Washington’s Last Gift to Us

Horatio Greenough, George Washington (1840)

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Tuesday

Today is the 227th anniversary of a momentous event that, over the past three years, has come to seem even more important than we previously realized. On September 19, 1796, President George Washington, announced that he would be stepping down from the presidency at the end of his term of office. His “Farewell Address” also warned the nation against political partisanship (!) and (particularly relevant given Russia’s continuing interference on Trump’s behalf) foreign influence in politics.

When George III heard of Washington’s plan to voluntarily relinquish power, he reportedly observed, “If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world.”

We can appreciate that Washington, laudatory in so many other ways, also gave us a model for the peaceful transition of administrations. With the exception of 1860, when the election of Abraham Lincoln led to the secession of the Confederate states, Washington’s decision has served us well. That is, until January 6, 2021.

To honor Washington, I’m posting a Phillis Wheatley poem, written shortly before the American Revolution.

Wheatley, sold as a slave by a tribal chieftain in Senegal or the Gambia, ended up with the Wheatley family in Boston, who recognized her talents and encouraged her poetry. Not long after her book of poetry was published in London in 1773, the Wheatley family freed her. Her poem in praise of Washington was in turn praised by Washington, who wrote, “the style and manner exhibit a striking proof of your great poetical Talents.” He also invited her to visit him at his military camp, which she did.

The poem is written in heroic couplets, often used in the 18th century for epic poetry. (Alexander Pope, for instance, used the form for his translations of Homer.) When Wheatley invokes “Celestrial choir! Enthron’d in realms of light,” recent scholarship notes that she is probably invoking the African sun god of her childhood as well as the Greek muse that she encountered in her Latin and Greek education with the Wheatleys. The effect is to elevate America—Columbia—to mythic heights.

With the suffering colonies “involved in sorrows and the veil of night,” she calls upon Washington to unleash his armies as Aeolus, Greek god of the winds, releases his tempests. Calling the general “first in peace and honors,” she writes,

                                           we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Fam’d for thy valour, for thy virtues more,
Hear every tongue thy guardian aid implore!

After all, since Washington has demonstrated his prowess in the French and Indian War (“When Gallic powers Columbia’s fury found”), America should be able to turn to him for defense against “whoever dares disgrace/ The land of freedom’s heaven-defended race!” The poem concludes with a call:

   Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev’ry action let the Goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! Be thine.

While Washington probably would have proceeded even without Wheatley’s injunction, such a poem probably enters somewhere into that decision-making equation. Perhaps it puts a little more steel in the spine at a time when one needs all the courage one can muster.

His Excellency General Washington
By Phillis Wheatley

Celestial choir! enthron’d in realms of light,
Columbia’s scenes of glorious toils I write.
While freedom’s cause her anxious breast alarms,
She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
See mother earth her offspring’s fate bemoan,
And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
See the bright beams of heaven’s revolving light
Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!

   The Goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
Olive and laurel binds Her golden hair:
Wherever shines this native of the skies,
Unnumber’d charms and recent graces rise.

   Muse! Bow propitious while my pen relates
How pour her armies through a thousand gates,
As when Eolus heaven’s fair face deforms,
Enwrapp’d in tempest and a night of storms;
Astonish’d ocean feels the wild uproar,
The refluent surges beat the sounding shore;
Or think as leaves in Autumn’s golden reign,
Such, and so many, moves the warrior’s train.
In bright array they seek the work of war,
Where high unfurl’d the ensign waves in air.
Shall I to Washington their praise recite?
Enough thou know’st them in the fields of fight.
Thee, first in peace and honors—we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Fam’d for thy valour, for thy virtues more,
Hear every tongue thy guardian aid implore!

   One century scarce perform’d its destined round,
When Gallic powers Columbia’s fury found;
And so may you, whoever dares disgrace
The land of freedom’s heaven-defended race!
Fix’d are the eyes of nations on the scales,
For in their hopes Columbia’s arm prevails.
Anon Britannia droops the pensive head,
While round increase the rising hills of dead.
Ah! Cruel blindness to Columbia’s state!
Lament thy thirst of boundless power too late.

   Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev’ry action let the Goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! Be thine.

Further thought: Did Wheatley also have slavery in mind when she called for those who “disgrace the land of freedom’s heaven defended race”? There’s irony here in that Washington himself was a slaveowner. But contradictions aside, Wheatley did make subtle allusions to slavery in her poetry, such in an earlier poem that she directed to George III:

And may each clime with equal gladness see
A monarch’s smile can set his subjects free!

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A GOP Senator as Doctor Faustus

J.D. Vance and actors Close, Adams in Hillbilly Elegy

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Monday

Last week I wrote on a literary work—Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein—that has been applied so many times to politics that it has become a cliché. In fact, people don’t even mention the work when they talk about creating a monster that you cannot control. Nor do they cite Alice in Wonderland when they say “going down a rabbit hole” or Doctor Faustus when they accuse someone of selling his or her soul. Clichés, a readily applicable formula, too often take the place of thought.

But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong. As a wise English colleague once pointed out to me, students using clichés are often on the verge of insight. Rather than dismiss the cliché, the best approach is to prod the writer to reexamine and explore it further.

Similarly, one can revitalize a literary cliché by returning to the original work. I do so in today’s post after having encountered Mitt Romney’s observation about a colleague selling himself.

It appears in what people are calling Mitt Romney’s “burn book,” in that the former GOP presidential nominee has been remarkably frank in sharing his low opinion of his colleagues with his biographer. One particular target of his contempt is Ohio senator and author of Hillbilly Elegy J.D. Vance. Romney had been impressed by Vance after reading the book, but that all changed when Vance became a Trump sycophant in order to win the election:

“How can you go over a line so stark as that — and for what?” Romney wondered. “It’s not like you’re going to be famous and powerful because you became a United States senator. It’s like, really? You sell yourself so cheap?”

According to biographer McKay Coppins, Romney had similar things to say about others senators with potential:

“They know better!’ (Romney) told me. “Josh Hawley is one of the smartest people in the Senate, if not the smartest, and Ted Cruz could give him a run for his money.” They were too smart, Romney believed, to actually think that Trump had won the 2020 election. Hawley and Cruz “were making a calculation,” Romney told me, “that put politics above the interests of liberal democracy and the Constitution.”

None of the three men is using their power to make American lives better, having become Trump sycophants and internet trolls. Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus also sells himself cheap, and it’s worth looking at how and why that happens.

The foremost scientist, doctor, theologian, and philosopher of his day, Faustus is admired by everyone. We learn that he has cured whole cities of the plague (his medical prescriptions are “hung up as monuments”) and he excels “all those whose sweet delight dispute/ In heavenly matters of theology.” The chorus in the play says that he is as worthy of having his story told as a great general or legendary lover. 

So where does he go wrong? Well, he decides he wants power and will make a deal with the devil to get it. 

Now, power isn’t necessarily a bad thing if it is used wisely. And indeed, Faustus originally claims that he wants to do good things with it. We get a list of projects, delivered to us in Marlowe’s soaring poetry: 

Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please,
Resolve me of all ambiguities,
Perform what desperate enterprise I will?
I’ll have them fly to India for gold,
Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,
And search all corners of the new-found world
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates;
I’ll have them read me strange philosophy,
And tell the secrets of all foreign kings;
I’ll have them wall all Germany with brass,
And make swift Rhine circle fair Wertenberg;
I’ll have them fill the public schools with silk,
Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad;
I’ll levy soldiers with the coin they bring,
And chase the Prince of Parma from our land,
And reign sole king of all the provinces;
Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war,
Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp’s bridge,
I’ll make my servile spirits to invent.

You may find some of these ambitions problematic—say, “stranger engines for the brunt of war”—but at least he’s got a program. Marlowe is tapping into new world exploration, interchanges with newly discovered cultures, and the dawning of the scientific age. What formerly seemed impossible now seems within reach.

Only Faustus accomplishes none of these things. Instead, he uses his powers to become a trickster, conman, and court entertainer. At different times we see him play tricks on the pope, plant cuckold horns on the head of a rival, swindle some poor guy out of $40 by selling him a horse that was originally straw (and that reverts to straw again when the horse touches water), and entertain a couple of rulers with (1) fresh grapes in winter time and (2) a holographic image of Helen of Troy. This is what he gets in return for selling his immortal soul?!

Such a downfall could be predicted. Once you value your private gratification more than your soul, you can no longer distinguish between what’s important and what’s trivial. You squander your considerable gifts chasing cheap applause, and when the end comes, it’s agonizing because you’ve put all your faith in something that is transitory—which is to say, in your ego.

Romney, a man of principle as well as ambition, had the vision to see that Vance had something to him. Whether or not one likes Hillbilly Elegy—Vance’s contempt for many of his fellow hillbillies has drawn criticism—it is still impressive that he rose out of poverty to eventually attend Yale Law School. It is a life trajectory that he shares with Faustus, who also triumphed over an impoverished childhood (his parents are described as “base of stock”) to attend Wittenberg, German’s premier university.

With his direct experiences of rural poverty, it would be laudable if he ran for Senate so that he could address these issues associated with it. If, say, he worked with Democrats to bring industry back to America or transform coal country into a green energy producer, he might be able to justify whatever nefarious means he used to be elected senator.

Instead, he has chosen to be a performance artist and a clown for Trump. To repeat Romney’s reaction, “Really? You sell yourself so cheap?”

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God as a Homeless Man

Photo by Mike Hazard, Tragedy

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Sunday

Two weeks ago I shared a talk on how artists and writers access or harness the spirit in their creations. I looked at how Homer invokes the muse, Milton the Holy Spirit, Percy Shelley the divine force he sees blowing through the universe, Leslie Marmon Silko Thought Woman (a Laguna Pueblo deity). When former Carleton classmate and artist Mike Hazard responded approvingly, I asked him about his own muse.

Mike, a photographer poet located in Minnesota’s twin cities, sent me two photographs (see above and below) that he took 50 years ago in St. Paul. As “Tragedy” and “Comedy,” he says, they sometimes serve as depictions of his muse.

He also sent me the following observations, along with a poem. The latter reminds me of the story of Baucis and Philemon, who open their house (when no one else will) to two strangers, only to discover that they are wandering gods. Jon Hassler, whom Mike mentions, is a Minnesota novelist noted for writing about rural communities.

Here’s Mike:

It occurs that I have never consciously considered who my muse is or if there is such a being.
I think I have simply always felt I have been photographing God (without always using that word).
My companion?
The people I meet in the street?
The tree that invites a picture? The rock that draws my eye?
The work is a conversation with spirit.
Like Jon Hassler, I aim to look up to everyone, to hear everyone.
As a pantheist and animist, everywhere I am I’m in awe, praising unceasingly.
I pray to a universe, but do not really ask for things.
When I am drawn to photograph or write about an animal, vegetable or mineral, I nod in gratitude.
It is an exchange, a conversation, an encounter.
Sometimes I feel like a colonizing collector. Other times, enthralled with, by all, I am ecstatic.

This poem might illumine.

Open the Door
By Mike Hazard

An old man who might be God*, if I believe all the poets I love—
who’ve taught me that everything, everyone is holy—is pushing
a crummy chrome shopping cart across the rainbow bridge.
He’s in mind as I drive to the post office to check my mailbox
and remind myself that we are all holy, and God might really be,
when he wheeled into the post office like Santa Claus with a full sleigh.
I try not to stare, but I see the janitor instantly appears, looking busy.
A pair of blue jeans falls off his mountain of stuff onto the marble floor.
He picks it up. He moves in slow motion, deliberate as a good judge.
I am reading the junk mail which I got in my box at a counter.
I look up to see he is doing the same thing. He smells pretty strong.
Then he squints into his scoping hands to read a sign right in front of him.
He is steady, focused. He has large features, a weathered and leathery face.
He’s Italian maybe, and a bit ruddy. Has he been drinking too much?
Is that his trouble? Is God a wino? He doesn’t see me at all, for all I know.
We start leaving at the same time. I cross in front of his cart, to get ahead
and open the door for him. He thanks me in a deep, resonant, rich voice.
As he pushes away, his voice echoes in my mind. I look up and see
the first pair of nighthawks of spring, on the wing in the sky above us.
I think hard about a poor man whose life is loaded on a silver sleigh,
a mailbox, a beautiful baritone’s voice, and the manners of a saint.
I wonder if we will ever meet again. I wonder if he was we know who.

*Note to self: The word God might also be Friend, Gitchie Manido, Mohammed, Krishna, Allah, Buddha, Jesus, Brahma, Wakantanka, Deos, Jehovah, Thor, Great Mother, Holy Father, Zeus, Saub, Spirit, and/or any one of ten thousand other names.

Photo by Mike Hazard, Comedy
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The Poet as Pascal Wanderlust

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Friday

I’ve been reading the two most recent poetry collections of Norman Finkelstein, my best friend in grad school and a remarkable poet and scholar. This past Sunday I shared my theories about the connection between literature and spirituality, and Norman has been exploring a version of that topic for quite some time. I am particularly entranced those poems in which he imagines himself as “Pascal Wanderlust,” a poet wanderer seeking to understand his quest.

Norman’s Wanderlust poems appear both in In a Broken Star (2021) and Further Adventures (2023). The poems are each 12 lines long and appear in groups of 12. Norman has named his hero (or anti-hero) after the line of flowered boots made by Dr. Martens (see picture), but the name also conjures up the brilliant 17th century French mathematician, scientist, and thinker Blaise Pascal, famous for (among other things) his reflections on the nature of God. In an essay appended to Further Adventures, Norman cites Pascal’s observation, “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone,” which Norman jokes makes “Pascal Wanderlust” an oxymoron. Except it’s not, of course, because one can wander in the mind as well as in space, which is what Norman does in his poetic sequence.

Norman’s previous book, From the Files of the Immanent Foundation, chooses an institute or think tank or something (he’s deliberately vague) to explore the nature of poetry. Here, by contrast, he has found an avatar for himself, one who wanders through classic poetry, the Kabbala, various mystics, graphic novels, Freudian psychology, science fiction and fantasy, philosophy, film, and other fields to understand what drives him and the nature of his project.

I share two poems, the first of the Pascal Wanderlust poems (from In a Broken Star) and the self-introduction in Further Adventures (where Norman imagines himself as “the Arch-Mage of Nonsense”).

In our first view of Wanderlust, he is wearing his flowered Doc Martens, along with a mist-grey cloak reminiscent of Gandalf. It is spring and he is following the earth’s invisible energy line, propelled by visions of “palaces lately dreamed” and “that Shining Land lying just ahead, mirage at mountainous horizon.” The breezes that “promise music, scented sensuous turnings of air and vapor, rustling sounds,” remind me of Caliban’s vision in The Tempest:

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.

Add to that Prospero’s vision in the same play of “cloud-capp’d towers,” “gorgeous palaces” and “solemn temples”—”we are such stuff as dreams are made on,” the magician says—and you see why Wanderlust is so eager to set out on his journey:

Pascal Wanderlust, flowered Docs
and mist-grey cloak, follows the ley line
leading down the lane. The last patches
of snow are melting, and Pascal side-
steps puddles on the way to palaces
lately dreamed. Breezes promise music,
scented sensuous turnings of air
and vapor, rustling sounds. Pascal
pulls back a hood grown moist
in greening weather. That Shining Land
lying just ahead, mirage at mountainous
horizon: what does Pascal know of destinations?

In the other poem, we glimpse many of the elements that the alchemist poet mixes together in his poetry workshop. Some are elevated, some look like they’ve been lifted from old science fiction movies and comic books.

“Adam Kadmon,” which I had to look up, is a figure from Jewish mysticism. Neither male nor female, Kadmon is the original human, made up of pure spirit and pure potential, from which Adam and Eve were fashioned (“the ego in pieces”). And indeed Wanderlust, when he plugs into his Adam Kadmon soul, is sometimes a man, sometimes a woman.

Notice how Norman is not afraid to make fun of himself: not only does he admit that he might be turning out nonsense, but he has a sense of humor about his enterprise. Although he seeks to touch base with his higher self, he does so with imperfect instruments, including narration, which refuses to cohere as it breaks into pieces (like the ego). In other words, don’t expect a straightforward story.

All of which is great fun. The Arch-Mage’s laughter, Norman tells us, echoes through space.

The Arch-Mage of Nonsense
is at work in his study
shaping an ego
out of old books of poems
bits of gossip
found on the internet
and vague memories
that were once his own.

The ego is dispersed
across page after page
decanted stuff
from alembics and test tubes
and vacuum chambers
retrieved from space stations
long abandoned
orbiting the moon.

Like a comic book born
of ennui and sorrow
pain and irony
and impossible magic
the ego and its dreamwork
are laid out in poems
panel next to panel
demanding interpretation.

Panel next to panel
in their inane contiguity
defying continuity
yet insisting upon narration
the ego in pieces
like Adam Kadmon
and the laughter of the Arch-Mage
echoing through space.

Added note: Copies of In a Broken Star and Further Adventures can be found at the publisher Dos Madres (www.dosmadres.com). After I sent my post to Norman, he pointed out that I may have made the common reader’s error of too readily equating the character with the author. Or as he put it, “Funny, I don’t think of myself as PW (or vice versa), or at least no more so than novelists think of themselves in their characters. Though I admit to being the Arch-Mage of Nonsense!”

Norman also observed,

Pascal is androgynous, and I never use any pronouns in reference to that character (note that I’m not using “him” in this sentence). This is as much a stylistic move as it is a matter of gender, and plot. I hate using the third-person plural to refer to a single individual, so I chose to use no pronouns at all. This puts a certain stress or torque to the syntax, a deliberate formal constraint.

Previous Posts on Norman Finkelstein

Poetry, a Road to the Spirit World
Gnosticism’s Flight from Earth
A Long Day’s Journey into Mystery
Music Only Poets Can Here
The Bloody Flesh Our Only Food
Childhood, Space of Terror and Enchantment
A Poem in Praise of Libraries
Death and Miracles and Stars without Number
Passover: Blood on the Doorposts

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Navarro, Wells, and Acting with Impunity

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Thursday

Of all the Trump associates who are in legal trouble, I’ve been particularly fascinated by Peter Navarro, the former Trump advisor who was just convicted of defying a Congressional subpoena. Maybe it’s because he’s a former professor and I recognize in him some of the arrogance characteristic of certain academics, especially at research universities. Be that as it may, applying H.G. Wells’s Invisible Man to Navarro provides some insight into why Trump has been able to attract into his circle some supposedly intelligent people.

The above Joseph Farris cartoon also helps. In case you are reading this without the illustration, it features a well-dressed and supremely confident man informing a skeptical judge, “It really wasn’t my fault, your honor. I was led to believe I was above the law.”

Navarro is noteworthy for having proudly revealed “the Green Bay Sweep” on Ari Melber’s MSNBC show The Beat. The plan called for members of Congress to disrupt the counting of electoral votes so as to cause a historic delay. This, the plotters hoped, would get media attention and allow public pressure to build for then-Vice President Mike Pence to send electoral votes back to the six contested states. To which Melber responded, “Do you realize you are describing a coup?”

While Navarro may yet be held responsible for working to overturn the election, his recent conviction was for defying a subpoena from the Congressional committee investigating the coup. Arguing that Trump had granted him “executive privilege” (even though Trump has never confirmed this), Navarro declined to offer any defense or to call any witnesses. A jury quickly found him guilty, and he could face a year in jail and a $100,000 fine for each of the two counts against him.

Navarro has complained bitterly that the court costs and the fines are impoverishing him, but he could have avoided it all by simply showing up to the Congressional hearing. If he had decline to answer their questions, he would have faced no penalty (on the grounds of self-incrimination).

But to have done so would have meant acknowledging that he was answerable to another authority. I suspect the fantasy of thumbing one’s nose at the law with impunity may explain much of Trump’s popularity. Of course, the way that Trump articulates deep racial, ethnic, and sexual grievances is also part of his allure. But that’s a feeling that churns in the gut whereas defying rules and regulations gives one the sense that one can soar above earthly accountability.

Which brings me to Invisible Man, a work I’ve applied multiple times to Trump and other authoritarian figures. To revisit some of those ideas here, I’ve noted that Griffin describes a “feeling of extraordinary elation” when he realizes that people can’t see him. Confiding his history to his college friend Kemp, he says he immediately burned down the house where he made his discoveries so that others wouldn’t discover his secrets:

“You fired the house!” exclaimed Kemp.
“Fired the house. It was the only way to cover my trail—and no doubt it was insured. I slipped the bolts of the front door quietly and went out into the street. I was invisible, and I was only just beginning to realize the extraordinary advantage my invisibility gave me. My head was already teeming with plans of all the wild and wonderful things I had now impunity to do.

He uses the word “impunity” again further on:

Practically I thought I had impunity to do whatever I chose, everything—save to give away my secret. So I thought. Whatever I did, whatever the consequences might be, was nothing to me. I had merely to fling aside my garments and vanish. No person could hold me.

In the past, I’ve compared Griffin’s behavior to that of bad cops who bang suspects’ heads against car door frames (as Trump recommended), severely beat suspects, and sometimes shoot unarmed men. Griffin undergoes a similar trajectory, beginning with minor social infractions:

My mood, I say, was one of exaltation. I felt as a seeing man might do, with padded feet and noiseless clothes, in a city of the blind. I experienced a wild impulse to jest, to startle people, to clap men on the back, fling people’s hats astray, and generally revel in my extraordinary advantage.

With each action, Griffin becomes hungry for more, confirming the old adage that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. When Kent asks about “the common conventions of humanity,” Griffin replies that they are “all very well for common people.”

Griffin’s dark ambitions grow with his madness. Thinking he has successfully enlisted Kemp, he plots ways to wield total power:

“And it is killing we must do, Kemp.”
“It is killing we must do,” repeated Kemp. “I’m listening to your plan, Griffin, but I’m not agreeing, mind. Why killing?”
“Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know there is an Invisible Man—as well as we know there is an Invisible Man. And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it’s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways—scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them.”

Note that he uses one of Trump’s favorite words here: “dominate.” He’s prepared to use violence if necessary.

While I don’t know if I can attribute Griffin’s sadism to Navarro, some Trump followers feel as though he’s given them permission to act out their dark impulses. The thrill that comes with asserting your dominance over others is a sensation familiar to rapists.

But putting that aside, Navarro may have felt so exhilarated at thumbing his nose at Congress—something his idol has done regularly—that the rush overwhelmed common sense. What a sensation for someone who, all his life, has had to follow the rules.

To be sure, there’s another explanation for his behavior, something slightly more rational than an emotional Trumpian high. As John Stoehr of Editorial Board points out, Navarro may have just been making a calculated gamble, one that came perilously close to succeeding:

[Navarro] is where he is, because the plan failed. If it had succeeded, there’d be a Trump White House and a Trump Department of Justice. There’d be no accountability, “because I’m a Trump guy!” 

Indeed, Navarro’s throw of the dice may still be rewarded if Trump is reelected, pardons him, and awards him a high position. Many Trumpists are convinced that their man will wipe the floor with “senile” Joe Biden.

Such gambles have succeeded in the past, as Steve Bannon well knows. Bannon, the Trump whisperer who will also be going to jail for defying a Congressional subpoena, points to figures like Lenin, Mao and Castro, who risked everything and came out on top. And they got satisfying payback as well.

This is why the court cases against Trump and his confederates are so important. Sometimes applying justice to a rich and powerful man can itself feel like a gamble, but the arrogance of Trump and his lawbreaking associates can only be stemmed if they are brought to justice. As it is, Trump is desperately attempting to taint the jury pool and to regain the pardon power that comes with the presidency. Wrestling with him can feel like wrestling with someone who is everywhere at once–that’s what it’s like to fight the Invisible Man at the end of Wells’s novel–but in the end the forces of good prevail.

Pray that our own story ends similarly.

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Ted Lasso, Not Larkin, for Child Advice

Sudeikis as Ted Lasso

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Wednesday

Literary Hub had a fascinating article this past week looking at trauma through the eyes of (1) Ted Larkin’s most quoted (and infamous) poem and (2) the television series Ted Lasso. As Catherine Buni points out, the poem actually gets quoted in one of the series’ last episodes.

First of all, here’s the poem, which you may know already (at least the first line). Reader discretion advised:

This Be the Verse
By Phil Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   
    They may not mean to, but they do.   
They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   
Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.

After observing that Larkin’s parents were problematic (his father was a Hitler admirer and emotionally abusive husband, his mother a depressive) and that he himself could be “an asshole” (a racist, sexist, alcoholic recluse), Buni goes on to assess whether what the poem says is true. If it’s not is it good, she asks, applying Elizabeth Bishop’s observation that accuracy is one of poetry’s best qualities (along with spontaneity and mystery).

Larkin, Buni says, gets certain things wrong about both inherited trauma and coastal shelf geology. Apparently coastal shelves, which consist of “bedded layers, discrete and discernible when extracted for view,” don’t build up the way Larkin thinks they do, with one layer of silt after another drifting down and hardening. Rather, they are the product of underwater sediment routing systems which sometimes add and sometimes take away.

Likewise, childhood trauma is more dynamic than Larkin lets on. Although it’s true that adverse childhood experiences can lead to chronic physical and mental health conditions, it’s also the case that a number of these conditions can be reversed. Checking with several child trauma experts, Buni quotes former California surgeon general on how the cycle can be broken:

 She has identified seven granular, research-based strategies that prevent the human-to-human hand-off of misery: sleep, exercise, time in nature, nutrition, mindfulness, mental health care, and healthy relationships. The tool she uses most? “Walk and talk. Exercise combined with talking with someone.”

Now to Ted Lasso, a show that provide a regular workshop in healthy intervention:

The show’s communities are cooperative and inclusive, with characters who step up against bullies and bigots, who do not tolerate abuse and harm, of anybody, regardless of identity or position. There’s a men’s group that aims to nurture healthy relationships, she observed, the juxtaposition of one dad who is verbally abusive to his son with another dad who lifts his son up, and all sorts of people who decide to try therapy, including Ted. “It feels so different than what we would have seen even ten years ago,” Burke Harris said. “It’s beautiful.”

And then the poem makes its entrance, quoted by Ted’s mother as she visits her son:

Hugging serving tray to chest, Mae approaches Ted, her nimbus of white hair glowing.

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad./…,” Mae begins, no introduction, no title. “They may not mean to, but they do…/.” Her voice dusk-low, the poem unfolds. “But they were fucked up in their turn/ By fools in old-style hats and coats,/…” Mae lands Larkin’s final lines as clear as a crack to the head. “Get out as early as you can,/And don’t have any kids yourself.”

Buni observes,

But, as anyone who’s watched the show knows, it’s too late for Ted. Ted was fucked up in his turn, he knows. He drank up all the faults they had, those fucked up fucks, his mum and dad. And he might fuck up his son, too. He lives an ocean away, and Ted anguishes over the question of whether to return. It won’t be until the last episode that Ted tells his Mom to fuck off, for burying the facts of his father’s death, and then suggests that she, too, might find therapy helpful.

Quoting Ted Lasso’s Peabody Award citation, Buni says that it provides

the perfect counter to the enduring prevalence of toxic masculinity, both on-screen and off, in a moment when the nation truly needs inspiring models of kindness.

She adds that, while the show may not represent a tectonic shift, nevertheless

it has in its own small way pushed towards a new conversation, one aimed at slowly dissolving America’s bedrock violence and banding us together instead. In light of ascendent white nationalist ideologies and communities, increasingly mainstreamed threats of political violence, an unprecedented mental health crisis for kids, and growing partisan hostility, why not create more templates for change? Together, we bear misery, shifting and roiling, riverine.

All of which is to say that we have tools for saving our kids from our misery so that they will not be inevitably doomed by our hang-ups. Indeed they are (I speak from experience here) the greatest gift imaginable and an enduring sign of hope.

So don’t take Larkin’s poem as the last word. Sure, it’s a fun poem to quote when one is feeling frustrated. But if it convinces people not to have kids, then it does more harm than good.

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The Light Brigade’s Charge & Wagner’s

Woodville, The Charge of the Light Brigade

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Tuesday

Greg Olear, who writes regular Substack essays on political issues, devotes each Sunday column to a favorite poem. In his last two, he has applied the poems to current events in a way that I embrace. Two Sundays ago, he compared Donald Trump to Kubla Khan in Coleridge’s famous poem, and this past Sunday he sees Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.”

To be sure, the shoe is on the other foot. Instead of the Russians rushing suicidally towards Kyiv or Bakhmut, at the Battle of Balaclava it was they who were playing the part of the Ukrainians, picking off members of the Light Brigade as it charged “into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell.” Here’s the poem:

I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
   Someone had blundered.
   Theirs not to make reply,
   Theirs not to reason why,
   Theirs but to do and die.
   Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
   Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
   All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
   Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
   Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
   Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
   All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
   Noble six hundred!

People debate whether the poem praises or condemns war. I’ve worried that it glorifies senseless sacrifice and in doing so may have played a destructive role in World War I. Yes, I know it’s only a poem, but it may have inspired “children ardent for some desperate glory” (to quote Wilfred Owen) to surrender their lives unthinkingly. Many would have known the poem by heart and may well have repeated to themselves “cannon in front of them volleyed and thundered” as they went over the top to charge German positions.

Olear, however, counter argues that the poem captures the senselessness of the war:

But I would argue that “Theirs not to make reply / Theirs not to reason why / Theirs but to do and die,” quite the best lines in the poem, can also be read not as praise for valor but as condemnation of the whole sordid enterprise. Can we not “honour the Light Brigade” by learning its dread lesson and not sending our soldiers off to certain death for no good reason? The Crimean War is basically shorthand for “no good reason.”

While World War I was a stupid war, Olear writes in his column that the Crimean War was even stupider. Basically, it was Russia taking advantage of a dying Ottoman Empire to make a land grab while the Turks, French and British resisted. And if that sounds familiar, wait till you hear what the 1910 Encyclopedia Britannica (quoted by Olear) says about the war’s impact on Russia at the time:

Thus Nicholas, the pillar of the European alliance, found himself isolated and at war, or potentially at war, with all of Europe. The invasion of Crimea followed, and with it a fresh revelation of the corruption and demoralization of the Russian system. At the outset Nicholas had grimly remarked that “Generals January and February” would prove his best allies. These acted, however, impartially; and if thousands of British and French soldiers perished of cold and disease in the trenches before Sevastopol, the tracks leading from the centre of Russia into the Crimea were marked by the bones of Russian dead.

I’d like to say, with Marx, that history repeats itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce. Marx was comparing Napoleon I with Napoleon III and we could say that Putin is a wannabe Tsar Nicholas I, who actually succeeded in expanding Russia’s borders. But like Putin, Nicholas got his butt kicked in Ukraine (or at least Crimea) and may have committed passive suicide as a result. (He refused to get medical help for his pneumonia.)

Would the Light Brigade have been honored had Tennyson not written his poem? Or would it have been regarded the way that we see the Wagner mercenary group’s attacks on Bakhmut, a mission costing Russia 20,000 casualties in order to give Putin a short-term victory. I suspect the latter.

Poetry, as Plato complained, can be dangerous in that way, bamboozling through beauty. In the Republic he calls poets “deceivers” who deck out their illusions with meter, harmony, and rhythm. If we were to strip away their poetic aids, he contends, poets would make “a poor appearance” and we would see poetry for the fraud it really is.

Normally I disagree with Plato when it comes to poetry. But in this case, he may be right.

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Trump as Frankenstein’s Creature

Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s creature

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Monday

One of the most satisfying takedowns of Donald Trump I’ve ever seen comes from one Nate White. It’s in answer to the Quora question, “Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?”

Perhaps I like it because of my own Bates-Fulcher-Jackson British lineage. In any event, I’m indulging myself—and hopefully you—by running it in its entirety.

I promise you a literary angle as well, however. At the end, White alludes to Frankenstein, and I have a few things to say about the novel’s applicability. First, however, here’s White’s explaining the reasons for British dislike:

A few things spring to mind…

Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed. So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever. I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty.

Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers. And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness.

There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface. Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.

And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead. There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless – and he kicks them when they are down.

So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think ‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:

–Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.
–You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss. After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form. He is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum. God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.

And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish: ‘My God… what… have… I… created?’ If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set.

Whew!

Now to that Frankenstein allusion, which may be to the movie but applies equally well to the book. Here’s the creator’s description of his “creature.” He happens to be yellow rather than orange and his hair isn’t blond. Still…

 How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same color as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and straight black lips.

And here’s Dr. Frankenstein’s reaction, which even who outwardly support Trump secretly share::

[B]reathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavoring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. 

While the allusion to Mary Shelley’s classic–that the GOP has created an uncontrollable monster–is so commonplace that it has become a cliché, returning to the original text provides a few added insights. NYU history professor Ruth Ben-Ghiat, one of our foremost academic authorities on fascism, notes that moneyed interests often believe that they can control authoritarian bullies, only to find that the bullies are calling the shots in the end. Along with tax cuts and labor suppression, the business community gets a trashed country. A lust for power trumps ethical considerations, which is the case as well with Dr. Frankenstein. Although he, at least, has some early reservations:

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. 

Ultimately, however, he commits himself utterly and as a result finds himself making horrific compromises. I think of Gary Cohn, the president and COO of Goldman Sachs who became Trump’s chief economic advisor and who, despite being Jewish, was willing (in exchange for tax cuts) to overlook the president’s coddling of anti-Semitic fascists chanting, “Jews will not replace us.” (It was only one of many Faustian bargains that Republicans have made with Trump.) Dr. Frankenstein’s work is just as grubby:

Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit…. I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.

And what is the result? The creature, released into the world, turns Dr. Frankenstein’s life into a living hell by killing what is most dear to him, his lovely fiancé.

Unlike the GOP, however, the scientist spends the rest of his life seeking to destroy the blight he has released upon the world. He doesn’t think the monster can be appeased or will just go away and he doesn’t count on someone else dealings with the problem. (At least he doesn’t think this after his fiancé is killed.) In this way, Dr. Frankenstein is more like those NeverTrump Republicans who now seek to undo the force they once enabled. Contrast them with those who, whether out of conviction, self-interest or fear, remain loyal to the former president.

I’ve noticed one other parallel that may hold out a little hope for us: Frankenstein’s creature ceases to be a problem once his creator dies. At that point, the monster no longer sees a reason for existing and departs into the unknown.

A narcissist’s greatest fear is that he is nothing. To be ignored confirms the insecurity that propels him.  Trump becoming irrelevant—whether because of imprisonment, electoral defeat, or other means–is the consummation we should all devoutly wish for.

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Poems for Judaism’s High Holy Days

Chagall, The Shofar

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Sunday

Rosh Hashanah, when Jews do a spiritual self-assessment and take upon themselves responsibility for the sins of the world, begins this Thursday. I am reposting this essay from 13 years ago on three Alicia Ostriker poems that reflect upon Judaism’s High Holy Days.

Ostriker is one who believes that poetry can make things happen. W. H. Auden has written (in “In Memory of W. B. Yeats”) that “poetry makes nothing happen,” to which Ostriker has responded that poetry “can tear at the heart with its claws, make the neural nets shiver, flood us with hope, despair, longing, ecstasy, love, anger, terror . . .”

(Incidentally, I don’t think Auden would disagree. He was just feeling gloomy about Yeats’s death and the state of the world in 1939 and Yeats’s apparent inability to change the course of Irish history.)

Ostriker sees the high holy days—the month of preparatory repentance (Elul), the Day of Judgment (Rosh Hashanah), and the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur)—in a similar way. We have a chance, during this holiday, to be renewed.

True, renewal means facing up to our sins and those of others, which we take collective responsibility for. As Ostriker puts it, “we destroy we break we are broken.” True, “our cells secrete anger, our minds propagate envy.” True, we are like a foolish old woman, living in a ramshackle house during a hurricane that is being struck by “guilt waves and fear waves.” Otsriker calls it right when she says we have the sense that “the walls could collapse any time.”

Longing to open up like an egg, we instead feel like the large stones that “people place on graves to make them a little heavier.” And yet. . .

And yet, against all logic we find renewal. We are Hagar and Ishmael finding water in the desert. (The exile of the two is another thing that Jews may feel the need to atone for.)

Particularly striking is the image of image of drops of rain on the windshield. Going through life can be like driving through a storm, with violent points of contact occurring regularly. Yet the water, defying gravity, flies upward, like prayers. What is our knowledge, what is our strength?” Ostriker asks, invoking ritual language, and then answers her own question with ritual reassurance: “repentance prayer and good deeds avert the stern decree.”

Like that foolish old woman, we don’t leave the house. We face the storm, not like solid and heavy grave markers, but like vulnerable and open eggs.

Here’s the poem:

Days of Awe
By Alicia Ostriker

elul: psalm 27

we are told to say the following
every day for a month
in preparation for the days of awe:

you are my light my help
when I’m with you I’m not afraid
I want to live in your house

the enemies that chew my heart
the enemies that break my spine
I’m not afraid of them when I’m with you

all my life I have truly trusted you
save me from the liars
let me live in your house

*****

rosh hashanah

the birthday of adam
the innocent earthling
and the day hagar and ishmael
found water in the desert

in memory of whom
mud staining our shoes
water flowing in handfuls
we sniff the smell of living dying things

reach into our pockets
for the bread that represents
our sins, toss it in, praying release
us, help us, forgive us

the river answers
by swallowing our crumbs

do our prayers travel upward
do they defy gravity
like rain splashed on the windshield
of a car speeding through storm

in ten days we will go hungrier
pray harder

*****

yom kippur

we destroy we break we are broken
and this is the fast you have chosen
on rosh hashana it is written
on yom kippur it is sealed


who shall live and who shall die
which goat will have his throat cut
like an unlucky Isaac

spitting a red thread and which goat
will be sent alive to the pit where the crazies are
thread lightly tied around its neck

who will possess diamonds and pearls
and who will be killed
by an addicted lover

who shall voyage the web of the world
like an eagle, and who shall curl to sleep
over a steam grate like a worm

who shall be photographed and whose
face will disappear like smoke

this is the fast you have chosen, turn return
how to turn    like leaves   like a page   like a corner
what is our knowledge, what is our strength

I am like the stones people place on graves to make them a little heavier
such a stone says, in its oracular way, don’t come back or return only as grass
but it is tired of being a stone, it wishes to be open, it would like to be an egg

honeybees manufacture honey, a power station generates electricity
cotton plants extrude smooth fibre, and my cells secrete anger
my mind propagates envy, but repentance, prayer and good deeds

avert the stern decree, I am like a ramshackle house during a hurricane
struck by guilt waves and fear waves, the walls could collapse any time
but the foolish old woman who lives there refuses to leave

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