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Sunday
Thanks to Victoria Emily Jones’s Art and Theology website, I now know about the medieval poem “Easter Song,” written in Latin by the 9th century Irish monk Sedulius Scottus. Although Scottus was driven out of his Irish monastery by Norse invaders and ended up in current day France (the city of Liège), his poem features much of the intense nature imagery that we associate with Celtic Christianity:
Easter Song By Sedulius Scottus Translated by Helen Waddel
Last night did Christ the Sun rise from the dark, The mystic harvest of the fields of God, And now the little wandering tribes of bees Are brawling in the scarlet flowers abroad. The winds are soft with birdsong; all night long Darkling the nightingale her descant told, And now inside church doors the happy folk The Alleluia chant a hundredfold. O Father of thy folk, be thine by right The Easter joy, the threshold of the light.
I love the idea of seeing Easter as “a mystic harvest of the fields of God.” The lyric throbs with life, from brawling bees to scarlet flowers to winds “soft with birdsong.” During the night, the nightingale “her descant told,” and now we witness “Christ the Sun rise from the dark.”
In such a vibrant setting, the “alleluia chant” pours spontaneously forth “a hundredfold.”
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Friday
This past April the New Yorker’s Jill Lepore reported on how she turned to a hundred classics to survive the first one hundred days of the Trump administration. Her resounding conclusion—”There is no emergency, nor any day, that does not require poetry”—could well be the motto for my own blog.
By poetry Lepore means fine writing, and the works she turned to for solace and strength were Penguin’s Little Black Classics, a collection of slim paperbacks that she noted can be held in the hand like a phone. Her article traces the history of cheap versions of the classics, going back to 1906 when a London bookseller began publishing the Everyman Library. The company drew its name from Knowledge’s advice to Everyman in the medieval play of that name: “Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide, / In thy most need to go by thy side.” In dire times, Lepore asserts, we need wisdom.
A more direct ancestor of the Little Black Classics is the “Little Leather Library,” which was founded in America in 1915 and which produced “handy little classics” by such figures as Shakespeare, Longfellow, Tennyson, and Poe. When America entered the war in 1917, Lepore writes, the company
began to sell them by mail order to the families of soldiers to send to the boys at the front, because men in trenches, and men who’d once been in trenches, battered by shelling and up to their waists in mud and blood, “read, eagerly, cravingly, everything they can lay their hands on,” as a Little Leather Library ad explained in October, 1917. “They have gone through such frightful experiences that they require something to put them in touch again with a sane world.”
Thinking of that war, Lepore quotes from Wilfred Owen’s poem “1914,” which she encountered in Penguin Little Black Classics #50, focusing especially on the passage,
. . . Rent or furled Are all Art’s ensigns. Verse wails. Now begin Famines of thought and feeling. Love’s wine’s thin. The grain of human Autumn rots, down-hurled.
While not a soldier on the battlefield, Lepore says that “now begin famines of thought and feeling” struck home.
In some ways, Lepore’s project could be best summed up by the 14th century Japanese Buddhist poet Yoshido Kenkō (#11): “It is a most wonderful comfort to sit alone beneath a lamp, book spread before you, and commune with someone from the past whom you have never met.”
I won’t mention all of the works that Lepore turned to, just cite some of the highlights. As is customary with this blog, I’ll confine myself to poetry, fiction, and drama.
–For the Silicon Valley billionaires licking Trump’s boots, there’s this line from the Greek poet Sappho (#74): “Wealth without real worthiness / Is no good for the neighborhood.”
–For Trump’s assaults on the National Parks and the environment generally, Lepore recorded two lines from a Tang dynasty poet (#9): “Can I bear to leave these blue hills? / And the green stream—what of that?”
–For the stop-work order for the H.I.V./AIDS treatment-and-prevention program, which is expected to lead to the deaths of half a million children in sub-Saharan Africa by 2030 and the orphaning of another 2.8 million, there was Mark Twain’s “The Story of the Bad Little Boy Who Didn’t Come to Grief” (#88). Lepore explains that it’s
the tale of a very nasty little boy who, unlike those in all the storybooks, never pays the cost for all the terrible things he does: “And he grew up, and married, and raised a large family, and brained them all with an axe one night, and got wealthy by all manner of cheating and rascality, and now he is the infernalest wickedest scoundrel in his native village, and is universally respected, and belongs to the Legislature.”
–For the Democrats’ ineffective protest at Trump’s State of the Union speech, Lepore was put in mind of the damned awaiting progress across the River Styx in canto 3 of Dante’s Inferno (#25):
They raged, blaspheming God and their own kin, the human race, the place and time, the seed from which they’d sprung, the day that they’d been born.
–After seeing a Turkish graduate student at Tufts being handcuffed by immigration officers, Lepore reread “The Nightingales Are Drunk” by the great 14th century Persian poet Hafez (#27):
And when did kindness end? What brought The sweetness of our town to naught?
–When Jeff Bezos, Amazon and Washington Post owner, declared that the newspaper would no longer print columns questioning the free market, Lepore turned to Gogol’s short story “The Nose” (#46), a satire involving a nose that escapes from a man’s face. Lepore focused on the following passage, in which he wants to advertise to get it back:
The clerk’s tightly pressed lips showed he was deep in thought. “I can’t print an advertisement like that in our paper,” he said after a long silence.
“What? Why not?”
“I’ll tell you. A paper can get a bad name. If everyone started announcing his nose had run away, I don’t know how it would all end.”
–Aesop’s fable about “The Frogs Who Demanded a King” (#61) was an obvious choice although to compare Joe Biden to the log in the story does an injustice to his presidency. Still, many who voted for Trump are discovering they elected a water serpent:
The frogs, annoyed with the anarchy in which they lived, sent a deputation to Zeus to ask him to give them a king. Zeus, seeing that they were but very simple creatures, threw a piece of wood into their marsh. The frogs were so alarmed by the sudden noise that they plunged into the depths of the bog. But when the piece of wood did not move, they clambered out again. They developed such a contempt for this new king that they jumped on his back and crouched there.
The frogs were deeply ashamed at having such a king, so they sent a second deputation to Zeus asking him to change their monarch. For the first was too passive and did nothing.
Zeus now became impatient with them and sent down a water-serpent which seized them and ate them all up.
–When Columbia University “decided to allow Trump to dictate what college students will learn about the Middle East,” which was followed up by the White House announcing an end to legal aid for migrant children, Lepore turned to the world’s most famous essay about victimizing children. In Jonathan Swift’s “Modest Proposal” (#8) we read, “I have been assured by a very knowing American of my Acquaintance in London; that a young healthy Child, well nursed, is, at a Year old, a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome Food.”
–When Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth and various other Cabinet members were discovered using insecure communications channels, Lepore thought of the Brothers Grimm story “The Six Servants” (#68):
After a while they found another man lying on the ground with one ear pressed against the grass. ‘What are you doing there?’ asked the prince. ‘I’m listening,’ answered the man. ‘What are you listening for so attentively?’ ‘I’m listening to what’s going on in the world at this moment, for nothing escapes my ears, I can even hear the grass growing.’
Lepore observes, “It sounds like Pete Hegseth, tapping at his phone, “Just CONFIRMED w/CENTCOM we are a GO for mission launch.”
–A line from Virgil’s “Eclogue II”(#76), in which the speaker laments how good men have sowed the fields for godless soldiers and barbarians to harvest, came to mind when Lepore saw the banner “SAVE OUR DEMOCRACY, UPHOLD OUR CONSTITUTION” draped over an overpass. As she reports, she had to pull over on the soft shoulder (“not soft enough”) and weep as she thought of the passage,
Look where strife has led Rome’s wretched citizens.
–Trump’s non-stop threats brought to mind a passage in Coleridge’s poem “Fears in Solitude” (#35), in which the poet is worrying about the threat represented by Napoleon:
. . . may the vaunts And menace of the vengeful enemy Pass like the gust.
–When Trump promised new tariffs on “Liberation Day,” causing both the stock market and the bond market to plummet, Lepore turned to the great 17th century haiku poet Matsuo Bashō (#62):
Spring’s exodus— birds shriek, fish eyes blink tears.
–Lepore turned to literature to process some of her frustrations at the Democrats’ response to Trump. For Cory Booker’s impressively long but ultimately ineffective filibuster, Henry James’s “The Figure in the Carpet” (#49) came to mind:
I had thought him placid, and he was placid enough; such a surface was the hard polished glass that encased the bauble of his vanity.
–More hopeful was an April 1 Democratic victory in Wisconsin assuring the state of a more balanced Supreme Court. A line from Edith Wharton’s “The Reckoning” jumped out: “Did not a magnolia open its hard white flowers against the watery blue of April.”
–The continued failure of Democratic messaging, however, sent Lepore to Sophocles’s Antigone (#55). The “blows of fate” are a reference to Creon losing his son Haemon, who has committed suicide in response to Antigone’s suicide:
Chorus: The mighty words of the proud are paid in full with mighty blows of fate, and at long last those blows will teach us wisdom.
–For Trump’s attacks on Harvard, Lepore imagines the university as Odysseus threatened by the cyclops, “a giant lawless brute,” who has him trapped in his cave: “When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more / the monster relit his fire.”
Lepore says she saved Walt Whitman for the hundredth day because, like her, he relied on the classics to carry him through:
Whitman wanted to be the Homer of America, the Herodotus of democracy. He, too, toted around little copies of the classics. “Every now and then,” he once wrote, “I carried a book in my pocket—or perhaps tore out from some broken or cheap edition a bunch of loose leaves.” He loved the Iliad. He pored over Virgil and Sophocles, Shakespeare and Dante. And yet he insisted, “I stand in my place with my own day here.”
Lepore chose a passage from Whitman’s “With Antecedents.” Written in 1860 when America was on the verge of civil war, it provides an important perspective for living in troubled times:
I assert that all past days were what they must have been, And what they could no-how have been better than they were, And that to-day is what it must be, and that America is, And that to-day and America could no-how be better than they are.
Whitman doesn’t necessarily want us to stop trying to make America better, but he wants us to stop fretting when it falls short of what we would like. His magisterial view suggests that we should factor in shortcomings—we are who we are—rather than fall into despair. In pointing out that we are the culmination of soaring human history, he appears to be counseling a kind of acceptance.
That being said, I’m a little surprised that Lepore stopped at his observations about the past and the present. After all, the poem concludes with Whitman looking towards the future:
I know that the past was great, and the future will be great, And I know that both curiously conjoint in the present time, (For the sake of him I typify—for the common average man’s sake— your sake, if you are he And that where I am, or you are, this present day, there is the center of all days, all races,
And there is the meaning, to us, of all that has ever come of races and days, or ever will come.
As we are assaulted daily by Trump’s attempts at a fascist coup—just as Whitman would have been assaulted by secessionist talk—it’s good sometimes to step back and see ourselves in the larger sweep of history. Lepore takes some comfort from seeing the present moment from this vantage point.
Protestant reformer and antinomian Johannes Agricola
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Thursday
One of the most baffling aspects of Trump cultism for me is his enduring support amongst white fundamentalists. Don’t these people, who want to plaster the Ten Commandments on every classroom and government office wall, realize that they have pledged their fealty to someone who all his life has routinely broken every one of those commandments (well, except for murder)? Doesn’t hypocrisy mean anything to these people? Or does their fervent approval of Trump’s racism and sexism blind them to what is obvious to everyone else.
I ask the same question of those who, every two years, send my Tennessee Congressman back to Washington. Scott DesJarlais, who once was unofficially named the worst member of Congress before the competition for that honor became so stiff, is an ardent pro-life family values guy who was revealed to have urged abortions for both his ex-wife and his mistress. Yet none of this seems to matter in my heavily Christian district.
I have gained some enlightenment into this recently from a Robert Browning poem about an antinomian figure from the 16th century, leading me to wonder if there’s an antinomian strain in Trumpist Christianity. “Johannes Agricola in Meditation” is a dramatic monologue in which the speaker ponders his position in the universe.
If you don’t know what an antinomian is, you’re not alone. I only learned recently, thanks to a session with my faculty reading group where we discussed the poem, that it’s an extreme form Calvinism–with Calvinism itself providing much of the foundation of Protestant fundamentalism. As defined by Wikipedia, an antinomian
is one who takes the principle of salvation by faith and divine grace to the point of asserting that the saved are not bound to follow the moral law contained in the Ten Commandments. Christian antinomians believe that faith alone guarantees humans’ eternal security in Heaven regardless of one’s actions.
The antimonians’ faith is not only in God but in their own election by God. In the Calvinist doctrine of predestination, only God’s grace, not our good works, determines whether we go to heaven or hell. One logical extension of this is that it doesn’t matter if one sins. Or as Agricola once stated, “If you sin, be happy, it should have no consequence.” One can see how this could stem from the Calvinist view, “Once saved, always saved.”
So I’m thinking that those Christian Trumpists who believe that he has been ordained by God—and there are many of them—have no problem with giving him an automatic sin pass. Forget about Jesus’s “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” That particular standard does not apply.
Browning is best known for his dramatic monologues in which the speakers inadvertently reveal their inner character as they talk about this or that. “My Last Duchess” is often taught in classrooms because students have a chance to play detective and, reading between the lines, figure out what has happened to the duke’s former wife. (Spoiler alert: He murdered her.) “Agricola in Meditation” begins with the speaker declaring that, when he looks up at the heavens, he doesn’t pay attention to the “dazzling glory” of the sun, moon and starts. That’s because, as one of the elect, he intends to bypass them and go straight to God. He is, in other words, “splendor-proof”:
There’s heaven above, and night by night I look right through its gorgeous roof; No suns and moons though e’er so bright Avail to stop me; splendor-proof I keep the broods of stars aloof: For I intend to get to God, For ‘t is to God I speed so fast, For in God’s breast, my own abode, Those shoals of dazzling glory, passed, I lay my spirit down at last.
Because God has predestined us from before we were born—indeed, before He “piled the heavens” and “fashioned star or sun”—Agricola is sure he has nothing to worry about:
I lie where I have always lain, God smiles as he has always smiled; Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled The heavens, God thought on me his child; Ordained a life for me, arrayed Its circumstances every one To the minutest; ay, God said This head this hand should rest upon Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun.
Indeed, God has made Agricola as a tree that is destined to flourish. And like a tree, he will be “guiltless forever”:
And having thus created me, Thus rooted me, he bade me grow, Guiltless forever, like a tree That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know The law by which it prospers so: But sure that thought and word and deed All go to swell his love for me, Me, made because that love had need Of something irreversibly Pledged solely its content to be.
Even if this tree were to be watered with poison—in other words, if it were to sin—there’s no problem. Agricola assures himself that the poison would be converted into “blossoming gladness”:
Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend, No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop! I have God’s warrant, could I blend All hideous sins, as in a cup, To drink the mingled venoms up; Secure my nature will convert The draught to blossoming gladness fast:
Such is not the case, unfortunately, for those foredoomed to be gourds rather than trees. Even good water won’t help them:
While sweet dews turn to the gourd’s hurt, And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast, As from the first its lot was cast.
Browning’s poem doesn’t only help us understand how antinomians and their American descendants get a pass when it comes to sinning. It also gives us insight into the delight they appear to take when innocents are grabbed off the streets and carted off to Salvadoran or Sudanese concentration camps. Agricola takes positive delight in the prospect of looking down from his privileged position (“for as I lie, smiled on, full-fed”) on the non-elect burning in hell. He gets extra satisfaction from gazing at the misery of those who thought that, by doing good, they would at least keep “God’s anger in,” if not altogether win God’s approval. These poor suckers think good deeds will get them to heaven, not realizing that all their “striving” will be “turned to sin”:
For as I lie, smiled on, full-fed By unexhausted power to bless, I gaze below on hell’s fierce bed, And those its waves of flame oppress, Swarming in ghastly wretchedness; Whose life on earth aspired to be One altar-smoke, so pure! to win If not love like God’s love for me, At least to keep his anger in; And all their striving turned to sin. Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white With prayer, the broken-hearted nun, The martyr, the wan acolyte, The incense-swinging child undone Before God fashioned star or sun!
These poor souls, many apparently Catholic, don’t realize they were damned “before God fashioned star or sun.” The glee that Agricola takes in imagining a child undone may bring to mind those Trumpists unfazed by immigrant children torn from their mothers or killed in Gaza.
As is customary with Browning, the poem ends with a final twist. How would Agricola feel if God did in fact allow such souls to bargain for his love and, through the price of good deeds, end up at his right hand? Well, that would be a God that didn’t live up to the antinomian’s high standards and who would therefore lose his respect and praise:
God, whom I praise; how could I praise, If such as I might understand, Make out and reckon on his ways, And bargain for his love, and stand, Paying a price, at his right hand?
I suspect that few if any of Trump’s followers label themselves antinomian. But once you start seeing yourselves as elect and others as damned—once you have a mechanism for dismissing your own sins while condemning your enemies to hell—you reveal your kinship with Browning’s Agricola.
Of course, through the dramatic monologue genre Browning reveals his speaker to be guilty of overweening pride, the deadliest of the seven deadly sins. Agricola and many of Trump’s followers, however, would just call this faith that God has singled them out for special favor.
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Wednesday
Last week, in an attempt to better understand Trump cultism, I examined what Haruki Murakami has to say about cults in 1Q84. There we see a 1960s commune, formed by disaffected students and intellectuals, turn tyrannical and become associated with toxic masculinity and violence against women. In my post I noted that there were aspects of the book that I still wanted to work out, and today’s essay does that.
This means that I will focus more on literary interpretation than on literary application so that this essay may most appeal to those who have read the novel and want to understand it better. But that being said, I must point out that the novel is very relevant to today as we witness a rise in toxic masculinity. (Trump owes some of his 2024 election to the “bro vote.”) Murakami, as I see it, has given us a mythical fable that envisions a healthier relationship between men and women.
This vision may be what so captivates me about the work, which I first encountered through a New Yorker excerpt. “The City of Cats” chapter so captured my imagination that I knew I had to read the entire novel. I entered the Avid Reader bookstore in Davis, California (where my granddaughter Esmé had just been born) and said I was looking for a novel by a Japanese novelist with numbers and letters in the title. They knew exactly what I wanted and, after I purchased it, I lost myself completely in its 1100 pages. Then I went back to the bookstore and bought every other Murakami novel they had. It is unlike me to become so instantly obsessed but such was the case here.
I loved the heroine and hero, who are given alternating chapters until the very end. Aomame and Tengo meet as 10-year-old children, have a brief but meaningful encounter, and then don’t see each other for the next 20 years. Aomame grows up to be a fitness instructor, Tengo a math tutor and aspiring writer. Then the story turns magical realist as they find themselves part of a world that both is and is not our own (which is a pretty good description of magical realism).
The magic involves tiny people who emerge from dead mouths and weave “air chrysalises” out of invisible threads plucked from the air. The cult’s leader can channel these voices but, after he dies and the voices are cut off, the protagonists become targets of the cult (more on this in a moment). In the end (spoiler alert) Aomame and Tengo find each other and escape this alternate world via the portal through which Aomame initially entered.
The most confusing part of the book is the “Little People,” who find their way into our world through an act of cruelty: teenage Fukuda, the daughter of the cult leader, is punished after her negligence results in the death of one of the commune’s goats. Her sentence is to be locked up in solitary confinement with the animal for ten days. She is fed daily, of course, but is given minimal protection against the cold.
It is during the course of this confinement that the small men emerge from the goat’s mouth. Fukuda watches them work and, at the end of her sentence, peeks into the chrysalis, which proves to contain a version of herself. She later learns that this shadow figure is her “dohta” while she, the original, is a “maza.”
Rather than return to the commune and to her parents, she runs away, ending up with a former friend of her father’s. She tells him and his daughter her story, which they write down and submit to a writing competition for new writers. Tengo is brought in to secretly copy edit the novel (which violates the rules of the competition) and is so taken with it that he turns out a masterful work. His collaboration with Fuka-Eri (her author’s name) functions as a portal into this other world, which he understandably thinks is fantastical rather than real.
The story makes heavy use of Jungian symbolism, and the Little People are to be read through that lens. They and the dohta that they create can be seen as our shadow side. As Jung, following Freud, saw it, the shadow is that part of ourselves that we dislike and fear and that we push into the unconscious, where it becomes toxic. In what Freud called “the return of the repressed,” the shadow refuses to remain hidden but manifests itself in various ways, including through nightmares and pathological behavior. Murakami, in other words, has created a story where he can explore what he and his society are repressing.
What is being repressed is Japanese male violence, which Japan witnessed in full living color during the brutal invasion of Manchuria and China in the 1930s and the subsequent attack on British and American colonies in World War II. While, following its defeat, Japan committed itself to a peaceful course of action, it saw violence erupt in the 1968-69 student demonstrations, which in the novel lead to the formation of the commune/cult.
Violence also breaks out in domestic relationships, where seemingly respectable husbands and fathers batter women and children. I count at least ten instances of violence against women in the novel, two involving strangulation and two suicide. And then there is the cult leader, who rapes little girls whose parents hope that they will give birth of his heir. Instead, he destroys their ovaries.
The Little People are the figures for this violence. They initially seem harmless, given that they resemble the dwarfs in “Snow White,” but their size is deceptive. Sometimes it is small men who are most anxious about their manhood—unlike Tengo, who is large and gentle.
Pushback comes from two quarters. Tengo and Fuki-Era, by telling her story to the world, temporarily neutralize the Little People. It’s as though the joint authors are Jungian therapists, providing the world with literary understanding of how toxic masculinity works. And then there is Aomame, who becomes the nightmare of abusive men by insinuating herself into their lives and killing them.
We first meet Aomame on her way to one of the assassinations, dressed in a Junko Shimada suit and Charles Jourdan heels. In other words, she resembles a femme fatale from a 1940s film noir only, unlike such women, Murakami doesn’t let Aomame become an archetypal anima figure. Instead, he makes her a three-dimensional character.
What drives her is rage that her two best friends have died due to male violence. Though she doesn’t realize it, it’s as though she’s been called into the magical realist world of 1Q84 to redress an imbalance. We’re not told how many men she kills—she’s an expert at knowing just where to plant an icepick so that the deaths look like heart attacks—but her final job is to kill the cult leader. After all, doesn’t a rapist of little girls deserve to die?
Only the story then starts to get more complicated. As it turns out, the leader has not been raping his shrine maidens but rather their dohtas—which is to say, they are not actual girls by chrysalis replicas. Furthermore, he knows Aomame is coming to kill him but, because he is suffering from a debilitating illness, welcomes her icepick. We’re not entirely clear what has gone wrong with him but, as I read the character, he stands in for suffering Japanese men, whose toxic masculinity is ravaging them. We learn that this leader has actually assisted in his daughter Fuka-Eri’s escape, seeing her as an antibody to the Little People.
It’s as though Donald Trump, who revels in his power to grab women “by their pussies,” were to realize what an empty life he’s been leading and were to surreptitiously take measures to end his MAGA cult. We know, from his whining about “trophy wives” at Saturday’s West Point commencement speech, just how lonely and miserable he is.
Okay, we can dream about Trump seeing the light. But regardless of what the leader in the novel wants, his violent cult is not ready to disband. Desperate to hear the voices again, it attempts to track down Aomame for the killing of their leader and Tengo and Fuka-Eri for writing the book. At this point IQ84 becomes a noir detective novel, and we encounter the chain-smoking and slovenly P.I. that has been hired by the cult to track them down.
A deeper look into Aomame is in order here. Because of a harsh upbringing that involved her religious mother dragging her from house to house to proselytize, she has had to grow up tough, which is why she makes an effective assassin. She has watched her two best friends die and doesn’t want to be vulnerable. Yet she longs for a loving relationship with the boy who once came to her rescue in elementary school.
Tengo, meanwhile, also has had to escape a father who dragged him from door to door—in his case, to collect television and radio fees—and has, like Aomame, retreated into a lonely existence. He longs for the little girl who once unexpectedly squeezed his hand in a classroom.
There’s one scene involving a Tengo encounter with an air chrysalis that needs explaining. While attending the death bed of this father whom he has never loved, he encounters the gauzy wrapping and, looking into it, finds the dohta of 10-year-old Aomame. In other words, Aomame’s shadow side is a sweet little girl, which she has repressed in order to survive in the world.
The dohta enters into Tengo’s drama as well. For weeks after the encounter, Tengo stays close to his comatose father, less for his sake that hoping for a reappearance of the chyrsalis. In the end, however, he has to leave and return home—and only in doing so can he meet the actual Aomame. As I read the scene, only when he leaves his father and grows up to be his own man can he have a relationship, not with a fantasy of his childhood love, but with an actual grown woman.
So the novel evolves into a beautiful love story with wonderful gender balance: Tengo is a sensitive but manly man who learns to commit himself to his writing and to the relationship while Aomame is a forceful woman who learns to reconnect with her tender side and, in the end, her maternal side. That’s because, through the magical mediation of Fuka-Eri, she finds herself pregnant with Tengo’s baby. This conception occurs four months before they actually meet. Somehow, the death of the old leader has led to the possibility of a new kind of relationship between men and women. Their baby represents the future.
The cult is trying to get its hands on this baby—which would continue the old patterns of violence—while Aomame is determined to break free. Together she and Tengo find the portal through which she entered the world of 1Q84 and return to the Japan of 1984. Their new life will involve challenges, of course, but it will be built on a healthier foundation.
Many of us thought that the 1970s feminist movement was critical to building our own healthy foundation, liberating women and men alike from limiting gender expectations. Now the Trump administration is targeting professional women as it seeks to reverse these gains. Trump is channeling America’s Little People for his cult followers, and the result is mounting violence and threats of violence.
But don’t forget about Murakami’s vision of hope. The cult leader explains to Aomame before she helps him die that, while the violence of the Little People can be seen as a virus, as a virus it generates antibodies. The antibody in this instance is the literary collaboration between his daughter and Tengo. Fiction, in other words, will push back against forces that threaten to tear society apart. In the end, the final counter to Japan’s latent violence is Tengo’s and Aomame’s love for each other.
Put another way, in the face of the of the hatred and violence that we witness daily from Trump and his followers, we must never stop loving. Or as Matthew Arnold put it while gazing out at his society’s desolate and dreary prospects, “Ah, love, let us be true to one another.”
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Tuesday
You know that irony has caught the last train to the coast when one of the worst bills in recent memory is officially called “the Big Beautiful Bill.” While many are aware that its tax cuts for the rich will increase the American deficit by $3.3 trillion over the next ten years, even as it cripples food stamp and Medicaid programs, American Prospect has ferreted out some of the less-known but equally noxious provisions. The bill is beautiful in the same way that a rotten apple represents “perfection” in a William Carlos Williams poem by that name.
–prohibits courts from finding officials in the executive branch in contempt for not following judicial orders; –adds $45 billion to build immigration jails; –gives the administration the power to define nonprofits as “terrorist-supporting organizations” and to expedite the ending of their tax status; –guts the estate tax; –allots $20 million to school vouchers while slashing Department of Education spending for public education; –allows tax credits that subsidize ACA premiums to expire at the end of 2025 — repeals the $200 excise tax on the sale of gun silencers.
In short the bill, like Williams’s apple, is perfect in its thorough rottenness:
Perfection
O lovely apple! beautifully and completely rotten hardly a contour marred–
perhaps a little shriveled at the top but that aside perfect in every detail! O lovely
apple! what a deep and suffusing brown mantles that unspoiled surface! No one
has moved you since I placed you on the porch rail a month ago to ripen.
No one. No one!
This mention of rottenness brings to mind a Robinson Jeffers poem, “Shine, Perishing Republic,” about an America that is rotting. “The flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth,” the poet writes of an America that is betraying its republican promise as it “settles in the mold of its vulgarity.”
While this America settles in the mold of its vulgarity, heavily thickening to empire, And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth. Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.
“Thickening into empire” is a reference to America’s increasing corruption in 1925, when the poem was written. The only silver lining that Jeffers sees is that, if America is going through a seasonal cycle, then perhaps the dark times are only a temporary setback. Although Jeffers didn’t know it at the time, unregulated capitalism would lead to the Great Depression, which in turn would trigger Roosevelt’s New Deal programs and the rise of the American century.
So perhaps Trumpism is only momentary. Perhaps the corruption we are seeing, which makes the 1921 Teapot Dome scandal seem quaint by comparison, will rot into earth that will be the source of new growth. As Percy Shelley once asked, “If winter comes, can spring be far behind.” Or as he imagined in an even more expansive moment,
The world’s great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn: Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam, Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
Too hopeful for you? Just keep in mind that America has flirted with authoritarianism before and recovered.
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Monday – Memorial Day
On Memorial Day I usually steer clear of politics, choosing instead to focus on those in the military who paid the ultimate sacrifice, whether directly on the battlefield or afterwards due to injury or trauma-caused suicide. Today, however, I can’t help but mention our commander in chief, who sees war’s victims as “suckers and losers” and who, on Saturday. gave a West Point commencement speech where he discoursed about trophy wives, golf, and “the late great Al Capone.” (He then left the ceremony midway through to go play golf, unlike his two predecessors, who after they spoke stayed to shake the hand of every cadet.) While Trump claims that a vast military parade he’s planning for June 14 is to honor Flag Day and the 250th anniversary of the U.S. Army, his birthday is also that day and few are fooled about who he will really be celebrating.
World War I poet Siegfried Sassoon understood those people who wrap themselves in the flag while turning a blind eye to the actual plight of military personnel. In “Suicide in the Trenches” he directs his savage satire against the Donald Trumps of the world:
I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you’ll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.
The simple couplet form captures the innocence that war destroys. The bouncy rhythm stands in ironic contrast to the tragic loss, and the final line hits with seismic force.
But at least these “smug-faced crowds” are cheering. Trump doesn’t even do that.
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Sunday
As we prepare for Memorial Day, I turn to World War I poet Wilfred Owen, the greatest of all anti-war poets, who often found himself grappling with the apparent absence of God. My own belief is that God is big enough to take whatever challenges and complaints we throw His/Her way. Of prime importance is finding language to pose our questions and vent our frustrations. No question feels more pressing than why we suffer.
In “Soldier’s Dream,” Owen counterposes “kind Jesus” with the vengeful god of the Old Testament, along with war-like archangel Michael. Jesus may be the prince of peace but somehow His imagined intervention gets superseded by other forces:
I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; And caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; And buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; And rusted every bayonet with His tears.
And there were no more bombs, of ours or Theirs, Not even an old flint-lock, not even a pikel. But God was vexed, and gave all power to Michael; And when I woke he’d seen to our repairs.
In “The Parable of the Old Man and His Son,” it is not God who is at fault but the humans who ignore His/Her saving invention. The final couplet inverts the story of Abraham and Isaac in a startling and bitter way, indicating that we have turned out backs on God:
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, and builded parapets and trenches there, And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him. Behold, A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
In “Le Christianisme,” the church specifically comes under attack for its failure to prevent warfare and console its victims. A statue of Christ, along with Owen’s Christian faith, has been buried by the rubble of a bombed church. Meanwhile, by packing up the other statues of saints to save them from such destruction, the church has removed them from the people who need them most.
In other words, it’s not only the saints who are “well out of hearing of our trouble” but the church itself. Meanwhile, it’s only a matter of time before war desecrates the one statue that remains standing. The Virgin Mary, wearing a war helmet bestowed upon her by a British soldier, may smile down on us, but she is slated for imminent destruction.
So the church Christ was hit and buried Under its rubbish and its rubble. In cellars, packed-up saints long serried, Well out of hearing of our trouble.
One Virgin still immaculate Smiles on for war to flatter her. She’s halo’d with an old tin hat, But a piece of hell will batter her.
I’m not entirely sure what Owen means by “smiles on for war to flatter her.” Maybe it’s a belief that Mary—along with Christianity and the church—will remain pure and transcendent, whatever flawed humans do. If that’s the message, the poet essentially says, “Just you wait.”
Owen, who early in his life aspired to be a bishop, would go on to distance himself from the religious-patriotic jingoism preached from Church of England altars. At one point he may have agreed with the belief, “God is on our side and wants you to fight,” but after three years in the trenches he would write to his mother, “I have murdered my false creed. If a true one exists, I shall find it. If not, adieu to the still falser creeds that hold the hearts of nearly all my fellow men.”
This is the kind of questioning that God wants from us because it opens us to the awful (as in awe inspiring) mysteries of creation. False creeds and narrow orthodoxies close us down whereas the poetry of Owen captures us in our full humanity. This humanity includes our questioning.
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Friday
Book lovers often have favorite novels that they consume like comfort food, reading them for their familiarity and remembered pleasure. The novels of Haruki Murakami function this way for me, especially Kafka on the Shore, The Windup Bird Chronicle, and 1Q84, which I’m rereading at the moment. At a time when 1984 is increasingly becoming a primer for understanding the Trump presidency, it’s interesting to see the Japanese author engage with Orwell’s dystopian masterpiece. The “Q” stands for questioning, as in questioning reality.
We see the two books set in dialogue when one of Murakami’s characters observes,
George Orwell introduced the dictator Big Brother in his novel 1984, as I’m sure you know. The book was an allegorical treatment of Stalinism, of course. And ever since then, the term ‘Big Brother’ has functioned as a social icon. That was Orwell’s great accomplishment. But now, in the real year 1984, Big Brother is all too famous, and all too obvious. If Big Brother were to appear before us now, we’d point to him and say, ‘Watch out! He’s Big Brother!’ There’s no longer any place for a Big Brother in this real world of ours. Instead, these so-called Little People have come on the scene. Interesting verbal contrast, don’t you think?’
“The Little People,” the strangest part of this magical realist novel, are Snow White-type dwarfs who usher forth at night out of people’s mouths to weave an ethereal construction called an air chrysalis. Connected as they are with a secretive cult whose leader engages in child abuse, they appear to represent society’s dark side.
The contrast between a big man dictator and the Little People is worth exploring since each can be seen as a conduit of this darkness. Donald Trump came to power channeling America’s racism and sexism, which he both articulates and embodies. In like manner, Murakami’s Little People appear connected with a latent violence present in Japanese society. In their case, they take over, well, little people.
Murakami appears to be saying—somewhat prematurely, perhaps—that the age of strong men dictators like Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin and Mao is over but that the same kinds of forces are alive and well in modern democratic states. The difference is that these forces possess individuals rather than leaders, assuming in the process a bewildering variety of forms. In our world, a possessed little person might bully a Spanish speaker in a grocery store or call a child of color the n-word on the playground. More seriously, a seemingly random individual may stab a woman in a hijab or kneel on a suspect’s neck until he dies or grab someone off the street and send him to a Salvadoran concentration camp. In actions which don’t appear to be coordinated, little people become “lone wolf killers” and shoot up a Black church or Unitarian church or mosque or synagogue or shopping mall filled with people of color.
At present we are seeing Trump officials gleefully violating protocols and laws as they arrest authors of editorials and judges and mayors and members of Congress, all with the approbation of rightwing commentators and GOP politicians. Again, it’s not as if they are being told to do this by a single individual (although in certain instances this might be the case). Rather, it is as though the same spirit runs through all of them, which is how cults work.
Murakami explores cult behavior in his novel. His cults, it so happens, are originally leftwing rather than rightwing, reactions against the capitalism that arose in Japan from the ashes of World War II. Sakigake, the most significant of these cults, at first seems relatively benign. It is composed of a group of university protesters who, disillusioned with society, move to the country, buy cheap land, and set up a commune specializing in organic fruits and vegetables. In so doing, they disavow their previous association with a Maoist cult that has turned violent. While they appear clean, however, they become increasingly secretive, building a strong shield against investigating eyes.
They draw the attention of the protagonists in the novel when stories of assaulted and raped children start emerging. By the time we get to this point in the book, we have already encountered multiple instances of battered wives in other venues, and Murikami’s thematic point begins to emerge. It as though he’s telling us that, under a veneer of sophisticated businessmen in finely tailored suits—the Japanese economy in the 1980s was the wonder of the world—lurks the threat of horrific violence.
What caught my eye this time through the novel was how the cult is reminiscent of MAGA. There is a charismatic leader who operates outside the law and who “can exert his influence on people directly.” An investigator reports, “People idolize him. His very presence, you might say, functions like a doctrinal core. It’s close in origin to primitive religion.”
Just as Trump’s GOP appears to have no core convictions (other than, perhaps, tax cuts for the wealthy and white supremacy), so too does the cult. The investigator explains this to protagonist Aomame:
“This religion’s substance is its lack of substance. In McLuhanesque terms, the medium is the message.”
“In other words, the package itself is the contents. Is that it?”
“Exactly. The characteristics of the package determine the nature of the contents, not the other way around.
The effect of the cult also resembles the impact of MAGA on many of its followers. We see this in the evolution of its brainwashed children:
[A]ccording to the teachers who had those kids in their classes, most of them—boys and girls alike—appear to have some kind of emotional problems. They show up normal in first grade, just bright, outgoing children, but year by year they grow less talkative, their faces lose any hint of expression. Eventually they become utterly apathetic and stop coming to school.
Aomame, who herself was raised in a cult, contrasts herself with one of the leader’s rape victims:
My own will made it possible for me to escape back then. But when you’re as seriously wounded as this girl, it may not be possible to bring yourself back. You might never be able to return your heart to its normal condition again.
And elsewhere:
The body is not the only target of rape. Violence does not always take visible form, and not all wounds gush blood.
This won’t be my last essay on 1Q84 since there are still aspects of the Little People and their air chrysalis that I don’t quite get. But Murakami’s account of the operation of cults is only too familiar in present day America.
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Thursday
How is it that diversity, equity and inclusion are now spat out as epithets by large swatches of the population and that “woke” has become an insult? In the words of that old hymn, set to music by Bach and alluding to Jesus’s parable about the sleeping bridesmaids, now more than ever we need to wake up:
“Sleepers, wake!” A voice astounds us, the shout of rampart-guards surrounds us: “Awake, Jerusalem, arise!” Midnight’s peace their cry has broken, Their urgent summons clearly spoken: “The time has come, O maidens wise! Rise up, and give us light…
Diagnosing our condition with pinpoint accuracy is Flannery O’Connor’s short story “Revelation,” which my faculty reading group discussed last week. Although it was written in 1964, it very much captures the class and race resentment that roils our current moment.
In its amazing ending, however, it also lays out the promise that is America—which is to say, DEI. In O’Connor’s Catholic telling, that promise comes as a moment of grace in a fallen world. Sanctimonious pride gives way to a humility that accepts people of all races and classes.
The story begins in a doctor’s office and is mediated through the mind of Mrs. Turpin. While smugly satisfied with her privileged place in the social hierarchy, Mrs. Turpin is beset with class and race insecurity. This can be seen in the way she obsessively categorizes people:
Sometimes at night when she couldn’t go to sleep, Mrs. Turpin would occupy herself with the question of who she would have chosen to be if she couldn’t have been herself. If Jesus had said to her before he made her, “There’s only two places available for you. You can either be a nigger or white-trash,” what would she have said? “Please, Jesus, please,” she would have said, “just let me wait until there’s another place available,” and he would have said, “No, you have to go right now and I have only those two places so make up your mind.” She would have wiggled and squirmed and begged and pleaded but it would have been no use and finally she would have said, “All right, make me a nigger then—but that don’t mean a trashy one.” And he would have made her a neat clean respectable Negro woman, herself but black.
The categorizing gets even elaborate as the sleepless night continues on:
Sometimes Mrs. Turpin occupied herself at night naming the classes of people. On the bottom of the heap were most colored people, not the kind she would have been if she had been one, but most of them; then next to them—not above, just away from—were the white-trash; then above them were the homeowners, and above them the home-and-land owners, to which she and Claud belonged. Above she and Claud were people with a lot of money and much bigger houses and much more land. But here the complexity of it would begin to bear in on her, for some of the people with a lot money were common and ought to be below she and Claud and some of the people who had good blood had lost their money and had to rent and then there were colored people who owned their homes and land as well. There was a colored dentist in town who had two red Lincolns and a swimming pool and a farm with registered white face cattle on it.
This reflecting ends with the horrific vision of all difference elided, as it was for the Jewish community in the Holocaust, where it didn’t matter whether you were rich or poor:
Usually by the time she had fallen asleep all the classes of people were moiling and roiling around in her head, and she would dream they were all crammed in together in a box car, being ridden off to be put in a gas oven.
A more positive DEI vision will conclude the story.
We watch the class dynamic play out in the doctor’s office through the interchanges between the patients. Being of the home-and-land class, Mrs. Turpin feels that she can take the high road and patronizingly looks down on the others. At one point she all but echoes the Pharisee in Jesus’s parable who thanks God “that I am not like other people—cheaters, sinners, adulterers. I’m certainly not like that tax collector!” Here’s Mrs. Turpin:
“If it’s one thing I am,” Mrs. Turpin said with feeling, “it’s grateful. When I think who all I could have been besides myself and what all I got, a little of everything, and a good disposition besides, I just feel like shouting, ‘Thank you, Jesus, for making everything the way it is! It could have been different!” For one thing, somebody else could have got Claud. At the thought of this, she was flooded with gratitude and a terrible pang of joy ran through her. “Oh thank you, Jesus, Jesus, thank you!” she cried aloud.
While there’s one other woman of her standing in the office, there’s a third—”not white-trash but common,” in Mrs. Turpin’s assessment—who senses that she is being judged and strikes back. When Mrs. Turpin talks about hosing down their confinement-raised hogs and providing water and rides for their African American workers, she receives the following response:
“One thang I know,” the white-trash woman said. “Two thangs I ain’t going to do: love no niggers or scoot down no hog with no hose.” And she let out a bark of contempt.
To which response Mrs. Turpin exchanges a knowing glance with the other woman of her class:
The look that Mrs. Turpin and the pleasant lady exchanged indicated they both understood that you had to have certain things before you could know certain things.
This being the segregated south, there are no African Americans present in the office—they show up later in the story—but there is a girl who is back home after attending Wellesley College. Think of her as the northern liberal—an elitist “libtard,” as MAGA Trumpists like to say—in the story. So repulsed is she at Mrs. Turpin’s air of smug superiority that she can’t stand her anymore but flings a textbook at her head and goes for her throat:
The girl raised her head. Her gaze locked with Mrs. Turpin’s. “Go back to hell where you came from, you old wart hog,” she whispered. Her voice was low but clear. Her eyes burned for a moment as if she saw with pleasure that her message had struck its target.
At first Mrs. Turpin believes that she can dismiss the college student because she’s obviously a lunatic. Her words strike home, however, because, despite all Mrs. Turpin’s apparent self-assurance, her identity is actually quite fragile. We see her uncertainty when, after leaving the office, she turns to her African American workers for reassurance, even though at some level she knows they will tell her (if they know what’s good for them) what she wants to hear. When one’s sense of oneself is based on putting others down, especially in a country with a founding document that asserts that all have an equal right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, there is bound to be a crisis of identity.
One sees this same kind of instability in the characters in Faulkner’s novels, where everything seems to depend on rigid race lines that are actually quite porous. I suspect if one really gets down to it today, status anxiety is the major factor driving a significant portion of the electorate. This goes a long way towards explaining why we chose a white supremacist male over a highly qualified black woman in the 2024 election.
The story ends with a different vision, however, as Mrs. Turpin looks at the sunset and imagines a rapture-like event:
A visionary light settled in her eyes. She saw the streak as a vast swinging bridge extending upward from die earth through a field of living fire. Upon it a vast horde of souls were rumbling toward heaven. There were whole companies of white-trash, clean for the first time in their lives, and bands of black niggers in white robes, and battalions of freaks and lunatics shouting and clapping and leaping like frogs. And bringing up the end of the procession was a tribe of people whom she recognized at once as those who, like herself and Claud, had always had a little of everything and the God-given wit to use it right. She leaned forward to observe them closer. They were marching behind the others with great dignity, accountable as they had always been for good order and common sense and respectable behavior. They alone were on key. Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces that even their virtues were being burned away.
“Even their virtues”—the white middle class values that endow Mrs. Turpin with her sense of superiority—have burned away in this moment of truth. The Declaration of Independence and the Christian vision that all are equal in the eyes of God come together.
Will someone who has defined herself according to this system of social stratification change her behavior, whatever momentary vision she has? It’s sobering to realize that more white women voted for Donald Trump than for Kamala Harris. The only consolation that O’Connor offers us is that somewhere, deep in these ingrained beliefs, there’s uncertainty. And while that uncertainty can lead to the fear that fascism feeds on, it can also break through to DEI revelation. Not everyone stays stuck in the old tribal patterns.
