Literature New Yorker

Ohio Woes

This is from a story “The Winged Thing” by Patricia Lockwood.

It’s about growing up in Ohio. The experience is narrated dull, but the dullness is lethal enough to drive the young girl into the arms of the Internet.

“As a teenager, she had tried to write poetry about the beauty of her surroundings, but her surroundings were so ugly that she had quickly abandoned the project. Why were the trees here so brown, so stunted? Why did the billboards announce “LOOSE, HOT SLOTS?” Why did her mother collect Precious Moments? Why did the birds seem to say “Bur-ger King, Burger-King,” and why, in her most solitary moments did she find herself humming the jingle for the local accident-and-injury lawyer, which was so catchy that it almost seemed to qualify as a disease?

If she had stayed, she might have got addicted to pills, too, she realized. Something about the way the lunch-bag-colored leaves wadded in the gutters in autumn, something about the way the snow stayed long after it was wanted, like wives. Something about the memory of her multiplication table, with its flat, devouring zero at the corner, and that chalk taste on the center of the mouth.

Instead, she just disappeared into the Internet. She had not realized what a close call she had until recently, for now, in the portal, men were coming up through manholes to confess how near they had come to getting radicalized, how they, too, had wandered the sewers of communal thought for days at a time, dry-mouthed and damp under the arms. How they were exposed to the mutagenic glowing sludge just long enough to become perfectly, perfectly, funny, just long enough to grow that all-discerning third eye.”

Literature Poetry

The Birth of Gender

Read the poem “Destination” by Dutch poet Hester Knibbe, and know that gender is conceived in the vileness of the human mind.

As we rode into the village we came upon

a convergence of old customs; there was

an empty house and the door stood wide open.

The men from the village lugged a cupboard into the house.

The men from the village hauled a table into the house.

The men from the village heaved a bed into the house.

And the women of the village bore

Dishes and plates and glasses and something to

make the bed habitable into the house.

Then the men pulled a son inside.

Learn to light a fire, they said,

Learn to put out a fire, they said,

We’re latching the shutters.

Then the women pushed a daughter inside.

Learn to be hot, they said,

Learn to be cold, they said,

we’re barricading the door.


Fiction Literature

Dissent As the Art of Freedom

So writes Salman Rushdie in an allegorical tale, “The Old Man in the Piazza.

The story begins with a pandemonium like atmosphere at the “Piazza,” the center of an unspecified city that’s redolent of Italy, but is not Italy.

The pandemonium is not physical but verbal. Citizens argue, scream at each other and generally disagree to the point of making disagreement a principle of discourse.

The narrator observes that the city has entered into an era of the “No” preceded by a time of the “Yes,” or the “dark age” of “assent,” when it was “illegal to argue,” In the dark age of assent residents “were all obliged to agree, at all times. Whatever proposition was made, no matter how risible—that bread and wine could transubstantiate into flesh and blood, that the immigrant population transformed at night into drooling sex monsters, that it was beneficial to raise the taxes paid by the poor, that souls could transmigrate, or that war was necessary—it was forbidden to debunk it, even though immigrants ran the best bakery in the town and our favorite wine store, and even though most of us were poor, and none of us remembered any earlier lives spent as tortoises, or foreigners, or eels, and only a small minority of us were belligerent by nature.”

The age of “assent” stultified voices but more importantly, mindless agreements deprived language of oxygen. After devolving into a vehicle of agreeability, language is threatened into extinction. To survive, language, personified as a gorgeous, Cleopatra-ish woman, revolts ushering the city into becoming a haven of “disputatious citizenry,” that feels free to dissent at every turn of thought. Facts are fervidly consolidated through contesting fiction as in “the sun, madam, does not rise in the west, no matter how vehemently you may argue that it does, and, sir, the moon is not made of Gorgonzola cheese, and to say this is not to agree with your opponent, who describes it as an elaborate papier-mâché fake, nailed to the sky to make us believe that we live in a three-dimensional universe of stars, planets, and satellites, rather than upon a dish with a great lid over it, a lid like an inverted colander, with many holes through which, at night, shines the bright thing we have been deceived into calling starlight.”

Passion now rules and Language is “happier than she was in the subservient, acquiescent days of the ‘yes.’

The story undergoes a further twist and in a Rushdiesque way ends on a note of uncertainty. But the moral of the story is clear and Rushdie himself articulates it in an interview thus:

“I’ve always thought that democracy is like a town square, or a bazaar, or, I guess, a piazza, in which passionate disagreements are constantly taking place. The ability to have such disagreements is what one might call ‘freedom.'”

Literature Philosophy Poetry

Philosophy of the Selfie


You want to fix yourself into that event

With an image of the volcano, or street killing,

Or house fire, or fornicating bullfrogs,

Or the centaur dancing, or the unicoen

Piercing balloons over a pond with a fountain

Shaped like an oak tree from the undiscovered torts

That have scattered through office blocks and suburban homes,

And which maybe uncovered one day

And be ripped from the sculpted foliage, becoming fact,

Causing this accumulation of lies to fall like leaves

Into the water below–and the unicorn to leap

Into fiction while you

Will be fixed in time to an image of crime,

Or joy, or wonder, or an unicorn,

As a committment for life on the Internet

Repeated, retweeted,

But forever with your back to it.

–Frieda Hughes (2015)



A poem titled “Prayer” by Lisa Purpura:

Its occasion

could be

a spot of sun,

bar sign, label

on jeans,

carnation, red

light where you

wait and

gratitude hits.

Or a name

the length of a subway car

that only makes sense

when you say it aloud

in your head

as it passes.

Capitalism Climate Change

A Wall Street View of the Planet

The Anthropocene.

Humor Literature

Pasta Inferno

Now and then it occurs to me that things–in this case a crumpled page from a 2012 Issue of the New Yorker Magazine–can contain high quality thought (and wit).

So I was converting pages from one of the world’s most esteemed literary magazines into “packing peanuts” and ran into this gem of an intertextual humor: an allusion to Dante’s “Inferno,” with the soul of a popular American pasta replacing the human soul.

Books Literature Memoir


The 44th President of the United States has often known to have bared his soul, as it were, particularly in his writing. “A Promised Land” is Obama’s 3rd memoir, the first two being, “Dreams of My Father” (1995) and “Audacity of Hope” (2006).

But does the soul he bares please everybody? Of course not, at least not on certain subject matters. In her extensive review of Obama’s much awaited “post-Presidency” reflections, “A Promised Land,” Nigerian novelist Chimananda Ngozi Adichie, is clearly impatient with Obama’s equivocation on the matter of race and racism in America.

While Adichie commends Obama’s writing as “always pleasurable to read, sentence by sentence, the prose gorgeous in places, the detail granular and vivid,” she cuts him down to size when she perceives Obama to take racism on directly as the national virus that it is:

He writes about race as though overly aware that it will be read by a person keen to take offense. Instances of racism are always preceded by other examples that ostensibly show the absence of racism. And so, while we hear an Iowan supporter say, “I’m thinking about voting for the nigger,” we see many nice Iowans who just care about the issues. The racist incident is never allowed to be and breathe, fully aired out, unmuddied by that notion of “complexity.” Of course racism is always complex, but complexity as an idea too often serves as an evasive device, a means of keeping the conversation comfortable, never taking the full contours of racism to avoid alienating white Americans.

Ngozi Adichie is annoyed by Obama’s reluctant to address “black issues” on grounds that too much focus on it might incur back lash from whites, or what is popularly termed “white lash.” So what if it does? Adichie seems to ask; moreover, hovering her barely concealed cursor of disappointment on the nation’s first black president’s weasel-like cautious approach to racism, Adichie implies that white lash is not something that’s a result of “evil politicians’ manipulation of the white working class, but because racism is in the white working class’ DNA (George Orwell made a similar claim about the English working class’ strange lack of sympathy for the global downtrodden, i.e. the colonized people).

Books Capitalism

All Art in Capitalism is Gimmicky

Sianne Ngai, English Professor at the University of Chicago, has written what the New Yorker describes as an influential book on the limits (and frivolity) of aesthetic judgement in a hypercommodified, information-saturated, performance-driven conditions of late-capitalism.

Theory of the Gimmick claims that all art produced and consumed under capitalism is gimmicky. By the word “gimmick” Ngai doesn’t mean cheap trickery, but a version of magic or distortionism that art enacts in order to occlude the sordid reality of the conditions and relations that capitalism corners production and consumption into. “Gimmick” comes from the word “gimack” an anagram of “magic.”

Ngai writes that in a “capitalistic life world” art becomes increasingly trivial while artifice reigns supreme, and we the consumers view the artifice as both fun and frightening, arresting and alienating.


Wittgenstein’s Dictionary

Bomb Magazine

I didn’t know Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote a dictionary for children. But here it is.