slightly different.” In other words, the universe is tuned specifically for life.

But set that aside to return to the story argument. The authors contend that

if someone believed in an omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good God (or something sufficiently similar) and knew other relevant things about the world but had never heard the Christian story, they would have strong reason to expect that somewhere in the world a historical incarnation and atonement occurred, since these events develop great value in the greatest kind of story.

Why is this? Well, such a God would want to give “the greatest possible gift (God’s self) to us in the greatest possible way—specifically by providing a way for ourselves to be united with God so that our identity as a person is a finite expression of God’s self while we still retain our own individuality.”

So how would a deity provide us with such a gift given that God is infinite whereas we ourselves suffer from “lack of knowledge, limited powers, and moral fragility”? The mystery of the incarnation, where God became flesh and dwelt among us, speaks to this. As the authors put it, “for God to enact such a personal life, God would need to assume and act from a limited, human perspective.” Only if God makes God’s self accessible is it possible for humans to see the way clear to becoming at one with God. Christians call this becoming one atonement (at-one-ment).

At this point the article looks more closely into the shape of Jesus’s life, which comes to us in the powerful and very relatable guise of story. If our unity with God requires some sort of identification, then we must see God undergo our own experience “of profound suffering—something like (say) a humiliating death by crucifixion.”  After all, only if we see God enacting the virtues under the “most extreme type of circumstances” can we imagine taking that path ourselves. Otherwise, as the authors point out, we would not see those virtues as “strong enough for the most difficult life situations people face.”

It is by sharing in these virtues, the authors write, that “we are freed from the forces that hinder moral and spiritual growth (i.e., are “saved from sin”), since living in alignment with the highest virtues is incompatible with destructive tendencies.” The transformation that is subsequently brought about “restores our connection with the divine and brings us into deeper harmony with ultimate reality.”

And further on:

God takes on finite form in a unique way in each one of us. Thus, each person becomes a unique expression of God’s infinite being within the constraints of their finite life. In this way, as we grow in relationship with others, we also grow in our participation in God’s life. 

In a passage that brings to mind Dante’s Paradiso, the authors imagine this individual participation continuing on in the afterlife: 

Like a great story, this vision of the afterlife is not static but endlessly dynamic. Rather than a mere continuation of earthly existence, it is an eternal deepening of divine participation. Each person, reflecting an inexhaustible aspect of God, will continue to manifest and experience divine beauty in ever-greater ways. This view aligns with C. S. Lewis’s conception of the heavenly state, in which each person will eternally know and praise God, communicating some infinite aspect of divine beauty that no other creature can fully express. Since divine beauty is infinite, this process of knowing, praising, and participating in God’s life will never be exhausted. 

Lovers of fiction will notice that confronting trials, experiencing suffering, overcoming evil, and growing into maturity is the template for many of our greatest stories. It also conforms to the journey of the hero myth that Joseph Campbell has found in every world culture. If what Collins and Rasmussen say is right, then, when we read such stories, we seek confirmation of a deeper truth, one that takes us out of ourselves and puts us in touch with something transcendent. This is the case even when the stories are not overtly religious. As Lisa Simpson would say, they embiggen us. 

Burrowing more deeply into the Christian plot, the authors note that a great story

provides hope—an expectation that suffering and struggle have meaning. Christianity offers this story element by framing life’s hardships as part of an epic journey, one filled with character development, unexpected plot twists, and, ultimately, the triumph of good. This perspective links earthly life with the afterlife, showing that suffering and vulnerability are not meaningless but serve a role in shaping us and deepening our connection with the divine.

Furthermore, just as we are not static as readers, nor are we static in the process of at-one-ment. By following Jesus’s example and precepts—especially (as Paul laid them out) faith, hope, and love—we participate in the great drama. The authors conclude,

[I]f God exists, we have reason to expect reality to reflect the greatest kind of story—one rich in meaning, transformation, and ultimate resolution. A great story involves struggle, character development, and the triumph of good over evil. We can see Christianity as a dynamic display of these elements in their highest form, including the Incarnation and Atonement, where the highest being enters history and overcomes the greatest kind of human suffering to provide the greatest kind of good (unity with God) in a dynamic way. 

Here are Collins and Rasmussen recapping their article:

1. The highest good for human beings is union with God.

2. All else being equal, the greatest kind of story would include the highest good for human beings—namely, union with God—and achieve this in the most effective way.

3. Achieving these goods most effectively requires the Incarnation, in which God becomes human and exemplifies the highest virtues in the most challenging circumstances, inviting humanity to participate in these virtues, resulting in a participatory atonement. (For Christians, the highest virtues are faith, hope, and love.)

4. Therefore, all else being equal, the greatest story will include both the Incarnation and Atonement.

The authors touch on other issues, including why the Christian story occurred when it did (it has something to do with the reach of the Roman empire and the public nature of grisly executions) and how it relates to the stories of other religions. Given that “greatest story ever told” brings to mind those 1960s religious blockbusters whose triumphalism I’ve always detested—Hollywood glitz seems at odds with the Christian message—I hasten to point out that Collins and Rasmussen are fairly ecumenical in their claims. There are incarnation and atonement elements in other religions as well.

In the end, what I appreciate most about the piece is how it further enhances my appreciation both for the Christian story and for fiction in general. Truth is to be found at the core of both.

Further thought: Not all great literature, of course, conforms to the journey of the hero template that we see in the Jesus narrative. But all great literature honors the best in ourselves, putting us in touch with our full humanity. The arts, along with congregational worship and other means of acknowledging our inner divinity, guide us towards the atonement of which Collins and Rasmussen speak.

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What to Make of Fascist Authors

Italian poet Gabriele D’Annunzio

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Friday

 “Why Fascism and Illiberalism Are So Seductive to Writers,” a recent Literary Hub article by Ed Simon, recently caught my eye as it goes against the grain. In my view, great literature is inherently anti-fascist because it honors and respects the full personhood of individuals whereas fascism reduces the Other to depersonalized caricatures. The greatest authors—Homer, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Tolstoy—create characters who are so three-dimensional that they resist the ideological stereotypes upon which fascism relies. Even Shakespeare’s Shylock or Tolstoy’s Napoleon can be used as political cudgels only if one ignores their complexity.

While Simon may not disagree with this, he goes at literature from a different angle. In the figures of Russian punk novelist Eduard Limonov, Italian poet Gabriele D’Annunzio, and the rightwing Japanese novelist Yukio Mishima, he sees authors for whom fascism is a logical extension of their art. 

Simon notes that Limonov celebrated, as punk rock provocation, skinheads in Doc Martens with their Hitler salutes and Orthodox mystics ranting about a greater Mother Russia. Such art is not my cup of tea but, okay, there is a place for it. But although Limonov suffered for his art, fleeing the Soviet Union as a free speech martyr and later, when he returned to post-Soviet Russia, being imprisoned by Putin, his major target was liberal values. Thus, it’s not surprising that he would go on to embrace the genocidal Bosnian-Serb Radovan Karadžić. (You can read my comments on Karadžić, himself a poet, here. )

About D’Annunzio, who after World War I captured the city of Fiume and set himself up as the Commandante, Simon writes:

Always drawn between extremes of left and right, the author incorporated elements of corporatism and syndicalism into the constitution, but it was his own potent cult of personality that was the organizing principle. Bored by policy, D’Annunzio rather saw governance as a massive theatrical project, and to that end he introduced certain novelties, including black shirts and Roman salutes, balcony speeches and martial marches, with the man known as “The Poet” and “The Prophet” taking on a new sobriquet—”Il Duce.

Simon adds,

A fantastical, filibustered country imagined into existence, governed not by reason but something chthonic, primal, and occult. Authoritarianism was D’Annunzio’s poetic theme and he blazed as the morning star of fascism, that nihilistic ideology the result of art for art’s sake pushed to its inhuman extremes.

Reading about D’Annunzio’s theatricality, I think not only of Donald Trump but also of Adolph Hitler. As I note in my book (I’m quoting Jonathan Gottshall’s The Storytelling Animal here), 

Hitler essentially “ruled through art, and he ruled for art.” Citing Frederic Spotts’s Hitler and the Power of Aesthetics, [Gottshall] notes that Hitler’s goals were more “broadly artistic” than military or political. According to Spotts, “Hitler’s interest in the arts was as intense as his racism; to disregard the one is as profound a distortion as to pass over the other.”

About Mishima, who after the war wanted to return to an imperial Japan and who, with his followers, attempted to capture a Tokyo military base, Simon notes that he was a “body-building, Samurai-obsessed, ultra-nationalist, fascist paramilitary leader that masturbated to pictures of Catholic martyrdoms.” In his 1959 novel The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, Mishima notes that “his sense of beauty contained the ‘darkest thoughts that exist in this world.’” 

Simon finds in all authors—not only these ones—a narcissism that has something in common with fascism. As he puts it, there is something 

Janus-faced [in the] nature of writing, of thinking of yourself as a writer, of believing yourself capable of producing literature, which is to say of reorganizing reality. It requires a narcissism that’s the hallmark of the totalitarian. What is a totalitarian leader other than an individualist taking that creed to its cruel conclusions, erasing the uniqueness of every other person into mere characters in a drama? 

The reason that authoritarians “court writers as easily as they oppress them,” Simon writes, is “because words are occult, they are magical, they make things happen.

He also points out that fascists, like novelists and poets, are drawn to myth and fantasy and that the artistic temperament, at its most extreme, can be fascistic. Unlike poetic fantasizing, however, fascist fantasizing comes always “at the expense of our souls.”

One sees artistic extremism, Simon writes, in the Dionysian impulse that Nietzsche describes and celebrates in the Birth of Tragedy. According to Nietzsche,

the artist “enriches everything out of one’s own fullness: whatever one sees, whatever wills is seen swelled, taught, strong, overloaded with strength” until all of reality merely becomes “reflections of his perfection.”

The Greeks would have cautioned that, while Dionysus must be respected, so too must Apollo. Both gods have a role in the artistic process, as the best authors understand. While I don’t know much about the three authors that Simon examines, I think it’s possible that their works are wiser than they are and that the authors would have had to distort and violate their works in order to weaponize them.

One can more easily weaponize lesser works—we see this all this time with novels like Atlas Shrugged and Camp of Saints—than greater ones. That because the best artistic creating is the opposite of narcissism, involving as it does the channeling of higher truth and beauty. 

Take Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Height, for example, a work I choose because it has a strong Dionysian component. In fact, the all-absorbing passion that Heathcliff and Catherine have for each other destroys them both. But while the work provoked its society to such a deep extent that it took years for people to appreciate it—readers were especially scandalized that it was written by a woman—it is Apollonian as well as Dionysian. And while Wuthering Heights depicts narcissism, it is the opposite of narcissism because Bronte was looking beyond herself when she wrote it. As her sister Charlotte wrote in Emily’s defense, “the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master — something that, at times, strangely wills and works for itself.” 

Rather than erasing the uniqueness of Catherine and Heathcliff or making them “mere characters in a drama,” Emily captured something essential about women and men that her society couldn’t recognize at the time. Art does this, fascism doesn’t.

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Trump: “’Twas a Famous Victory”

Illus. of Robert Southey’s “After Blenheim”

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Thursday

In Tuesday’s post I, like many others, traced Donald Trump’s bombing decision to manhood insecurities, which have led to a not insignificant number of horrors in the history of the world. When his birthday parade failed to allay these insecurities, he turned to bunker busting bombs. His vision of a grand gesture silencing all doubters—something akin to Barack Obama taking out Osama Bin Laden—continues to elude him. In fact, his obsessing over Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize proves him to be, yet again, the lesser man. This is driving him crazy.

While he boasts of having “completely and totally obliterated” Iran’s nuclear bomb capabilities, he appears to have only set the country back by a few months. Indeed, he has accomplished far less in this arena than, yes, the Obama treaty that he tore up. Yet I suspect that his cult followers, including even the isolationists who initially opposed the raids, will fall in line and continue to buy what he’s selling.

In this way, they are like the old grandfather in the 1798 Robert Southey poem “After Blenheim.” Recounting to his grandchildren the story of the 1704 battle between the French and British alliances (the former of which included Bavaria, where the poem is set), Old Kaspar can only repeat what the authorities tell him: that the affair was “a great victory.” 

In doing so, he must overlook the fact that thousands were killed, that his family home was burned to the ground, that the “country round was wasted far and wide,” and that many nursing mothers and their babies died. 

His grandchildren ask him the same question that we should all be asking Trump: why did the armies fight each other and\ “what good came of it at last?” The answer they get is essentially what we’re getting from our president and his minions:

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
    “Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
    I could not well make out;
But everybody said,” quoth he,
    “That ’twas a famous victory.

Here’s the poem:

After Blenheim
By Robert Southey

It was a summer evening,
    Old Kaspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
    Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
    His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
    Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
    In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
    That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
    Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
    And, with a natural sigh,
“‘Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
    “Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden,
    For there’s many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
    The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men,” said he,
    “Were slain in that great victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
    Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
    With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
    And what they fought each other for.”

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
    “Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
    I could not well make out;
But everybody said,” quoth he,
    “That ’twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then,
    Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
    And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
    Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round
    Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
    And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
    At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight
    After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
    Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
    After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
    And our Prince Eugene.”
“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
    Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay… nay… my little girl,” quoth he,
    “It was a famous victory.

“And everybody praised the Duke
    Who this great fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
    Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why that I cannot tell,” said he,
    “But ’twas a famous victory.”

So one party is telling us that the Iranian bombing “was a famous victory” and one that “’twas a very wicked thing!” Who do you believe?

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No, A.I. Will Not Change How We Read Lit

Oscar Gustaf Björck, Children Reading

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Wednesday

Julia and I spent last weekend with my son’s family in Buford, Georgia, where we heard a detailed account of the very exciting book that he’s writing. Tobias Wilson-Bates is an English professor at Georgia Gwinnett College and this book on literary time machines in the 19th century has sent him in some wild directions, including (since he himself continues to go further back in time) connections between Milton’s Paradise Lost and Isaac Newton’s invention of calculus.

Since doing a post-doctoral fellowship at Georgia Tech before his current post, Toby has moved further into various technologies, which means that he had some choice criticisms of a recent New Yorker article on how Artificial Intelligence “may be bringing the age of traditional text to an end.” To which Toby responded on Bluesky,

This article is going to turn me into the Joker. Literary style is not a puzzle you solve to get a little information treat 😩😩😩

Toby was particularly exercised about what author Joshua Rothman has to say about the opening of Bleak House, which Rothman compares to swimming through molasses. To set up what Rothman regards as A.I.’s miraculous properties, here are the first three paragraphs of Dickens’s novel:

London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimneypots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foothold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

Rothman sets the A.I. program Claude loose on the third paragraph:

But A.I. can also simplify: if you’re struggling with the opening of Bleak House, you can ask for it to be rewritten using easier, more modern English. “Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy,” Dickens wrote. Claude takes a more direct path: “Gas lamps glow dimly through the fog at various spots throughout the streets, much like how the sun might appear to farmers working in misty fields.”

Toby’s tweet set off a storm of comments, including that A.I. isn’t doing anything here that various on-line reading aids are already doing—often far more sensitively—and that the idea of reading literature for information defeats the purpose of literature. As Toby noted in our conversation, while he often finds it difficult to get into a novel, somewhere along the line his brain becomes reconfigured or acculturated so that what initially feels alien becomes familiar. What happens with great lit is that an author’s challenging style takes us over, becoming an essential part of the literary experience. There are plenty of plot summaries to be found—with the internet, people don’t even have to purchase Cliff Notes anymore—but literature has never been reducible to plot. In the trade we call this the heresy of paraphrase.

My own version of the process (as I used to tell my students) is that, while entering a novel may initially feel like pushing a car uphill, eventually the center of gravity shifts as the novel takes hold. Suddenly it feels like you’re coasting downhill.

Toby made yet another point that I found even more profound. Rothman’s account of how people have traditionally read is itself fundamentally flawed. Rothman talks about “the old-fashioned, ideal sort of reading,” which supposedly involves “intense, extended, beginning-to-end encounters with carefully crafted texts.” This, however, has never been how most people read. Rather, reading has always been an earlier version of what we’re currently seeing, which Rothman describes as follows:

These readers might start a book on an e-reader and then continue it on the go, via audio narration. Or they might forgo books entirely, spending evenings browsing Apple News and Substack before drifting down Reddit’s lazy river. There’s something both diffuse and concentrated about reading now; it involves a lot of random words flowing across a screen, while the lurking presence of YouTube, Fortnite, Netflix, and the like insures that, once we’ve begun to read, we must continually choose not to stop.

In addition to the fact that this doesn’t have anything to do with A.I.—it’s more about our distraction culture—it’s also invokes an idealized account of reading. According to this iteration, in some private place we pick up the author’s complete version, begin at the beginning, read until we get to the end, and then stop (to quote Lewis Carroll’s King of Hearts). I can report from my own reading history, however, that I had a variety of ways of engaging with texts. Some works I initially encountered through classics comics–Moby Dick, Gulliver’s Travels, Last of the Mohicans—for which there were little stamps that one would glue onto the appropriate page. My father read aloud other books to my brothers and me until, older and impatient at the slow pace, we would finish them on our own. There were certain books in my childhood that I didn’t realize were abridged so that I was amazed years later when I discovered the originals. (I remember being shocked at the accounts of Lilliputians carting off Gulliver’s shit. And at all the sex in the unexpurgated Arabian Nights.)

Literature consumption in the past was just as varied. Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey describes an early version of Pottermania, with friends reading bits of Ann Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho and sharing them excitedly. Sometimes, in rural England, villagers would gather to hear someone read from the latest installment of the latest Dickens novel. And speaking of Dickens, David Copperfield gains some street cred in his boarding school by recounting to the other students the plots of novels he’s read.

We know, from Dickens biographers, that as a boy he himself encountered these novels in abridged form. Dickens is undoubtedly being autobiographical as he cites the books that David loves:

My father had left a small collection of books in a little room upstairs, to which I had access (for it adjoined my own) and which nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that blessed little room, Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, the Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and Robinson Crusoe, came out, a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that place and time,—they, and the Arabian Nights, and the Tales of the Genii,—and did me no harm; for whatever harm was in some of them was not there for me; I knew nothing of it. It is astonishing to me now, how I found time, in the midst of my porings and blunderings over heavier themes, to read those books as I did. It is curious to me how I could ever have consoled myself under my small troubles (which were great troubles to me), by impersonating my favorite characters in them—as I did—and by putting Mr. and Miss Murdstone into all the bad ones—which I did too. I have been Tom Jones (a child’s Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together. I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily believe.

I note as an aside that I wrote my dissertation on the Scottish novelist Tobias Smollett, the author of Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, and Humphrey Clinker. And that Dickens named one of his sons Tobias Smollett Dickens. Oh, and my own son Tobias is partly named after Smollett, partly after the gentle Uncle Toby in Laurence Sterne’s 18th century novel Tristram Shandy.

David Copperfield’s beloved novels undergo yet further distortion when he recounts them to his classmates:

It happened on one occasion, when [Steerforth] was doing me the honor of talking to me in the playground, that I hazarded the observation that something or somebody—I forget what now—was like something or somebody in Peregrine Pickle. He said nothing at the time; but when I was going to bed at night, asked me if I had got that book?

I told him no, and explained how it was that I had read it, and all those other books of which I have made mention.

‘And do you recollect them?’ Steerforth said.

‘Oh yes,’ I replied; I had a good memory, and I believed I recollected them very well.

‘Then I tell you what, young Copperfield,’ said Steerforth, ‘you shall tell ‘em to me. I can’t get to sleep very early at night, and I generally wake rather early in the morning. We’ll go over ‘em one after another. We’ll make some regular Arabian Nights of it.’

I felt extremely flattered by this arrangement, and we commenced carrying it into execution that very evening. What ravages I committed on my favorite authors in the course of my interpretation of them, I am not in a condition to say, and should be very unwilling to know; but I had a profound faith in them, and I had, to the best of my belief, a simple, earnest manner of narrating what I did narrate; and these qualities went a long way.

Even when people in previous centuries sat down to read an entire novel straight through—say, Tom Jones—different readers would handle the book differently, with some skipping the introductory chapters and others not (which Fielding anticipated).

To Rothman’s assertion that, until recently, reading has been “an unremarkable activity, essentially unchanged since the advent of the modern publishing industry, in the nineteenth century,” Toby responded, “The entire field of 19th century studies is about how wrong this summation is.”

Of the many Bluesky responses to Toby’s tweet, two particularly stood out to me. One is Gareth Clarke’s observation that A.I. summations of novels are the equivalent

of going to a restaurant and bringing a blender to liquify your meal. It might be easier for you to consume as a slurry but the flavor is changed, the textures are gone, the dish lesser as a result. You go to a specific place for a specific thing done a specific way – trust the chef.

Stone Circle Review, meanwhile, shared two great quotations:

I caution against communication because once language exists only to convey information, it is dying. — Richard Hugo

Poetry is not a fancy way of giving you information; it’s an incantation. It is actually a magic spell. It changes things; it changes you. — Philip Pullman

Literature teachers dream of their students experiencing the magic and undergoing change. Sure, there have always been students who found ways to avoid doing the reading assignment, and A.I., I suppose, makes this easier than ever. But those who become immersed in, say, the murky world of Bleak House and who come to identify with the dramas of Esther and Lady Dedlock and John Jarndyce and Jo have gone so far beyond A.I. as to render it irrelevant.

The best literature teachers know that there are multiple ways to hook students, and maybe some of them will even find ways to add A.I. into the pedagogical mix, along with dramatic reenactments, counterposed passages, video and audio versions, poetry slams, imaginative texting exercises, and the like. For that matter, Dickens himself looked for new ways to immerse audiences in his fictional worlds, enthralling them with theatrical readings.

All of these approaches are designed to connect students with literature’s inner core, however, not replace it.  

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Toxic Masculinity Expressed thru Bombs

Still from Doctor Strangelove

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Tuesday

On a daily basis the leader of the world’s most powerful country feels that he must prove his manhood. Driven by an insecurity that never allows him a moment’s peace, he experienced his birthday parade to be a disappointment. It’s as though the five million protesters who upstaged his grand affair emasculated him, thereby prompting him to unleash the world’s most powerful non-nuclear bomb to reassert his dominance. That attacking a country with which the U.S. is not at war is illegal (as the president of France pointed out) mattered not at all to him. Better to make himself feel better in the moment, which has always been his primary motivation, than worry about consequences.

When I learned that Trump had ordered the planes to strike, I thought of W. H. Auden’s poem about the 1968 moon landing, which points out the masculine posturing that was involved. Less impressed by the technical feat than in the way this act of dominance robbed the moon of its poetry, Auden talks of how “our apparatniks will continue making/ the usual squalid mess called History.” Here are the poem’s opening stanzas.

Moon Landing

It’s natural the Boys should whoop it up for
so huge a phallic triumph, an adventure
    it would not have occurred to women
    to think worthwhile, made possible only

because we like huddling in gangs and knowing
the exact time: yes, our sex may in fairness
    hurrah the deed, although the motives
    that primed it were somewhat less than menschlich [humane].

A grand gesture. But what does it period?
What does it osse [portend]? We were always adroiter
    with objects than lives, and more facile
    at courage than kindness…

Back in November, 2016, shortly after Trump was elected the first time, I wrote the following post about how toxic masculinity punishes those caught up in it. I share it again today since it’s only too relevant:

Reprinted from November 28, 2016

Now that “the wicked witch” has been defeated (at least in the electoral college), will America be made great again by returning to 1950s-style, Mad Men masculinity? Guys who long for those days might like to know that things weren’t exactly great back then, as an Adrienne Rich poem from the era testifies.

I thought of “The Knight” when reading a recent Washington Post article claiming that “Sexist men have psychological problems.” According to Sarah Kaplan,

Psychologists looking at 10 years of data from nearly 20,000 men found that those who value having power over women and endorse playboy behavior and other traditional notions of masculinity are more likely to suffer from psychological problems — and less likely to seek out help.

The researchers identified 11 “traditionally masculine” norms in their study: desire to win, need for emotional control, risk-taking, violence, dominance, sexual promiscuity or playboy behavior, self-reliance, primacy of work, power over women, disdain for homosexuality and pursuit of status. They discovered that

the men who stuck more strongly to these norms were more likely to experience problems such as depression, stress, body image issues, substance abuse and negative social functioning. They were also less likely to turn to counseling to help deal with those problems. The effect was particularly strong for men who emphasized playboy behavior, power over women and self-reliance.

According to lead author Y. Joel Wong of Indiana University, the results were in line with previous studies: “It’s something that’s been demonstrated over 20 years of research.”

Rich knew this 60 years ago. In her poem she observes that the pressure on men to live up to a hard exterior took a terrific inner toil. Behind the “metal mask” she detects “rags and tatters.” The “walls of iron” wear the nerves to ribbons.

It’s a good reminder that feminism didn’t only free women. It also freed men from having to be knights in shining armor.

Rich wonders what it will take to free the knight from “the emblems crushing his chest with their weight.” Will they come crashing down or evolve gently? Men and women have made progress since the 1950s and now Trump wants to take us back to fight the old battles all over again.

The Knight
By Adrienne Rich

A knight rides into the noon,
and his helmet points to the sun,
and a thousand splintered suns
are the gaiety of his mail.
The soles of his feet glitter
and his palms flash in reply,
and under his crackling banner
he rides like a ship in sail.

A knight rides into the noon,
and only his eye is living,
a lump of bitter jelly
set in a metal mask,
betraying rags and tatters
that cling to the flesh beneath
and wear his nerves to ribbons
under the radiant casque.

Who will unhorse the rider
and free him from between
the walls of iron, the emblems
crushing his chest with their weight?
Will they defeat him gently,
or leave him hurled on the green,
his rags and wounds still hidden
under the great breastplate?

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How Tennyson Anticipated Trumpism

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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Monday

Sometimes, when one despairs about the state of the world (as I currently am), a poem about someone just as depressed can provide some relief. I didn’t realize I needed Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “Locksley Hall—Sixty Years Later” until blogger Greg Olear introduced me to it.

Olear, whose substack blog Prevail periodically does deep dives into various poems, novels, plays, and other artistic works, yesterday examined a poem in which an 80-year-old Tennyson expresses his disgust. What he reports is unnervingly similar to what we today are seeing as Trump launches assaults on folks at home and folks abroad.

For instance, there’s one stanza that (Olear points out) “is a bit more topical this morning than it was 24 hours ago.” Tennyson is gazing at the grave of a warrior ancestor and seeing naught but futility:

Cross’d! for once he sail’d the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride;
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

Tennyson goes on to discuss how the optimistic morning of his youth has given way to disillusion. I understand the trajectory, having once thought—this during the Obama and Biden administrations—that America could be a force for good on the world stage. For his part, Tennyson mentions how he once thought civilization was moving forward. Now, however, he discovers that “the Good, the True, the Pure, the Just” don’t last “forever” but are only temporary blips, “lost within a growing gloom”:

Truth for truth, and good for good! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just;
Take the charm ‘Forever’ from them, and they crumble into dust.

Gone the cry of ‘Forward, Forward,’ lost within a growing gloom;
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb.

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space,
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace!

‘Forward’ rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one.
Let us hush this cry of ‘Forward’ till ten thousand years have gone.

The history of the world doesn’t have much forward motion to it, he notes, as cruelty is heaped upon cruelty. While he starts with the brutal Assyrians and the Mongol horde, he moves on to Christians, who have managed to twist Christ’s words into something resembling “heathen hate”:

Far among the vanish’d races, old Assyrian kings would flay
Captives whom they caught in battle—iron-hearted victors they.

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls,
Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls,

Then, and here in Edward’s time, an age of noblest English names,
Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer’d Christian into flames.

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great;
Christian love among the Churches look’d the twin of heathen hate.

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin’d himself a curse:
Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller? which was worse?

Here in America, liberals embraced the Enlightenment ideals of the founders and thought that, with growing openness to diversity, equity and inclusion, we could at last achieve something approaching a just society. Now we watch fellow citizens exhibiting the bloodlust of former ages–“passions of the primal clan”—as they cheer masked men snatching innocent people off the streets. The answer to the question Tennyson asks appears to be, “No, we have not grown beyond these passions”: 

Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun
Crown’d with sunlight—over darkness—from the still unrisen sun.

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan?
‘Kill your enemy, for you hate him,’ still, ‘your enemy’ was a man.

Why did we ever think that we were on an upward trajectory, Tennyson asks. Sure, hope for the best, he tells us—but if you want to know “how all will end,” just read “the wide world’s annals.” Technological progress, while promising great cures, has also led to “dynamite and revolver.” He asks whether there has ever been an age so crammed with menace, madness, and written and spoken lies as the present one:

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! who can tell how all will end!
Read the wide world’s annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend.

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past,
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last.

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise:
When was age so cramm’d with menace? madness? written, spoken lies?

Olear notes that the last line pretty much sums up “Trump Redux,” as do the stanzas that follow. He particularly likes the coinage “tonguesters,” which perfectly captures the “internet trolls and full-of-sound-and-fury MAGA maniacs—to say nothing of the small-minded (and short-fingered) monster who leads us to ill-advised war with his noisome deceit.” The fact that our tonguesters parrot the American founders’ call for freedom while opting for a dictator is a great irony:

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once again the sickening game;
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name.

Step by step we gain’d a freedom known to Europe, known to all;
Step by step we rose to greatness,—thro’ the tonguesters we may fall.

Not finished yet, Tennyson then “gives voice to what will become the entire MAGA ethos, presciently denouncing the United States of 2025.” Instead of choosing people with experience who could govern wisely, who valued the Constitution and worked on behalf of “we the people,” the electorate mocked Wisdom and made the man who wooed “the yelling street” their king—and he, in turn, surrounded himself with arrogant (not meek) flatterers. It’s like the dark ages all over again only without the faith and without the sense of meaning that is integral to hope: 

You that woo the Voices—tell them ‘old experience is a fool,’
Teach your flatter’d kings that only those who cannot read can rule.

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place;
Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her face.

Tumble Nature heel o’er head, and, yelling with the yelling street,
Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet.

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope,
Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the slope.

As I read the line “Teach your flatter’d kings that only those who cannot read can rule,” I think of how Trump doesn’t bother to read his intelligence briefings, including those that informed him that Iran was nowhere close to creating a nuclear warhead. He goes where his feet—or his feelings—take him, not to the reasoning brain.

While I find solace in Tennyson articulating my pain, however, ultimately he gives me something more valuable. In the closing stanzas he reminds himself that he has free will (“the foundations of the Will”) and that he can choose to follow “the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine.” He believes, as I do, that “the highest Human Nature is divine” and that by following Light and doing Right, we can half-control our doom. The “deathless Angel seated in the vaant tomb” refers to the Resurrection and is a reminder that, according to Christian belief, Love is more powerful than death.

Ere she [the Earth] gain her Heavenly-best, a God must mingle with the game:
Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither see nor name,

Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers of Ill,
Strewing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains of the Will.

Follow you the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine.
Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature is divine.

Follow Light, and do the Right—for man can half-control his doom—
Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb.

Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past.
I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at the last.

For all his loathing for humankind and its bloody history, Tennyson places final faith in love, which winds out over disgust. His final declaration is delivered with confidence.

Further thoughts: When I read the line, “Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name,” I think of how Trump’s red state supporters are going to suffer far worse from his “Big Beautiful Bill” than blue state Democrats as planned cuts will ravage Medicaid, rural hospitals, food stamps, and Medicaid. His statement, “Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space,/ Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace!”, while referring to (among other things) the railway, could apply to something like vaccines, which we have so much taken for granted that we’re unprepared for a dangerous outbreak of measles. (Elsewhere in the poem Tennyson imagines “all diseases quench’d by Science.”) And Tennyson’s mention of Christians coining curses out of the golden alms of Christ’s blessings brings to mind Trump’s appeal to MAGA Christians as he sought to win them over to the Iran attack:

And I want to just thank everybody and in particular, God, I want to just say we love you, God, and we love our great military, protect them. God bless the Middle East. God bless Israel, and God bless America. Thank you very much. Thank you.

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Speak in Thy Still Small Voice

William Brassey Hole, Elijah in the Desert of Horeb

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Sunday

One of the Biblical passages that makes me nostalgic for the King James Bible involves Elijah straining to hear the voice of God at a moment of despair. “Sheer silence,” which appears in the New Revised Standard Version, may be clearer than “still small voice,” but I experience the change as a loss. Here’s the RVSV version of the passage in which the phrase appears:

Then the word of the Lord came to him, saying, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He answered, “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.”

He said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He answered, “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” Then the Lord said to him, “Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus.”

And now for the King James Version:

And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.

If Elijah expects high drama, such as Moses experienced when receiving the Ten Commandments, he is disappointed. God sometimes adopts a quieter approach, one to be received more through meditation than as a spectator of grand theatrics. English religious poet Anna Shipton (1815-1901) prefers it this way.

Shipton informs us that the “still small voice” can reach her in a way that thunder, whirlwind, and tempest cannot. In her case, it takes such quietness to silence the tempest going on in her own mind. She must be handled gently if she is to experience God’s grace:

The Still Small Voice
By Anna Shipton

“I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go: I will guide thee with mine eye.”—Psalm xxxii. 8.

Speak to me, Lord! not in the thunder cloud, 
Nor in the whirlwind, lest I hear and die; 
Nor let the fearful tempest, hurling loud, 
Fright my sad soul with its iniquity. 
Speak in Thy still small voice, as it is heard 
By patient watchers waiting at Thy feet; 
O gracious Spirit! by Thy Holy Word Draw 
Thou the sinner to Thy mercy-seat. 
Man doth make dark Thy counsel. Oh, speak 
Thou Till a great calm subdues the billows wild! 
Thy grace sufficeth! Lord, Thy grace bestow, 
And with Thy counsel guide Thy weakest child.

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Let Us Taunt Old Care with a Merry Air

Monet, Woman with Parasol

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Friday – Summer Solstice

With today being the Summer Solstice, here’s a poem by African American poet Paul Dunbar celebrating the season. If we open ourselves to the blue skies, “the freedom of lakes and lands,” and “the touch of the air’s soft hands,” we can “taunt old Care with a merry air.”

So go ahead and taunt.

In Summer
By Paul Dunbar

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies’ soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air’s soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer’s boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another’s ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o’erfull heart, without aim or art;
‘T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.

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