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Tuesday
Last evening and again this evening, Julia and I have been attempting to explain the American election to students at the University of Ljubljana.. We start our presentation off with a conversation that I had with Slovenian colleague Janez Stanovnek almost 40 years ago. Janez was a Melville scholar who had spent his career teaching American literature, but that day he sounded befuddled. “I don’t understand how America works,” he said, shaking his head.
I’ve thought about that comment many times in the years since, and I understand his confusion. My immediate answer to him is that we are all united by the American Dream, and I still think that, only I now see it as a more complicated matter than I did then. But I’m also more impressed with the series of civic rituals we use to keep the dream alive, including children reciting “The Pledge of Allegiance,” sports fans singing the “Star Spangled Banner,” people flying the American flag from their houses, and teachers having us read such foundational texts as “The Declaration of Independence,” “The Gettysburg Address,” Emma Lazarus’s words on the Statue of Liberty, and Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.
These rituals don’t always ensure success, however, as our intense levels of current polarization make clear. And how could they? After all, what single dream would speak equally to immigrants from all over the world, as well as to Native Americans and to the descendants of those forced to come here (African slaves, convicts). And even if Americans could agree on a dream, think of the many ways that the dream fails us and that we fail the dream. Think of the blood that has been spilled in building this nation, the seemingly irresolvable conflicts. How could there possibly be, to quote from the “Pledge of Allegiance,” “one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”
The American Dream is like that: some great constancy comes through, in spite of all the conflicts and contradictions.
Alicia Ostriker takes on these conflicts and contradictions in “Ghazal: America the Beautiful.” A ghazal is a Middle Eastern verse form composed of a least five couplets that often invokes a deep love and longing. Ghazals also feature repeated rhyme or word ending each stanza, and Ostriker’s repeated word–the subject of her longing–is “America.”
Ghazal: America the Beautiful Alicia Ostriker
Do you remember our earnestness our sincerity in first grade when we learned to sing America
The Beautiful along with the Star-Spangled Banner and say the Pledge of Allegiance to America
We put our hands over our first grade hearts we felt proud to be citizens of America
I said One Nation Invisible until corrected maybe I was right about America
School days school days dear old Golden Rule Days when we learned how to behave in America
What to wear, how to smoke, how to despise our parents who didn’t understand us or America
Only later learning the Banner and the Beautiful live on opposite sides of the street in America
Only later discovering the Nation is divisible by money by power by color by gender by sex America
We comprehend it now this land is two lands one triumphant bully one still hopeful America
Imagining amber waves of grain blowing in the wind purple mountains and no homeless in America
Sometimes I still put my hand tenderly on my heart somehow or other still carried away by America
There’s much I relate to in this poem, including the fragment from the song “School Days,” which we sang in first grade. It sounds like Ostriker, like me, would have preferred “America the Beautiful” as our national anthem over the more militant “Star Spangled Banner.” But whatever quarrels she has with “triumphant bully” America, she still finds herself putting her hand tenderly over her heart and pledging allegiance.
Langston Hughes, who as a Black man had every reason to hate America, nevertheless has a poem that concludes, “I too am America.” Despite our differences, somewhere deep is a dream that unites us all.
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Monday
Last week I compared Donald Trump to Shakespeare’s Richard II while examining the play for insights into peaceful vs. violent transfers of power. Today I look at similarities between Kamala Harris and the successor of Richard’s successor—which is to say, Prince Hal, who eventually becomes Henry V. If Harris wins tomorrow’s election, the parallel will be perfect since Hal is the son of Henry IV, who overthrew Richard.
There are significant differences, of course, starting with the fact that Harris has not engaged in the kind of dissolute behavior we see in Hal. There are no Falstaffs in her life, not any hijinks in a forest. But Harris, like Hal, has emerged as a formidable leader after many wrote her off. I believe that, if the Democrats hold on to the Senate and flip the House, she could become the most consequential leader since Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Like Prince Hal, Harris has kept her eye on the prize for a long time. Regarding Hal, we learn about his plans early in Henry IV, Part I. Shortly after we see him carousing with Falstaff and planning an elaborate prank, he surprises us with his famous soliloquy. Directed at his drinking companions, his words reveal that we shouldn’t underestimate him:
To be sure, Harris hasn’t been deliberately hiding her bright metal on a sullen ground. But the vice-presidency has a way of functioning like “base contagious clouds,” smothering up quality. Although we may no longer regard the position as “not worth a bucket of warm piss” (as John Nance Garner, an FDR vice president, characterized it), it can still hide excellence. Only when Harris started running for president did many begin to see her potential.
To be fair, Joe Biden saw it, which is why he recommended her as her successor. In that way, he differs from Henry IV, who has all but given up on his son. Seeing “riot and dishonor” staining the brow of Hal, he fantasizes about exchanging him with Harry Percy, the flashy son of his soon-to-be-enemy Northumberland. “O that it could be proved,” he says longingly,
So it’s not so much Biden that we should be thinking of as we read Henry’s disappointment but those Democrats who were rooting for anyone-but-Harris. Looking at Harris’s lackluster performance in the 2020 primaries—she dropped out before a single vote had been cast—they expressed disappointment not unlike that which Henry levels at Hal:
How could a woman with such “greatness of blood,” these Harris doubters wondered, be all but invisible in the first two years of her vice-presidency.
So far, however, Harris appears to have answered every challenge, just as Hal proves himself in battle, saving his father and defeating Hotspur. In the end, he receives his father’s grudging approval:
There will be further conflict between Hal and Henry, especially at the end when the dying king thinks that Hal is eager to see him gone. Thinking his father dead and recalling how kingship has weighed him down—earlier in the play Henry has complained, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown”–Hal takes the crown from his pillow. By the action, he means to signify that his father can be at rest now. Henry, however, awakes to find it gone and lays into his son. When Hal says, “I never thought to hear you speak again,” Henry replies,
Has Biden ever resented Harris for taking over the position he once thought should have been his? He would not be human if he didn’t feel some anger. But Harris, like Hal, has never shown any indication that she wanted to end Biden’s presidency prematurely, and Hal, like Harris with Biden, ends on good terms with the current occupant of the highest office. After Hal explains why he took the crown, Henry responds with the kind of fatherly sit-down chat that I can imagine Biden having with Harris:
Granted, Biden will not offer the kind of advice that Henry’s does: Hal, he says, should engage in foreign wars to distract the local feuding forces, a “wag the dog” strategy:
And indeed, we will see Henry V achieving something comparable in the next play, where suddenly we see the Scots, the Welsh, and the Irish united under his banner as he prepares to fight the French at Agincourt.
Then again, the coalition that Harris has assembled to defeat Trump is potentially just as fractious, with Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez on the same side as Liz and Dick Cheney. Laurence Olivier’s 1944 national-unity version of the drama played down the fractiousness between Fluellen, Jamy and MacMorris. After all, the United Kingdom was facing a fascist determined to end democracy.
In the play we see Henry V demonstrating the common touch as he relates to his soldiers, a quality that Harris has as well. All over the United States at the moment, Get Out the Vote (GOTV) captains are giving versions of Henry’s famous speech on the eve of his famous battle against the French:
Thomas Matthews Rooke, The Story of Ruth (from a triptych)
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Sunday
Today the Old Testament lesson is drawn from the “Book of Ruth, the drama in which a widowed Moabite woman chooses to remain with her widowed mother-in-law rather than return to her own people and birth family. Ruth’s words to Naomi are themselves a poem and one of the most beloved passages in the Bible:
Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; Where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die— there will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you!”
Poet Marge Piercy, returning to the book, is surprised by how much it focuses on “inheritance, lands, men’s names, how women must wiggle and wobble to live.” Yet despite that, the friendship is so powerful that it throws everything else into the shade. Piercy sees the relationship as a love story, which is why she includes Naomi in the title. At times in the poem, it’s not clear whether she’s talking about Ruth or Naomi although the answer is probably “both.”
Thanks to Rabbi Rachel Barenblatt, whose fabulously titled blog The Velveteen Rabbi alerted me to her anthology of Ruth poems, which includes this one by Piercy.
The Book of Ruth and Naomi By Marge Piercy
When you pick up the Tanakh and read the Book of Ruth, it is a shock how little it resembles memory. It’s concerned with inheritance, lands, men’s names, how women must wiggle and wobble to live.
Yet women have kept it dear for the beloved elder who cherished Ruth, more friend than daughter. Daughters leave. Ruth brought even the baby she made with Boaz home as a gift. Where you go, I will go too, your people shall be my people, I will be a Jew for you, for what is yours I will love as I love you, oh Naomi my mother, my sister, my heart.
Show me a woman who does not dream a double, heart’s twin, a sister of the mind in whose ear she can whisper, whose hair she can braid as her life twists its pleasure and pain and shame. Show me a woman who does not hide in the locket of bone that deep eye beam of fiercely gentle love she had once from mother, daughter, sister; once like a warm moon that radiance aligned the tides of her blood into potent order.
At the season of first fruits, we recall two travelers, co-conspirators, scavengers making do with leftovers and mill ends, whose friendship was stronger than fear, stronger than hunger, who walked together, the road of shards, hands joined.
Further thought on Rachel Barenblatt – I love the title of Barenblatt’s blog, not only because it’s a clever pun, but because the theme of Margaret Sharpe’s The Velveteen Rabbit is that the more you love and are loved, the more real you become. By being carried around and played with as much as it is, the stuffed rabbit takes a beating. But rather than being diminished in the process, it becomes more precious. A toy horse explains the process:
“Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’
‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’
‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’
‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
My son’s grave, which overlooks the spot where he drowned
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Friday
Julia and I are currently enjoying a mid-fall break in Ljubljana, where we have been teaching. Yesterday was Reformation Day, when the Slovenians (to quote Wikipedia) “commemorate the 16th century religious, cultural and political movement that played a key part in the development and promotion of Slovenian language and national identity.” Then today they celebrate All Saints Day, with families tending to the gravesites of departed loved ones.
We will do our own remembering today. Why Ljubljana is a special place to remember our oldest son Justin requires some explaining.
We brought our family here for a Fulbright year in 1987-88 (when it was still Yugoslavia) and then again in 1994-95. Our children attended the international programs in Slovenian schools, and Justin especially treasured the special passes that children get for the Ljubljana bus system. He reveled in the freedom it gave him, and he had all the routes memorized, making a point of traveling to both ends of every line by the end of our stay here. (I think there are 20 or so lines.) He also loved his classes at Gimnazia Bežigrad, and he enjoyed being the starring pitcher for a local baseball team, which won a competitive tournament in the Netherlands.
Therefore, when he died almost 25 years ago, we set up a memorial scholarship in his name. For 17 years now (except for the Covid years) we have been bringing Slovenian students to St. Mary’s College of Maryland and sending St. Mary’s students to Ljubljana. Up until we retired, the Slovenian students lived with us so we came to see them as family.
We reconnect with them when we return and—this is the point I want to make—we see them having the future that Justin didn’t have. I didn’t anticipate this added benefit when we set up the scholarship, which we established out of gratitude to Slovenia, but that’s how it has worked out.
Yesterday, for instance, we met up with Nina Kremžar, who was an English-Japanese double major when she attended St. Mary’s ten years ago. Nina credits the creative writing class she took at St. Mary’s (with poet and my former colleague Jeff Coleman) with jumpstarting her own creative writing, and she has gone on to win a major creative writing competition.
Nina has since published a book of poetry (the award for winning the competition), along with a book or short stories, and she is currently working on a children’s book. (All this in addition to teaching high school English and competing for Slovenia’s national curling team.) I told Nina how meaningful it was for to learn how the scholarship, which wouldn’t have existed had Justin not died, is having these ripple effects.
To remember Justin and all those we have loved and lost, here’s Christina Rossetti’s “Remember Me.” I imagine Justin addressing it to us and telling us it’s okay if we forget him for a while. We are just to use occasions like this and poems like this to remember “the vestige of the thoughts” he has left with us and to smile.
Remember Me By Christina Rossetti
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann’d: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
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Thursday – Halloween
For Halloween I’m sharing one of the scariest poems that I know. It’s about a childhood nightmare involving a cat that Robert Graves recalled after being wounded at the Battle of the Somme in World War I.
Graves remembers being declared dead after his body was retrieved from “a crater by High Wood” and being loaded on board a train, which is when the dream came back to him. (For years after he was traumatized by trains.) It came back to him again when, in a morphine-induced state (and probably PTSD), his mind returned him to the battlefield.
A Child’s Nightmare By Robert Graves
Through long nursery nights he stood By my bed unwearying, Loomed gigantic, formless, queer, Purring in my haunted ear That same hideous nightmare thing, Talking, as he lapped my blood, In a voice cruel and flat, Saying for ever, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!…”
That one word was all he said, That one word through all my sleep, In monotonous mock despair. Nonsense may be light as air, But there’s Nonsense that can keep Horror bristling round the head, When a voice cruel and flat Says for ever, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!…”
He had faded, he was gone Years ago with Nursery Land, When he leapt on me again From the clank of a night train, Overpowered me foot and head, Lapped my blood, while on and on The old voice cruel and flat Says for ever, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!…”
Morphia drowsed, again I lay In a crater by High Wood: He was there with straddling legs, Staring eyes as big as eggs, Purring as he lapped my blood, His black bulk darkening the day, With a voice cruel and flat, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!… Cat!…” he said, “Cat!… Cat!…”
When I’m shot through heart and head, And there’s no choice but to die, The last word I’ll hear, no doubt, Won’t be “Charge!” or “Bomb them out!” Nor the stretcher-bearer’s cry, “Let that body be, he’s dead!” But a voice cruel and flat Saying for ever, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!”
If one were to analyze this dream from a Jungian perspective, one could see the cat as a devouring anima figure, the warrior’s female side which becomes toxic when his male side seeks to suppress all that is effeminate. But no amount of analysis can counter the absolute terror found in the image.
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Wednesday
On Monday, as I watched “the fearful bending of the knee” (Richard II) by the owners of the Washington Post and Los Angeles Times,I posted Oliver Wendell Holmes’s “Old Ironsides.” In the poem, the poet decries what he thought was the planned desecration of the fabled warship, the U.S.S. Constitution.
Dana Milbank, one of the many Washington Post columnists who protested owner Jeff Bezos’s decision to pull the Post’s endorsement of Kamala Harris in deference to Donald Trump, has asked us to nevertheless keep faith with the newspaper. In his argument, he draws on Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If.” More on that in a moment.
Although I have canceled subscriptions in the past, most notably the New York Times for its hatchet job on Hillary Clinton in 2016, I am swayed by the case Milbank makes.
He notes that Bezos has, before this, been a remarkably hands-off editor. And although the Post, like other major newspapers, has been guilty of sane-washing Trump, Bezos is no Rupert Murdoch or Elon Musk. Since he bought the newspaper in 2013, Milbank notes, it has won
18 Pulitzer prices, including for its coverage of the Jan. 6, 2021 insurrection, its exposure of Trump’s phony charitable work, revelations about secret surveillance at the National Security Agency and lapses at the Secret Service, and its reporting on police shootings, poverty, abortion, racial justice and climate change. Just two weeks ago, The Post won two Loeb Awards, the top prize in business journalism, including for my colleagues Heather Long and Sergio Peçanha’s editorials on post-pandemic revival of America’s downtowns. All three finalists in the commentary category were from The Post.
The problem is that such journalism is expensive. The paper lost $77 million last year, which only a billionaire like Bezos can shrug off.
The question is how the Post will behave in the future, and here’s where Kipling comes in. Milbank draws on one of Kipling’s lines about reliance in his inspiring poem “If”:
Those of us working in the news business for the last quarter century know what it’s like to “watch the things you gave your life to, broken/ And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools” as Kipling put it. For all its flaws, The Post is still one of the strongest voices for preserving our democratic freedoms.
Incidentally, “If” has other good advice for us in the final week of this election season. When you see people panicking and disagreeing, when you see political actors lying and hating, consider the following:
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise…
And how about this for campaign volunteers pushing themselves to the limit to save democracy:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
And then there’s this rousing conclusion, which could use a gender addition but is otherwise perfect for the occasion:
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Returning to the subject at hand, Milbank gives the go-ahead for canceling subscriptions if the Post does indeed become broken beyond repair. As he puts it,
If this turns out to be the beginning of a crackdown on our journalistic integrity — if journalists are ordered to pull their punches, called off sensitive stories or fired for doing their jobs — my colleagues and I will be leading the calls for Post readers to cancel their subscriptions, and we’ll be resigning en masse.
But it’s not that broken yet, even with the sane-washing we have witnessed, and good pro-democratic work is still being done. Canceling subscriptions will not address the bigger issue, which is that Trump is trying to turn us into another Russia, where oligarchs kowtow to the strongman in charge. If we get to that point, we’ll have bigger issues than a pulled endorsement.
In the meantime, I leave you with these final sentiments, also drawn from the poem and which conclude with the line Milbank shares:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools…
When it comes to deciding who to vote for, this is no time for choosing the perfect (“dreams”) over the good (Voltaire) or letting ideology–“thoughts”–triumph over practical reality. Knaves, helped along by AI and Russian bots, are twisting the truth non-stop, and sometimes it may feel that democracy’s traditional tools have been broken. But whether or not we prevail in this election, the fight will go on. No Triumph and no Disaster is ever the final word.
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Wednesday
I’m teaching King Lear today, and as Donald Trump, with each passing day, increasingly behaves like a mad ex-monarch, I thought I’d repost one of my essays comparing the two. There have been many such essays (as you will see by the links I provide at the end) but this should come as no surprise. Given that Lear is one of literature’s greatest depictions of a narcissist, it makes sense I would have turned to the play to get Trump’s measure.
The post reprinted below was written in the first six months of Trump’s presidency, and I must say that it holds up fairly well—except that, while Lear breaks out of his solipsistic prison to find love in the end, I’m more skeptical than I was in 2017 that Trump will ever escape.
There’s one other thing I noticed in rereading Lear, which is that the king’s loyal follower Kent is not unlike General Mark Milley or Liz Cheney, who have reminded us that members of the military and elected leaders swear an oath to the Constitution, not to the president. In Kent’s case, his loyalty is to the kingdom and so he remains faithful, not to Lear, but to King Lear. He is therefore willing to call out Lear–speak truth to power–for abandoning his kingship responsibilities, even though it gets him banished. And then to continue to serve King Lear, in disguise, despite the banishment.
Likewise, he calls out sycophantic followers in one of literature’s great invective rants. Think of Goneril’s steward Oswald as one of the grifters who will follow Trump as long as the former president commands an audience–and who will abandon him for another rightwing gravy train the moment that Trump no longer has sway:
The following post was written, however, when the Oswalds of the world were feeling pretty good. And who were, as happens in the play, putting Republicans not loyal to Trump in metaphorical stocks.
Reprinted from May 31, 2017
This is a follow-up to yesterday’s post comparing Donald Trump to King Lear. The more I think about it, the more disturbing the parallels appear.
To set up my further thoughts, I quote from a remarkable Rebecca Solnit article that pulls from Pushkin’s story of the golden fish, The Great Gatsby, and The Picture of Dorian Gray to capture the horror that is Trump. In her description one sees Lear as well:
Once upon a time, a child was born into wealth and wanted for nothing, but he was possessed by bottomless, endless, grating, grasping wanting, and wanted more, and got it, and more after that, and always more. He was a pair of ragged orange claws [Alert! J. Alfred Prufrock reference] upon the ocean floor, forever scuttling, pinching, reaching for more, a carrion crab, a lobster and a boiling lobster pot in one, a termite, a tyrant over his own little empires. He got a boost at the beginning from the wealth handed him and then moved among grifters and mobsters who cut him slack as long as he was useful, or maybe there’s slack in arenas where people live by personal loyalty until they betray, and not by rules, and certainly not by the law or the book. So for seven decades, he fed his appetites and exercised his license to lie, cheat, steal, and stiff working people of their wages, made messes, left them behind, grabbed more baubles, and left them in ruin.
Lear too is possessed by “bottomless, endless, grating, grasping wanting.” Shakespeare’s tragedy gives us a picture of the damage Trump could do to America while also showing what it would take for Trump to find his soul again. (For Lear it requires imprisonment and the love of an estranged daughter.)
First of all, if you have any remaining hopes that Trump can grow into the role of president—that he can become presidential—look at Lear and forget about it. Lear’s narcissism is so profound that he is willing to plunge his country into civil war to deal with his insecurities.
Underlying all of Lear’s bluster is the fear that he is insignificant. He plays his “love” game because he suddenly realizes that all the power in the world won’t save him from aging and death. He knows deep down that he needs love but, since he is used to having everything his own way, he tries to get love on his own terms (to quote from Trump’s favorite movie Citizen Kane).
What he gets instead, of course, is people telling him what he wants to hear. Then, when he no longer has power, he discovers that all their words were empty. At that point, he can no longer evade his loneliness.
Solnit explains why tyrants are invariably lonely:
I have often run across men (and rarely, but not never, women) who have become so powerful in their lives that there is no one to tell them when they are cruel, wrong, foolish, absurd, repugnant. In the end there is no one else in their world, because when you are not willing to hear how others feel, what others need, when you do not care, you are not willing to acknowledge others’ existence. That’s how it’s lonely at the top. It is as if these petty tyrants live in a world without honest mirrors, without others, without gravity, and they are buffered from the consequences of their failures…
Some use their power to silence that and live in the void of their own increasingly deteriorating, off-course sense of self and meaning. It’s like going mad on a desert island, only with sycophants and room service. It’s like having a compliant compass that agrees north is whatever you want it to be. The tyrant of a family, the tyrant of a little business or a huge enterprise, the tyrant of a nation. Power corrupts, and absolute power often corrupts the awareness of those who possess it. Or reduces it: narcissists, sociopaths, and egomaniacs are people for whom others don’t exist.
This is why Cordelia refuses to go along with Lear’s game. She knows that true love involves give and take and she won’t participate in a charade. Give and take, as Solnit points out, is also how democracy works:
We keep each other honest, we keep each other good with our feedback, our intolerance of meanness and falsehood, our demands that the people we are with listen, respect, respond—if we are allowed to, if we are free and valued ourselves. There is a democracy of social discourse, in which we are reminded that as we are beset with desires and fears and feelings, so are others; there was an old woman in Occupy Wall Street I always go back to who said, “We’re fighting for a society in which everyone is important.” That’s what a democracy of mind and heart, as well as economy and polity, would look like.
Once Lear divides his kingdom into two, civil war is inevitable, and tensions between Cornwall and Albany arise immediately. We can note that Trump too has ridden divisiveness to the presidency and has made no attempt—as all previous presidents have done—to reach out to the other side. Incidentally, nothing terrified Shakespeare more than civil strife, which is present in practically all of his history plays and in a fair number of his tragedies. The horrors of his recent history, the War of the Roses and the Catholic-Protestant clashes, loomed large in his mind.
The good news for Trump is that even Lear gets his humanity and his soul back. It takes real adversity for it to happen, however, with his darkest moment proving to be his salvation. Only when he suffers does he learn what love is.
If Lear were given a choice between all his years as king and his last day, he would choose those final moments with Cordelia. Everything else seems trivial in comparison.
It seems strange to think that impeachment or imprisonment might be the best thing that could happen to Trump, but I think it might be true. Solnit talks about the deep yearning for limits that she saw with her fellow college students who came from wealthy families:
The rich kids I met in college were flailing as though they wanted to find walls around them, leapt as though they wanted there to be gravity and to hit ground, even bottom, but parents and privilege kept throwing out safety nets and buffers, kept padding the walls and picking up the pieces, so that all their acts were meaningless, literally inconsequential. They floated like astronauts in outer space.
Maybe disgraced and rejected, Trump could find a genuine relationship with one of his children, laughing together at things they used to take seriously:
Come, let’s away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage: When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down, And ask of thee forgiveness: so we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too, Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out; And take upon’s the mystery of things, As if we were God’s spies: and we’ll wear out, In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones, That ebb and flow by the moon.
As long as he continues to be buoyed by his enablers, however, Trump will remain in the hell of loneliness. One could feel sorry for him only, like Lear, he makes everyone around him pay for his unhappiness and, like Lear, he has the power to do a lot of damage.
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Monday
To ward off fascism, the number one rule of Yale historian and authoritarianism expert Tim Snyder is “Do not obey in advance.” Snyder points out that, when Hitler came to power, most Germans voluntarily surrendered their allegiance to him. He observes that
doing what Trump wants in advance only makes it more likely that Trump will have power, and only teaches him that you are easy to intimidate. You are giving the authoritarian power he would not otherwise have.
Unfortunately, the owners of the Washington Post and the L.A. Times are already doing just that, breaking with custom by refusing to endorse a presidential candidate in this most consequential of elections. In the process they are trashing the reputations of two of journalism’s crown jewels. The Post, which once exposed corruption at the highest levels, has suddenly capitulated to a dictator wannabe, perhaps because owner Jeff Bezos is worried that Trump’s plan to levy tariffs will devastate Amazon. Maybe he thinks that if he plays nice with Trump now, Trump will back off if he regains office.
The Post’s best columnists are in full revolt—apparently the editorial endorsing Kamala Harris was being penned when Bezos pulled it—and the editorial page editor of the L.A. Times resigned as well after its owner, Patrick Soon-Shiong, pulled the same stunt.
When push comes to shove, in other words, billionaire newspaper owners will abandon their sacred trust and put their commercial interests first. So much for the Times’s declaration that “our mission is to inform, engage and empower.” Or the Post’s that “democracy dies in darkness.”
People have been pointing out that the corporate media has been sane-washing Trump for a while now, and these editorial decisions make clear the reason why. Editorial boards, even when faced with a fascist who attempted a coup, have been trying to hold off their owners.
In the end, sadly, all that placating has come to naught.
I think of Oliver Wendell Holmes’s rage when he heard (erroneously, as it turned out) that another fabled institution was about to be desecrated. In 1830 the Boston Globe mistakenly reported that the U.S.S. Constitution—a.k.a. Old Ironsides—was going to be scrapped. Holmes’s poem helped make sure that the fabled warship would be saved from the scrap heap, and it is now the oldest commissioned naval warship still afloat.
We need such poems today to save our newspapers. Here’s the poem:
Old Ironsides By Oliver Wendell Holmes
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon’s roar;— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o’er the flood And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor’s tread, Or know the conquered knee;— The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!
O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every thread-bare sail, And give her to the god of storms,— The lightning and the gale!
The Washington Post was a meteor of the ocean air when it took on Richard Nixon, and it has done notable service since. This time, however, harpies of the shore have gotten to it. Plucking eagles is a specialty of Trump-enabling billionaires.
Update: Jonathan Last of the Bulwark informs us that it’s not tariffs but a rocket company that Bezos is worried about–and that he knows that “bending the kneed to Trump” is a smart play with no downside:
What Trump understood was that Bezos’s submission would be of limited use if it was kept quiet. Because the point of dominating Bezos wasn’t just to dominate Bezos. It was to send a message to every other businessman, entrepreneur, and corporation in America: that these are the rules of the game. If you are nice to Trump, the government will be nice to you. If you criticize Trump, the government will be used against you.
And Last adds,
The Bezos surrender isn’t just a demonstration. It’s a consequence. It’s a signal that the rule of law has already eroded to such a point that even a person as powerful as Jeff Bezos no longer believes it can protect him.
Bezos has therefore “sought shelter in the embrace of the strongman.”
Duccio di Buoninsegna, The Healing of the Blind Man
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Sunday
Each time the Gospel reading in our church features an account of Jesus curing someone, I turn to Lory Hess’s essential book When Fragments Make a Whole: A Personal Journey through Healing Stories in the Bible. Hess responds to each of these stories with a poem, a spiritual interpretation, and an account of how the story has addressed her own version of the illness. With the story of blind Bartimaeus, Hess shows how we don’t have to be blind for Jesus’s healing miracle to be applicable.
The story occurs in Mark 10:46-52:
Jesus and his disciples came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” The blind man said to him, “My teacher, let me see again.” Jesus said to him, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.
Hess notes that blindness can be spiritual as well as physical:
The greatest danger for the human today…is that we will lose our sense of life, that we will no longer be able to choose life over death because we cannot tell the difference between them, or we actually prefer the state of death to life. It is a crisis of perception and discernment that requires us to assess the way in which we see.
Hess goes on to say that there are two kinds of seeing,
one that is suited to the sense world and one to the spiritual world, and neither is better than the other. The sickness, or the ‘guilt’, comes in when we confuse the two, when we cannot pass from one to the other when necessary or apply them in appropriate ways. True sickness lies in not knowing one is sick, and true blindness in not knowing one is blind.
Through healing Bartimaeus, Hess contends, Jesus was also conveying a lesson to his disciples. When Jesus’s death robs them of his “sense-perceptible presence,” she says, it is uncertain whether they will be able to manage their vision of Christ. Healing Bartimaeus, then, is “a final instruction for them to look upward.”
She then turns to her own sickness, which involved migraine headaches and a serious gallbladder problem. Blind to the messages her body was sending her, she says, it took her a long while to muster up the courage to listen to the “hidden wisdom deep inside me.” Only these was she able to “navigate the next steps toward finding out what it was that my true self really wanted.”
Hess’s poem, told from the perspective of Bartimaeus, is about opening ourselves to this inner light:
Blind Bartimaeus By Lory Hess
It’s a heavy fate, a child born blind. Everyone wonders what sin runs so deep it even tainted the seed in the womb. Everyone turns their eyes away, not wanting to look on the luckless one and maybe be marked by his sightlessness.
As a child, I didn’t know what I lacked. I felt the closed-in, lowering gloom that you call ‘dark’, and the lifting, expanding, opening up, the radiance of ‘light’. I felt the sun rise, when the world sang for joy, and the chill as a shadow crossed its face.
Light streamed to me from my mother’s face, her smile, her laugh, her gentle kiss. Darkness fell when she turned from me with silent tears, my future her grief.
My father illumined my mind with words, opening to me the book of our people, the story of how God called all things to be and become, beginning with light. He told how that light was so often lost – obscured in the foolish hearts of men, exiled from Eden for doubting God’s love, losing faith in the wilderness, blindly stumbling after false gods.
But the light will come to us again. He will always be there, beyond the clouds, creating, illumining, turning his face to shine upon us, calling us to remember our name, to lift up our hearts, to ourselves become light.
My father taught me to stand upright in spite of the weight of my destiny, accepting my fate as a sign of trust. So what if I couldn’t live on my own, and had to beg for my daily bread? No man survives alone. We are all, every one, beggars before the mercy of God, dependent on grace, and may God help the one who is blind to that truth.
That’s what I tried to show my people as I sat each day by the side of the road, my bowl held open to heaven’s gifts.
But their eyes were closed. They didn’t see the sun that had risen in their midst, the light of the world, the face of God.
I wouldn’t have asked him for sight for myself. I was used to the dark, and it suited me. I could wait for the day when all things would cast off their earthly garments, and stand in his light.
But I could see he wanted to show them – the ones whose hearts were not all stone, the ones who might yet be brought to the light by seeing a blind man seeing again.
So I called to him, as he called me. I threw off my covering and leapt into light, following him on his way into shadow.
Let the blind man die. Let him be reborn, made new in a new world, called by the Word that created light:
