The Joys of August Blackberries

By Robin Bates | Published: August 8, 2023

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Wednesday

I reprint an essay I wrote twelve years ago about how, on a hot August day, our family experienced wondrous news: my son Toby proposed to Candice Wilson, whom he had met at the University of Pittsburgh (he in English, she in Film Studies). Four children later, the marriage has proven to be as fruitful as Mary Oliver’s August blackberry bushes, her poem about which I included in the post. Here it is.

Reprinted from August 2, 2011

My original design for this post was to open with a story about my youngest son when he was a toddler, after which I would lead into a Mary Oliver August poem about blackberries. A momentous development in the Bates household has occurred since then, however. Not to be deterred, I’ve woven the news into my post.  Hang with me and all will be clear.

First, the story.  When we lived in our first Maryland house, we had large blackberry bushes in our yard that attracted the 18-month-old Toby.  He was passionately fond of the berries but didn’t know how to handle the thorns.  At one point I remember seeing him stuffing fistfuls of blackberries into his mouth, crying because of the prickles, then grabbing more berries and thorns, crying again, and so on.  Pleasure and pain were all wrapped up together.

Now the poem.  In Mary Oliver’s “August” there is a similar mingling of pain and pleasure.  While she describes “cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth,” she also mentions the hurt involved.  Nature’s gifts may be available to all, but they are invariably accompanied by ripped arms and dark creeks. Rather than detract from the delight, however, the obstacles only enhance it. Life is a bear’s paw, thinking of nothing but that honey as it darts among “the black bells, the leaves.” “All day my body accepts what it is,” she tells us as she surrenders to the moment. Here’s the poem:

August
By Mary Oliver

When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking

of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body

accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among

the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.

Now for our news.  Toby took his Trinidadian girlfriend to Church Point last night (her name is Candice Wilson) to see the phosphorescent lights given off by the jellyfish in the St. Mary’s River. Under a full canopy of stars, he asked her to marry him and she accepted. We are all very, very happy.

Candice has a mixture of Carib and African ancestry, so at the moment I’m thinking of her as the black honey of Toby’s summer. To this association I add a story that Candice told me when I was describing Toby’s encounters with blackberries. When she was a teenager in Trinidad, she once cut down a tree (it was already on its way to falling) in order to retrieve a peewah fruit that was growing high in its branches.  She miscalculated, however, and nearly had the tree fall on her. Luckily, because she had much experience with falling out of trees as a child, she had already calculated where she needed to jump if anything went wrong.

Candice gouged her finger (she still bears the scar) but was otherwise all right. The peewah, she said, was delicious.

So Toby and Candice, may you reach high for delicious fruit, even when it seems inaccessible. Don’t settle for anything less than a rich pleasure. Of course, there will be thorns and falling trees. You know this well, Toby, since the “dark creek” next to which you proposed carried away your oldest brother eleven years ago. But your love will carry you through the bad times as well as the good.

There will always be this happy tongue.

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Lear, Trump Rage Against Their Enemies

By Robin Bates | Published: August 7, 2023
Benjamin West, King Lear

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Tuesday

In the past I’ve compared Donald Trump to King Lear, two narcissistic leaders who are so focused on indulging their own insecurities that they plunge the realms they head into chaos. With this weekend’s back and forth between Trump and special counsel Jack Smith over the recent indictment, I’ve found another comparison: both Lear and Trump, when pushed into a corner, lash out with violent language.

In Smith’s request for a protective order following Trump’s threats, he notes that the former president is using social media to go after “witnesses, judges, attorneys, and others associated with legal matters pending against him.” Trump’s first attack was fairly general:

IF YOU GO AFTER ME, I’M COMING AFTER YOU!

He directed his second attack against his formerly sycophantic vice president, who witnessed first hand how Trump tried to overturn election results and will probably testify against him in his trial:

WOW, it’s finally happened! Liddle’ Mike Pence, a man who was about to be ousted as Governor Indiana until I came along and made him V.P., has gone to the Dark Side. I never told a newly emboldened (not based on his 2% poll numbers!) Pence to put me above the Constitution, or that Mike was ‘too honest.’ He’s delusional, and now he wants to show he’s a tough guy. I once read a major magazine article on Mike. It said he was not a very good person. I was surprised, but the article was right. Sad!

Finally, there’s an attack on the judge:

THERE IS NO WAY I CAN GET A FAIR TRIAL WITH THE JUDGE ‘ASSIGNED’ TO THE RIDICULOUS FREEDOM OF SPEECH/FAIR ELECTIONS CASE. EVERYBODY KNOWS THIS, AND SO DOES SHE!

Compare this to King Lear after he learns that his two daughters have stripped him of his retinue. First, he curses Goneril:

Hear, Nature, hear, dear goddess, hear!
Suspend thy purpose if thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful.
Into her womb convey sterility.
Dry up in her the organs of increase,
And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honor her. If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen, that it may live
And be a thwart disnatured torment to her.
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth,
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks,
Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt, that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
To have a thankless child.

Later, when he addresses both daughters, he sounds like a little child throwing a temper tantrum. He threatens them with the “terrors of the Earth” but can’t provide specifics since he has already given away all his power:

No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both
That all the world shall—I will do such things—
What they are yet I know not, but they shall be
The terrors of the Earth! You think I’ll weep.
No, I’ll not weep.
I have full cause of weeping, but this heart 
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws
Or ere I’ll weep.—O Fool, I shall go mad!

Narcissists go mad when they are confronted with concrete evidence that the world does not revolve around them. If they lack concrete means of revenge, they resort to bombastic language.

Which in Trump’s case is delivered in all caps.

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Is Jack Smith a Javert?

By Robin Bates | Published: August 6, 2023
Special counsel Jack Smith, recently compared to Javert

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Monday

One of the six unindicted co-conspirators in Donald Trump’s coup plot recently made a Victor Hugo reference that is worth exploring. Jeffrey Clark, a former Department of Justice member and without doubt co-conspirator #4 in the indictment, has compared special counsel Jack Smith to Javert, the police inspector in Les Misérables.

For his part, Smith in his indictment says that Trump saw co-conspirator #4 (Clark) as a way to bypass Jeff Rosen, the acting attorney general, who was opposing Trump’s plot. Trump wanted to appoint Clark as attorney general so that Clark could use the Justice Department’s imprimatur to spread “knowingly false claims of election fraud.” Only threats of mass resignations at the Department of Justice thwarted the appointment. A Washington Post article summarizes what the indictment says about the attorney general wannabe:

Clark circumvented department leadership to speak with Trump multiple times in late December and early January, according to Tuesday’s indictment. Prosecutors allege that Clark encouraged Justice Department leaders to sign a draft letterto officials in key swing states declaring that the agency had reason to doubt the legitimacy of their elections and encouraging them to send alternate slates of pro-Trump electors to Congress.

When persuasion failed, Clark turned to threats, along with fantasies of Trump using America’s armed forces to maintain his hold on power:

After the Justice Department officials refused, the indictment states, Clark “tried to coerce” them into signing the letter by saying that Trump was offering to make him acting attorney general. Clark accepted that offer on Jan. 3, 2021, according to the indictment. Prosecutors portray Clark as having been dismissive when a White House lawyer urged him to rethink his actions, suggesting that riots would erupt in the nation’s cities if Trump tried to remain in office. “That’s why there’s an Insurrection Act,” the indictment alleges that Clark responded, suggesting that protests could be put down by the military.

Smith may be postponing an indictment of Clark and the other co-conspirators because he wants to focus on Trump. After all, their trials can wait until after the election.

Clark is not only in trouble with the special counsel. At present, a D.C. Bar disciplinary office is considering whether to strip him of his law license for his dishonest conduct and his attempt to interfere with “the administration of justice.” In spite of this—or rather, because of it—Clark has become a celebrity in far-right circles and is odds on favorite to become U.S. attorney general if Trump regains office.

It was in the Post’s article about Clark’s new-found celebrity that the Hugo allusion appears:

On Twitter, he has called the investigations of Trump and his allies a “preemptive coup” to keep the former president from power and likened the special counsel to Inspector Javert, the merciless police detective pursuing the protagonist of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables.

I see where Clark is coming from. Javert, of course, is Jean Valjean’s relentless pursuer, an officer of the law determined to track down the relapsed convict (relapsed by virtue of having stolen a coin from a child after serving his time in the galleys). No passage of time, no change of place, will deter him. He’ll even disguise himself as a beggar to sniff out his quarry. Hugo notes that, when Javert encounters Jean Valjean one last time, “there had been in him something of the wolf which regains his grip on his prey.”

As a former Department of Justice official, shouldn’t Clark be celebrating such qualities? Javert, after all, may be literature’s greatest exemplar of law and order. I can’t think of anyone who surpasses him. He’s even a strong supporter of France’s own Insurrection Act, disguising himself so that he can infiltrate the ranks of the novel’s revolutionaries.

Of course, once one is an insurrectionist oneself, one might look a little less favorably on relentless pursuit. Trump and his confederates are less interested in the strong arm of the law when they are in its crosshairs. In their eyes, only their opponents should be subject to the country’s legal system.

But is Smith indeed a Javert? I actually agree with Clark here as the special counsel seems obsessed with upholding the law in a very Javert-type fashion. Nothing is going to stand in his way. I imagine that Smith might even embrace the comparison.

What we can’t tell yet is whether Smith is one who tempers justice with mercy, something Javert does in the end. Realizing that the man he has pursued so relentlessly is a saint, the police detective violates the foundational principles that have guided his life and lets him go. In this respect, Clark probably would like Smith to be more Javert-like, giving the conspirators a break.

Of course, neither Clark nor his boss is a saint. In fact, were Trump left alone with the bishop’s candles, not only would he steal them but probably assault the two women of the house as well. Smith will have no qualms about locking either man up.

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Kiss the Joy as It Flies

By Robin Bates | Published: August 5, 2023
J.M.W. Turner, The Red Rigi

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Transfiguration Sunday

Today is Transfiguration Sunday, where we reflect upon that moment in Jesus’s ministry when the veil between the profane and the numinous was temporarily lifted and the disciples could see Moses and Elijah alongside Jesus. And like a tourist who wants to capture the perfect moment on film, Peter suggests raising dwellings to seize or concretize the moment.

Here’s the Biblical account:

Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” —not knowing what he said. 

Marianne Borg on the Marcus J. Borg Foundation blog identifies the perfect poem for the moment. Blake understands as well as anyone the dangers of possession:

Eternity
By William Blake

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise

Peter wants to bind the moment. It is not until after the resurrection that he understands what it means to live in “eternity’s sunrise.”

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Into the Woods with Blake and Sondheim

By Robin Bates | Published: August 3, 2023

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Friday

My friend and colleague Jennifer Michael, English professor, former Rhodes scholar, and wonderful poet, has a great short essay on how William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience and Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods share a similar view of children. While adults may obsess about childhood innocence, Blake and Sondheim point out that they can fail to hear how hungry their kids are for experiences that will help them grow. In fact, both authors show how parents who claim to be protecting their children are often more interested in controlling and molding them.

While Jennifer’s article doesn’t take on the current MAGA obsession with banning books and dictating school curricula, one certainly sees this dynamic at work in politicians such as Ron DeSantis and organizations like Moms for Liberty.

Jennifer wrote her article after witnessing a high school production of Into the Woods. There she noticed that the wolf ushers little Red Riding Hood into the world of experience, his predation being

as much sexual as carnivorous. While we don’t see exactly what happens between them, we hear about it in Red’s account later: “He showed me things that I never had seen.” Experience brings wonder.

This in turn got her thinking of Blake, “who saw desire as part of innocence, not as a corruption of it.” Like Sondheim, , she says, Blake

uncovered the darker elements of children’s literature, exploring the interplay of innocence and experience, desire and repression. Both writers see the loss of innocence as not an end but a beginning—a fortunate fall.

Jennifer notes that Sondheim’s characters must journey into the woods “to achieve and examine their desires.” Because the woods are “suffused with mystery and danger,” they operate as a psychological symbol of the unconscious. (Other literary examples of this include Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, The Scarlet Letter, and Deliverance.) Red, therefore, must venture into these woods if she is to grow up, just as Jack must climb his beanstalk. Jennifer cites Joseph Campbell in noting that, in the archetypal journey, “regardless of what material object is found, the real prize is knowledge.” Or as Jack puts it, “You know things now that you never knew before.”

Sondheim, Jennifer says, makes a distinction between “nice” and “good,” nice applying to Cinderella’s Prince Charming (“wanting a ball is not wanting a prince,” she discovers), “good” applying to Red’s wolf. The prince doesn’t do Cinderella any good when she marries him whereas Red is profoundly altered for the better when she emerges from the wolf’s belly.  

Let’s turn now to Blake, where the same distinction applies. To be sure, it’s a little confusing since the word “good” is often used as a synonym for “nice.” When parents want children to “be good,” they often mean well behaved:

Like Rousseau, Blake asserted that children’s impulses were naturally good, but the admonishment to “be good” often means to squelch those impulses in the name of conformity. (As Cinderella asks in the show’s opening number, “What’s the good of being good if everyone is blind?”)

For Blake, squelching is always bad. What looks like nice innocence can actually be a “polite superficiality” that poisons our feelings, as in “A Poison Tree”:

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

Jennifer points out that the poison plant is fed by the speaker’s “false smiles and crocodile tears.” The final effect is deadly:

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears: 
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles. 

And it grew both day and night. 
Till it bore an apple bright. 
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine. 

And into my garden stole, 
When the night had veild the pole; 
In the morning glad I see; 
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Throughout Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience one sees adults forcing niceness upon children without listening to their actual desires and needs. One thinks especially of how “grey-headed beadles” force-march orphans to church in “Holy Thursday” (in Innocence):

Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean 
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green 
Grey-headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow 

If your response to these lines is, “Isn’t that sweet?” you’ve missed Blake’s sarcasm. (It’s subtle but fueled by an immense rage.) One could also cite here Blake’s provocative proverb from “Marriage of Heaven and Hell,” “The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.” (Note: to get a sense of the stifling instruction ladled out to 19th century children, check out my recent post on Lewis Carroll and Hilaire Belloc, who satirized it.)

Far healthier are the parents in “The Little Girl Lost” and “The Little Girl Found,” which Jennifer says Blake moved from Songs of Innocence to Songs of Experience. In the poems Lyca

goes missing in the “desert wild.” Her parents find her among lions and tigers, not injured but (we assume) sexually awakened. Rather than respond with fear and outrage, however, they join her there:

To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell,
Nor fear the wolvish howl,
Nor the lions’ growl.

Jennifer also approves of the Nurse in “Nurse’s Song” (in Innocence), where the Nurse “accedes to the children’s desire to stay out until it is dark”:

Well well go & play till the light fades away
And then go home to bed
The little ones leaped & shouted & laugh’d
And all the hills echoed[.]

[Side note: When Allen Ginsberg came to our college, he spent at least thirty minutes having us all sing the poem—especially the last line—to the accompaniment of a small harmonium. The effect was hypnotic and memorable.]

Jennifer observes that both Blake and Sondheim “recognize the power of stories, especially in the imaginations of children.” Narratives, she points out, “can be far more seductive and persuasive than instructions.” And she concludes,

Into the Woods follows Blake in encouraging its audience to question the tales we are told and the tales we tell, particularly their beginnings and endings. There is always something that happens before “once upon a time,” and something that follows “happily ever after.” In “The Tyger,” Blake’s speaker asks who can “frame [the] fearful symmetry” of human nature—one answer is the theater. The great genius of Into the Woods is that it allows us to be at once inside and outside that frame, to give ourselves, for a time, to the “forests of the night,” and return home braver and wiser.

All those who want to keep children from reading “dangerous books” are like Blake’s “grey-headed beadles.” As I say, they are not interested in growth but in control. If they have their way, Red, Jack, and all those others will never venture into the woods at all but will grow up dull and resentful, trapped in the confines of a narrow ideology.

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Smith vs. Trump, Macduff vs. Macbeth

By Robin Bates | Published: August 2, 2023
The final battle between Macduff and Macbeth

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Thursday

“Despite having lost, the Defendant was determined to remain in power.” So reads the special counsel’s indictment of Donald J. Trump, released Tuesday afternoon at 5:15. Sensing that we need a Shakespeare play to do justice to such a momentous event in American history, I cast around for possibilities.

Richard II came first to mind since it is about a bad king who is forced to surrender his throne. But Richard, whatever his faults, is the legitimate monarch whereas Trump, by the laws of our land, is no longer president, whatever he may claim. He of course wishes to be a Richard-like monarch but that’s another matter. Also, he handles his defeat far worse than Richard, who gains a measure of nobility in his final days.

So I instead turned to the world’s greatest drama about an illicit power grab, which is of course the Scottish play. Rereading it, I was struck by how it begins with a failed coup, undertaken by the Thane of Cawdor. The resemblance ends there, however, because after Macbeth defeats him and is given his title, Cawdor does what every defeated presidential candidate in American history has done up to Donald Trump: he concedes graciously. It’s even more impressive in his case since concession is accompanied by execution. As Malcolm reports to his father Duncan,

                    I have spoke
With one that saw him die, who did report
That very frankly he confessed his treasons,
 Implored your Highness’ pardon, and set forth
 A deep repentance. Nothing in his life
 Became him like the leaving it…

Needless to say, we will never see Trump confessing his treasons.

There are other parallels with the play. First of all, there are the lies about a stolen election from the very man who is trying to steal the election. This resembles Macbeth blaming others for killing the man he himself has killed.

And then there’s Lady Macbeth sounding like Trump trying to persuade Pence into refusing to certify the votes. Trump apparently told the vice-president, “You are too honest” when Pence refused to go through with his plot, forcing the president to resort to Plan B (pressure Pence with a riotous mob). Lady Macbeth puts her own kind of pressure on her husband to galvanize him into action:

Yet do I fear thy nature;
 It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness
 To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great,
 Art not without ambition, but without
The illness should attend it. 

And later:

Macbeth: If we should fail—
Lady Macbeth:  We fail?
But screw your courage to the sticking place
 And we’ll not fail.

It’s not clear to me that Pence is filled with the milk of human kindness. Furthermore, Trump was asking him to sacrifice himself for Trump’s ambitions, not his own. Nevertheless, in the end he did the right thing. In a past post of which I’m particularly proud, I compared Pence to the soldiers for hire in A.E. Housman’s poem “Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries.”

Unlike Macbeth (at least so far), Trump has not managed to overthrow our aged leader. But he can be compared to Macbeth at the end of the play when he himself is being overthrown. Imagine him as the maddened king engaged in a final showdown, with special counsel Jack Smith playing the role of Macduff. Like Macbeth, who sees the writing on the wall, Trump wants to weasel out of the fight: he keeps trying to delay or have judges throw out indictments (see yesterday’s post). Like Macduff, however, Smith will brook no denial:

Macbeth: I’ll not fight with thee.

Macduff:  Then yield thee, coward,
 And live to be the show and gaze o’ th’ time.
 We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit
 “Here may you see the tyrant.”

Macbeth:  I will not yield
 To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet
 And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.
Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane
 And thou opposed, being of no woman born,
 Yet I will try the last. Before my body
 I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,
 And damned be him that first cries “Hold! Enough!”

Actually Trump, being a bully at heart, lacks Macbeth’s final desperate courage. I suspect he’ll strike a less impressive figure in court than he does before his fawning fans. We’ll see.

We can only pray that he’ll fare no better than Macbeth, with Smith sending him out of our lives for good.

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Rumpelstiltskin, the GOP’s Dark Side

By Robin Bates | Published: August 1, 2023
Barbara Swan, illus. from Sexton’s Transformations

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Wednesday

Of the many, many court decisions that have gone against Donald Trump in recent years, Monday’s ruling by Fulton County Superior Court Judge Robert McBurney may have been the first to mention a Grimm Brothers fairy tale. Trump, fearing indictment for pressuring Georgia officials to change vote totals in the 2020 election, had asked that McBurney bring the grand jury proceeding to a halt. The judge cited “Rumpelstiltskin” in turning down the application. (Thanks to Jay Kuo for alerting me to the allusion. )

After first observing that Trump’s “rather overwrought allegations of prosecutorial overreach and judicial error do not suffice to show that there is significant risk of ‘wrongful’ indictment,” McBurney then added, in a sarcastic footnote, his Grimm Brothers allusion. Rather than being damaged by indictments, he noted, Trump has been making money and building up fan support from them:

And for some, being the subject of a criminal investigation can, à la Rumpelstiltskin, be turned into golden political capital, making it seem more providential than problematic.”

In the story, a miller’s daughter is victimized when her narcissistic father boasts to the king that his beautiful daughter can weave straw into gold. The king threatens her with death unless she delivers. In fact, he threatens her three times, although he adds a promise of marriage to the third threat. The first two times she gets Rumpelstiltskin to help in exchange for a necklace and a ring, but the third time he demands her first-born child.

Deaf to her pleas after the child is born, he agrees to relent only if, within three days, she can guess his name. Fortunately for the queen, a messenger overhears the dwarf, leading to a happy ending (at least for the her):

And then she said”: “Then perhaps your name is Rumpelstiltskin?”

“The devil told you that! the devil told you that!” cried the little man, and in his anger he stamped with his right foot so hard that it went into the ground above his knee; then he seized his left foot with both his hands in such a fury that he split in two, and there was an end of him.

Judge McBurney’s use of the tale is smart since it shows how Trump takes advantage of those in distress. Because MAGA Republicans are convinced that Trump can save them—they full believe that he can create golden threads out of nothing—they give him the money and the support he demands.

To push the connections even further, I turn to Anne Sexton’s version of the fairy tale. It appears in Transformations, a thoroughly entertaining collection in which the poet tells the great fairy tales through her own lens. As Sexton sees it, Rumpelstiltskin is our shadow side or Doppelganger—which is to say, the darkness within that “wants to get out”:

Inside many of us
is a small old man
who wants to get out.
…
He is a monster of despair.
He is all decay.
He speaks up as tiny as an earphone
with Truman’s asexual voice:
I am your dwarf.
I am the enemy within.
I am the boss of your dreams.

And further on:

I am the law of your members,
the kindred of blackness and impulse.
See. Your hand shakes.
It is not palsy or booze.
It is your Doppelganger
trying to get out.
Beware . . . Beware . . .

A good case can be made that Trump is the GOP’s Doppelganger, the dark side that contradicts the respectable exterior the party has (at least in the past) tried to cultivate: fiscally responsible, committed to law and order, concerned about national defense, upholder of family values. When Trump began to grow in power, establishment Republicans, hoping for their version of a room full of golden thread (money, power), thought they could control this dwarf. They did not realize that he would commandeer their future:

Without a reward the dwarf would not spin.
He was on the scent of something bigger.
He was a regular bird dog.
Give me your first-born
and I will spin.
She thought: Piffle!
He is a silly little man.
And so she agreed.
So he did the trick.
Gold as good as Fort Knox.

Yes, Trump spun his web of power out of bullshit straw and now has become the GOP godfather. Or “papa,” to use Sexton’s word:

And then the dwarf appeared
to claim his prize.
Indeed! I have become a papa!
cried the little man.
She offered him all the kingdom
but he wanted only this –
a living thing
to call his own.
And being mortal
who can blame him?

In the story, this dark force can be defeated only if it is named. It’s like saying that the establishment GOP can only be saved if enough of its members call out the cancer that is eating away at them—which is to say, if they recognize and acknowledge that their narcissist, racist, money-grubbing , power obsessed leader has been born from their own darkness. The GOP has in recent decades–which is to say, before Donald Trump–danced an ugly dance with racists (in the tale, a narcissist father and a tyrant king). They have been not only a beautiful woman weaving gold but also an “ugly as a wart” dwarf.

When Rumpelstiltskin’s essence/name comes out into the open, he splits in two and we can see both sides for what they are. As Sexton puts it,

Then he tore himself in two.
Somewhat like a split broiler.
He laid his two sides down on the floor,
one part soft as a woman,
one part a barbed hook,
one part papa,
one part Doppelganger.

Until this happens, he will continue to demand that we give away what is most precious.

Here’s the poem in its entirety:

Rumpelstiltskin
By Anne Sexton

Inside many of us
is a small old man
who wants to get out.
No bigger than a two-year-old
whom you’d call lamb chop
yet this one is old and malformed.
His head is okay
but the rest of him wasn’t Sanforized?
He is a monster of despair.
He is all decay.
He speaks up as tiny as an earphone
with Truman’s asexual voice:
I am your dwarf.
I am the enemy within.
I am the boss of your dreams.
No. I am not the law in your mind,
the grandfather of watchfulness.
I am the law of your members,
the kindred of blackness and impulse.
See. Your hand shakes.
It is not palsy or booze.
It is your Doppelganger
trying to get out.
Beware . . . Beware . . .

There once was a miller
with a daughter as lovely as a grape.
He told the king that she could
spin gold out of common straw.
The king summoned the girl
and locked her in a room full of straw
and told her to spin it into gold
or she would die like a criminal.
Poor grape with no one to pick.
Luscious and round and sleek.
Poor thing.
To die and never see Brooklyn.

She wept,
of course, huge aquamarine tears.
The door opened and in popped a dwarf.
He was as ugly as a wart.
Little thing, what are you? she cried.
With his tiny no-sex voice he replied:
I am a dwarf.
I have been exhibited on Bond Street
and no child will ever call me Papa.
I have no private life.
If I’m in my cups the whole town knows by breakfast
and no child will ever call me Papa
I am eighteen inches high.
I am no bigger than a partridge.
I am your evil eye
and no child will ever call me Papa.
Stop this Papa foolishness,
she cried. Can you perhaps
spin straw into gold?
Yes indeed, he said,
that I can do.
He spun the straw into gold
and she gave him her necklace
as a small reward.
When the king saw what she had done
he put her in a bigger room of straw
and threatened death once more.
Again she cried.
Again the dwarf came.
Again he spun the straw into gold.
She gave him her ring
as a small reward.
The king put her in an even bigger room
but this time he promised
to marry her if she succeeded.
Again she cried.
Again the dwarf came.
But she had nothing to give him.
Without a reward the dwarf would not spin.
He was on the scent of something bigger.
He was a regular bird dog.
Give me your first-born
and I will spin.
She thought: Piffle!
He is a silly little man.
And so she agreed.
So he did the trick.
Gold as good as Fort Knox.

The king married her
and within a year
a son was born.
He was like most new babies,
as ugly as an artichoke
but the queen thought him in pearl.
She gave him her dumb lactation,
delicate, trembling, hidden,
warm, etc.
And then the dwarf appeared
to claim his prize.
Indeed! I have become a papa!
cried the little man.
She offered him all the kingdom
but he wanted only this –
a living thing
to call his own.
And being mortal
who can blame him?

The queen cried two pails of sea water.
She was as persistent
as a Jehovah’s Witness.
And the dwarf took pity.
He said: I will give you
three days to guess my name
and if you cannot do it
I will collect your child.
The queen sent messengers
throughout the land to find names
of the most unusual sort.
When he appeared the next day
she asked: Melchior?
Balthazar?
But each time the dwarf replied:
No! No! That’s not my name.
The next day she asked:
Spindleshanks? Spiderlegs?
But it was still no-no.
On the third day the messenger
came back with a strange story.
He told her:
As I came around the corner of the wood
where the fox says good night to the hare
I saw a little house with a fire
burning in front of it.
Around that fire a ridiculous little man
was leaping on one leg and singing:
Today I bake.
Tomorrow I brew my beer.
The next day the queen’s only child will be mine.
Not even the census taker knows
that Rumpelstiltskin is my name . . .
The queen was delighted.
She had the name!
Her breath blew bubbles.

When the dwarf returned
she called out:
Is your name by any chance Rumpelstiltskin?
He cried: The devil told you that!
He stamped his right foot into the ground
and sank in up to his waist.
Then he tore himself in two.
Somewhat like a split broiler.
He laid his two sides down on the floor,
one part soft as a woman,
one part a barbed hook,
one part papa,
one part Doppelganger.

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Melville Would Have Understood Trump

By Robin Bates | Published: July 31, 2023

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Tuesday

As today (August 1) is Herman Melville’s birthday, I’m reposting a blog essay I wrote seven years ago on The Confidence Man. Donald Trump was running against Hillary Clinton when I wrote it, and Melville’s challenging novel gave me some insights into his political success, although I didn’t realize at the time that his con would eventually pull millions into his orbit.

Confidence Man explains how conmen con, including how a man who has made millions from bilking people could have convinced America that he was more truthful than a former Secretary of State. Whatever her faults, Clinton was fairly honest for a politician, but it was Trump who, despite the 30,000 lies he told while president, still receives plaudits from his supporters for “telling it like it is.”

That Melville provides a compelling depiction of the type (as does Mark Twain with the King and the Duke in Huckleberry Finn) indicates that the figure of the American conman is not new. Sadly, Trump has not only tapped into this history but has taught wannabe imitators to follow suit. When Melville’s barber dismisses “sheepish” truth and declares, “Lies, lies, sir, brave lies are the lions!”, he provides a template for all those politicians and enablers who conjure up “alternate facts” out of thin air. Some of them (Steve Bannon, Roger Stone) even announced publicly and ahead of time that they would be lying about the 2020 election if it didn’t go Trump’s way. As Stone, knowing that Trump might well be ahead election night before mail-in ballots started arriving, advised,

I really do suspect it’ll still be up in the air. When that happens, the key thing to do is to claim victory. Possession is nine tenths of the law. “No, we won. Fuck you, Sorry. Over. We won. You’re wrong. Fuck you.”

French epigrammatist François de La Rochefoucauld famously said that “hypocrisy is the homage that vice pays to virtue,” but Trump has taught his wannabe imitators that they need not pay that homage. Don’t tilt your hit to being good. Just make things up.

Occasionally we have seen some accountability. Fox News has had to pay almost a billion dollars when its commentators lied about Dominion voting machines changing votes; several Trump lawyers are facing disbarment for repeating his false claims and pressing frivolous lawsuits; and those whose lies ruined the lives of two Georgia election workers may have to pay severe fines. In other words, our society hasn’t totally dispensed with truth.

But the MAGA right is certainly going after society’s truth adjudicators, especially judges, lawyers, journalists, health professionals, and academics (all of whom can be drummed out of their professions if they make baseless claims or engage in unethical behavior). If the final guardrails that separate truth from falsehood are ever removed, then power will devolve to those who can tell—and then back up with force—the most effective lies.

But for the moment, take your mind back to a time when Trump was still a longshot candidate. Literature’s ability to grasp the essence of such a man makes it yet another essential adjudicator of truth.

Reprinted from August 15, 2023

One of the most memorable lines for me from the National Democratic Convention was New York billionaire Michael Bloomberg saying about Donald Trump, “I am from New York and I know a con when I see one.” Since then, I’ve been reading Herman Melville’s The Confidence Man to see if it will give me insights into the nature of Trump’s con.

I’ll be turning to the novel a number of times during this election season, but let me start with this. Melville helps explain why, as Nicholas Kristof of The New York Times puts it, “One persistent narrative in American politics is that Hillary Clinton is a slippery, compulsive liar while Donald Trump is a gutsy truth-teller.” In a recent NBC poll, only 11% of voters chose to describe Clinton as “honest and trustworthy” (as opposed to 16% for Trump).

Even the idea that Clinton and Trump are in the same category Kristof finds to be preposterous. “If deception were a sport,” he writes, “Trump would be the Olympic gold medalist; Clinton would be an honorable mention at her local Y.”

A study by Politifact of presidential candidates since 2007 bears Kristof out. Clinton is second only to Obama in truthfulness, finishing ahead of Jeb Bush and Bernie Sanders. Trump, on the other hand, leads everyone in lying, even Michele Bachman and Ted Cruz. One of the characters in The Confidence Man explains why we may find ourselves surprised by Hillary’s high rating.

Melville’s novel is about a flimflam artist who boards a steamboat and dons a series of disguises to bamboozle the passengers. At one point he goes to work on the ship’s barber, who has put a “No Trust” sign—meaning no credit—in his window. The confidence man convinces him to start trusting people, after which he wriggles out of paying for his shave.

The barber helps us understand how Trump makes his lies compelling, even getting at the way the Trump’s flamboyant hair gives him confidence. (The barber also gets at Trump’s underlying insecurity–without such hair, the barber says, a man is shamefaced and fearful.) We also learn why Clinton’s careful word choices damage her as much as Trump’s “pants on fire” “four Pinocchios” fabrications. Responding to the question, “how does the mere handling of the outside of men’s heads lead you to distrust the inside of their hearts?”, the barber replies,

[C]an one be forever dealing in macassar oil, hair dyes, cosmetics, false moustaches, wigs, and toupees, and still believe that men are wholly what they look to be? What think you, sir, are a thoughtful barber’s reflections, when, behind a careful curtain, he shaves the thin, dead stubble off a head, and then dismisses it to the world, radiant in curling auburn? To contrast the shamefaced air behind the curtain, the fearful looking forward to being possibly discovered there by a prying acquaintance, with the cheerful assurance and challenging pride with which the same man steps cheerful assurance and challenging pride with which the same man steps forth again, a gay deception, into the street, while some honest, shock-headed fellow humbly gives him the wall!

And then the passage that explains Clinton’s problem:

 Ah, sir, they may talk of the courage of truth, but my trade teaches me that truth sometimes is sheepish. Lies, lies, sir, brave lies are the lions!”

So there you have it: Trump tells brave lies whereas Hillary engages in sheepish equivocations.

The follow-up passage has relevance to the Trump campaign as well. When the confidence man accuses the barber of participating in a fraud, the man replies, “”Ah, sir, I must live.”

This sounds very much like the ghostwriter who wrote Trump’s The Art of the Deal and now, according to Jane Mayer’s remarkable, is wracked with guilt. Like the barber, he says that he did it because he had bills to pay:

Around the time Trump made his offer, [Tony] Schwartz’s wife, Deborah Pines, became pregnant with their second daughter, and he worried that the family wouldn’t fit into their Manhattan apartment, whose mortgage was already too high. “I was overly worried about money,” Schwartz said. “I thought money would keep me safe and secure—or that was my rationalization.”

What happens when we dance with a professional confidence man? We get conned. Why are we surprised?

Further thought: Professor Ruth Ben-Ghiat, an authority on strong men figures who believes that Trump is “a competent authoritarian,” cites another expert on authoritarianism to get at the danger Trump poses:

As for Trump’s grass-roots supporters, he has taken millions of them closer to a situation that the philosopher Hannah Arendt identified as critical for the success of authoritarian rule. As she wrote in The Origins of Totalitarianism, “the ideal subject of totalitarian rule is not the convinced Nazi or the convinced Communist, but people for whom the distinction between fact and fiction (i.e., the reality of experience) and the distinction between true and false (i.e., the standards of thought) no longer exist.”

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Barbie: Love Her, Hate Her

By Robin Bates | Published: July 30, 2023
Gosling, Robbie in Barbie

Monday

Julia and I attended Barbie over the weekend, and at one point the women in the audience–my wife include–burst into cheers. The occasion is Gloria (America Ferrera), now a mother, giving a speech how on difficult it is to be a woman.

The scene occurs after we have watched her daughter Sasha (Arian Greenblatt) complain about the damage the doll has done to women. Calling Barbie a fascist, she says that her image is used to indoctrinate little girls with its dangerous beauty standards, not to mention an ethos of “sexualized capitalism” and “rampant consumerism.”

Sasha is voicing some of the critique to be found in Marge Piercy’s poem “Barbie Doll”:

This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.

In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker’s cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn’t she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.

Piercy’s girlchild, unable to live up to both the beauty and behavior expectation of her society, finally gives up (“her good nature wore out like a fan belt) and she commits suicide. Cutting off her “great big nose and fat legs” is another way of saying that she disposed of herself in such a way that they could no longer be criticized.

Edgar Allan Poe notoriously wrote that “the death…of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world (“The Philosophy of Composition”), and he may have thought this because one no longer has to worry about her flawed physique, no to mention her intelligence, abundant sexual drive, and manual dexterity. Instead she can be as ethereal as Annabel Lee in “her tomb by the sounding sea. Instead of asserting her selfhood, she is like Snow White in her glass casquet, lying “still as a gold piece” (as Anne Sexton puts it in “Snow White”).

The film acknowledges this danger but doesn’t stop there since it also wants to explore the exact nature of Barbie love. A very smart New Yorker article by Leslie Jamison points out that girls have always had a love-hate relationship with Barbie and credits the film for noting it. She herself remembers punishing her doll for confronting her with impossible standards, even as the doll also helped her articulate various longings:

If Barbie embodied something that always felt beyond my reach, then playing with Barbie—subjecting her to an array of trials and tribulations—was less about becoming her than it was about exerting some sort of power over the archetypes that tyrannized me. I didn’t have to become her; I could be her god—a loving god, or a vengeful one….Perhaps this is what Barbie offers, the chance to feel both things at once: wanting something and wanting to destroy it. Wanting to become something and hating yourself for wanting to become it.

Or to put it more succinctly, “I wanted her perfection, but I also wanted to punish her for being more perfect than I’d ever be.”

That love/hate relationship with Barbie is at the core of the film. As the plot goes, Gloria has opened up a crack in Barbie’s universe by imagining the Barbie she used to play with as developing cellulite and having thoughts of death. In other words, she is trying to negotiate the disconnect between Barbie’s ambitions (astronaut, Supreme Court justice, president of the United States) and women’s reality. Her monologue is triggered when she witnesses Barbie’s self-doubt, which she both understands and is infuriated by. Here it is in its entirety:

It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.

You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman, but also always be looking out for other people. You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining.

You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be a part of the sisterhood. But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.

I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all of that is also true for a doll just representing women, then I don’t even know.

The cheers I heard following the speech reminded me of the cheers I used to hear when Lucille Clifton would read her “Wishes for Men,” the wish being that men would experience the world as women do. It alerted me to the depth of the frustrations.

So there you have it: all these mixed emotions, all this psychological processing, poured into a plastic doll. No wonder Barbie, at the end of the movie, wants to become a real woman. It is much more interesting, as both Barbie and Ken learn by the end, if you don’t conform to a shallow stereotype. The lesson, as Dorothy Parker once put it, is that “people are more fun than anyone.”

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