A progressively Black intelligentsia

As previously pondered, listening to The Ezra Klein Show every week has now become firmly entrenched in my personal well of information, and is as good a way as any to stay abreast of topical matters in US politics and society – and quirky and accessible it is for good measure. And, it is to Ezra’s podcast that I owe my introduction this year to some interesting new (to me) people. Though his guests cover the gamut of race, ethnicity and gender, they are mostly of a similar socioeconomic milieu (though not necessarily born into it); one which can be broadly defined as the professional urban class (academia, government, media, think tanks) and of liberal, left(-ish) persuasion, and mostly young (-ish), that is, in the middle of life and career (though he has pulled in a few golden oldies, like Sanders and Chomsky!). Reasoned, articulate voices from “the other side” are an exception, but when there, are also well chosen and not those seeking provocation for the sake of provocation.

One such typical guest last week was Eve Ewing. Beyond the very interesting conversation that flowed easily between her academic work as a sociologist, her literary endeavors as poet and author and her active commitment to justice and equality, I started thinking about her as a typical example of an evolving coterie of younger, opinionated – and Black – people that have joined the fray with a vengeance in the very recent times and come to my attention with their impressive array of talents. (May I say: highly educated, articulate, courteous, humorous, without being accused of intimating all these traits to be an exception? Probably not. I guess I will just have to accept assumptions made of me as I dare say I make of others – but not here! The question I pose and the answer I give are predictably defensive.) More than anything, I have been impressed by their fearlessness in harnessing their diverse talents to explore and experiment with different mediums, how steadfastly they resist being pigeon-holed, and how uncompromising they are on matters of principle. (I only now realize, for instance, the breadth of Ewing’s range, and how cleverly she blends her artistic interests with the larger societal imperatives that are important to her.)

For Eve Ewing, and an issue only mentioned in passing, that applies (amongst other things) to the policing system and its abuses. I read this forceful essay in Vanity Fair last year, in which Ewing makes her case in respect to police unions that operate (actually as their names often suggest) more as brotherhoods. She traces there a line from the enforcement of the Black Codes at the end of the Civil War through to a system of unionized labor such that solidarity across unions (especially in the public sector) meant that whether police unions were in fact of the same tradition was not questioned. This was an aspect that I had not taken into account when, like many others outside the US, and however sympathetic one may have been to the cause, I found myself aghast at the absolutism of “de-funding”, “getting rid of” and the like that evolved from Black Lives Matter and the outrage about the sanctioned murders from which that movement and others emerged. Though not one averse to the radical, I was skeptical of some of the activist’s demands and their prospect of ever being implemented. That may well still be so, but Ewing and others have convinced me that sometimes it is plain, stark language that is required to attract an audience; later, the most attentive among them will persevere and extricate the details to force a workable agenda.

To digress; a time for reflection: Who then will enforce laws? one such as I may well ask – and too hastily. Perhaps, a more valid question would be: What is to do when laws are inherently prejudicial and, it follows, applied with prejudice? Change the laws and rethink their enforcement, may well be an answer. For example, and this is hardly original: greater concentration and resources on fighting poverty, improving access to employment, education, health-care; better funded outreach into neighborhoods: schools, community and youth centers, churches; using trained interventionists instead of armed police to mediate low-level conflicts (arising through drug or alcohol abuse, civil or domestic altercations, mental health issues). I understand the “de-funding argument” (which has got the most attention) have ideas like these in mind – in other words, redirecting some of (or a lot of!) the funding given to police departments into other areas and into the improvement of (less confrontational) institutions. That is not abolishing the police, but it is at least diversifying enforcement agency and exposing the system to greater scrutiny. Then there is the problem of electing lawmakers who support a different approach to law enforcement; here there must be an acceptance by the greater society – by voters – of the inadequacies and plain wrongfulness of a judicial system too beholden to historical precedent. A year after the murder of George Floyd and the conviction of his killer, is there is an indication of some move in that direction? I don’t know.

Eve Ewing first came to my attention with her poetic contribution to the NY Times acclaimed (and to some controversial) 1619 Project and later (I think) her involvement with a boycott of The Poetry Foundation, but the tone of the conversation with Ezra was more “street” – more community, sociologically steeped. Ewing’s comments, based on her research and writing, specifically in terms of a school closure debate in her home town of Chicago, and how public schooling access are conditional to the neighbourhood in which one lives, were really thought provoking. And, just her fundamental concern that public schools should even be “categorised” (or, it follows, “stigmacized”), I share so much. A question I have often asked is: Why are there bad schools anyway? Bad schools should not exist! Wealthy countries (forget about variations in the subsets thereof) must be able to figure this! One would think.

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le 14 juillet

That is today. La fête nationale française. The 14th of July, or Bastille Day as I have always called it.

Coming just after the 15oth anniversary of the birth of Marcel Proust , on 10th July, 1871, I use this proximity and this day to rekindle a too long dormant fascination with the great French writer. See it as my own personal gesture of admiration for La Grande Nation (as the Germans call it – and not always with affection!).

pub. Other Press, 2021

In the arts pages of a German newspaper last week (FAZ); a collection of snippets from those who have, at some time or other, turned to Proust – and, with various degrees of success. One, Louis Begley, succeeded as a young man where others failed, and later was enriched not only in a literary sense but also in that Proust led him to the love of his life. Begley took the opportunity to do a little promotion in this regard for his wife, Anka Muhlstein. In celebration of Proust’s anniversary, Penguin Random House have released a special paperback edition of her 2012 book Monsieur Proust’s Library which explores the literary influences of one who was to on and so profoundly influence other writers, and up to this day. The synopsis on the publisher’s website insinuates this to be a light – and encouraging – read, for those who persist in their struggle.

My copy of the Penguin Classics six volume edition of “In Search of Lost Time”

And I am in need of some encouragement, for as you may have guessed, as Begley succeeded so have I failed. It is to be clearly discerned from the condition of the spines of the paperback volumes of In Search of Lost Time (or perhaps I should use the French title À la Recherche du temps perdu; as I remember even the translation of the title is forever a matter of heated debate) standing on my bookshelf that, generously speaking, I made it half way through – though I am relatively sure I didn’t make it to the end of The Guermantes Way. When? Twenty years ago? Is that possible? What precisely happened I don’t know; distracted, presumably put to one side, then packed away – as life, and my place in it, moved on.

Also, a few days ago I caught a very nice discussion on the Times Literary Supplement’s weekly podcast (always informative listening) with Professor of French and Comparative Literature at the University of Exeter and Proust expert, Adam Watt. Embedded below, and to be found about 4 minutes in or, in Spotify reckoning, at approximately -48:00.

The TLS Podcast – July 7th, 2021.

Watt’s essay for the TLS July 9, 2021, issue, can be found here. Take note, though; access is only granted to a very limited amount of articles in any one month, so good luck!

Now, then, Monsieur Proust, you have my attention! At least, I have taken you again to hand or, to be precise, the first volume of your monumental work, which, in this translation by Lydia Davis, is titled The Way by Swann’s as opposed to Swann’s Way; also a matter of contention. (Whilst all under the aegis of Christopher Prendergast, each volume has a different translator.) On Lydia Davis. I must say, after reading some terrific flash fiction stuff by the so named a few years ago, I had to check whether this was in fact the same person whose name I remembered from the Proust translation. And indeed it was. A New Yorker profile in 2014 explained the French connection and much more (including an American literary first marriage of the highest order – of which I was probably one of the few to be ignorant of).

As an aside, some words of encouragement: a way once lost remains to be found!

Let the search begin, one may be tempted to say; if it wasn’t for that complicated pas de deux of Being and Time – that illusive intangible that constrains and dictates; that essence which he and his accomplice – that other with the name Marcel just as he, and much more than a reflection of each self – sought with word to tame; to make palpable; just like the most famous little cake of all time – soaked in tea, not once but three times, melting into involuntary memory.

As June turns into July

From Juneteenth to the Fourth of July; it is but a couple of weeks, but for many Americans it could symbolize a life time of experience and expectation – ways shared and often not.

This Fourth of July 2021 being the very first that follows the very first official national Juneteenth, I let speak historian and law professor, Annette Gordon-Reed in today’s guest essay for The New York Times.

Pub. Liveright, 2021

No, I haven’t read her recent book which is an essay collection called On Juneteenth (I did read the excellent The Hemingses of Monticello several years ago) that reaches into her Texan childhood, but will certainly do so. Given her heritage, and after reading the NYT piece and this interview at The Harvard Gazette, Professor Gordon-Reed is definitely the person to go to as June turns to July and no star should stand alone.

Should an outsider dare to offer her opinion; I would suggest Fourth of July celebrations aren’t going anywhere fast, but Juneteenth as a new national holiday, with a narrative that is peculiarly fitting for these times and with appeal to a new generation of Americans, may gain in traction and attraction. It is to be hoped, as Professor Gordon-Reed pleads for, that these days do not fall into competition rather are seen as complementary facets in an ever evolving national identity.

Niche is nice, but …

…unfortunately, not only niche, but abbreviated. I thought I would be granted one admittance to the TLS this month – but no such luck! But, as far as I could read, the gist is; when Professor Beard was at school, girls were taught Ancient Greek without accents – pondering the rationale (!) behind that is really interesting indeed! Mind you, it didn’t do Mary’s brilliant career much harm; or maybe it did force the direction – after all, her specialisation did become that of the Romans and Latin does not have (at least not in written text) those pesky diacritical marks of Greek. And she does say, that to this very day, she feels somehow deprived, and is adamant it is a technique that must be learnt from the git go.

Where I am concerned, the truth of course is – with or without (accents) – it remains all Greek to me!

Not wasted though was this return visit to Twitter, for I picked up mention of a very new site, called Antigone, dedicated to making Classics accessible to a greater audience. A quick browse through suggests lots of good reading, and they are even able to offer help for those (like Mary!) struggling with accents.

On the lost art of mastering disaster

Again, in one fell swoop, all my petty irritations with The New York Times dissipated into nothingness with this interactive interpretation of Elizabeth Bishop’s much celebrated 1976 poem, “One Art” – a well put together analytical piece from the NYT critics, Parul Sehgal and Dwight Garner, enhanced through referencing Bishop’s drafts and an exposition of the poet’s methodology.

Elizabeth Bishop builds her poem with the consummate skill of one who has honed her craft; working up from a very concrete foundation – the loss of an object, keys perhaps – to that of the more transient – some place, be it near, like one’s home or the greater space that surrounds. And always lurking; pesky, ephemeral time – taken, wasted, forever lost, and so done in the interest of another loss. Loss multiplied, if you will.

Beginning with generalization, her distanced voice evolves into a personal address, and in the last stanza, a much more intimate loss is revealed – that of one loved. Has the lyrical self convinced one own self that such a loss can be conquered by rational means, as those others have been before? She doesn’t say, but as the poem concludes it’s to be supposed she is working on it still – mastering this art of losing.

And maybe she never succeeded in doing so, but Elizabeth Bishop certainly mastered the art of the villanelle; a composition form that she only used on this one occasion. Long live the villanelle!

Should the NYT not deem to let you in: Whilst very much copyrighted of course, “One Art” is available to be read all over the place, including here at the Poetry Foundation, along with a further selection of her works – me, I’ve always especially loved “At the Fishhouses”.

I herewith remind myself of a still outstanding book recommendation, given to me quite some time ago: “On Elizabeth Bishop” (Princeton University Press, 2015), an introduction to the life and work of this great American poet by the wonderful Irish writer, Colm Tóibín.

Parrots or people

As said in the previous post, legendary amongst many, is the Monty Python “parrot” sketch” (sometimes called “The Pet Shop”); this I have always understood to be a parody of the linguistic flights of fancy [sic!] we have taken (at least in the Anglophone world) to avoid speaking plainly on the subject of death. I must admit to being fundamental in this regard, and even the oft used “pass” and its derivatives (-away, -on, -over), though inoffensive, irritate me madly.

When all’s said and done we share the same fate. So, say it out loud, that what needs to be said: be it parrots or people, let dead be dead. Or is it: “bleedin’ demised”?

Introducing John Cleese and Michael Palin and a stuffed “Norwegian Blue” in “The Parrot Sketch”!

Mixed emotions

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: on grief…and then, if that wasn’t enough…!

A couple of weeks ago I caught Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie on BBC Radio Four’s Woman’s Hour (03 June 2021, still online as I write, at about 02:40 in) speaking on her new book Notes on Grief. I see here on the Penguin Random House website that it is only a very slim work and, as I presumed, is an extension of her very fine essay in The New Yorker which I addressed last year. Sadly, Adichie’s grief over the death of her father was not the last she would suffer in this wretched year of reckoning for many; revealed now is the very recent death of her mother. For her, only some consolation in being at home in Nigeria on this latter occasion, and not impeded in sharing the physical near that is as much a part of death as it is life.

With Emma, Adichie wonders aloud; that death should so surprise, so devastate, when it is assured to all and every one of us; that this thing called grief, springing as it does from love, can cause such visceral hurt; of the realization that when grief retreats to the private crevices of memory, the own life left with in its wake is fundamentally other. And, the banality of the “speech” of grief – given and received. This, not so much of the euphemistic as applied often to death, and as brilliantly parodied by Monty Python in the famous dead-parrot sketch, but an act of avoidance, of (not) saying out aloud what can not be said – of confronting the one great absolute.

Extract from “Notes on Grief” read by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

And, now, for something completely different! But staying with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

Reported on here in The Guardian, and finding resonance through the international media, was Adichie’s furious essay excoriating, specifically, two writers who (she claims) have abused her friendship and/or collegiality and, more generally, an increasingly pretentious and self-absorbed younger generation (too much of a generalization here perhaps) who use social media outlets to pontificate on the latest orthodoxy; using the language of parrots (I can’t believe I’m back with the parrots!) rather than that of personal reflection, denying the complexity of living a life – or lives (and I am not thinking reincarnation! But now I am thinking about attacking the convoluted pronoun argument some time soon!). Suffice to say, Adichie’s piece was met with support by some and scorned by others.

I should add, that this whole fracas has roots in Adichie’s comments on transgender women – in 2017! – that were considered by some to be trans-phobic. (I will not dignify this assertion with the paltry evidence that the offending quote offers.) This mini-kerfuffle escaped my attention then, though I seem to remember Adichie’s voice as one (of reason) in the contentious, never-ending rigmarole surrounding J.K. Rowling and her last Tweet, next Tweet, no tweeting at all. Forgive me, but so ludicrous have some of these identity debates, or rabble rousing under the guise of such, become! No longer are they concerned with respect and kindness, or interested in a fair exchange, instead have everything to do with who is the loudest, who next can be vilified – or better still “cancelled”!

“Blue” – Joni Mitchell (1971)

Earlier in the year, I celebrated the 50th anniversary of one of my personal favorite albums – Carol King’s “Tapestry”. Joni Mitchell worked musically on that album, and on June 22 of the same year released a new work of her own; called “Blue”, it too has become a work of legend. (James Taylor also worked on both, and his guitar playing is essential to the overall character of some of the tracks on Mitchell’s album.) Taster below, go to Spotify to hear more.

At the NYT, a great interactive celebration of “Blue” with tributes – in the form of personal and varied analysis of each track – from Mitchell’s peers; her contemporaries like Taylor, Judy Collins, Graham Nash, Stephen Stills, and from members of younger generations who have been inspired by her work.