Friday, September 13, 2013

Assholes by Aaron James




Aaron James is an associate professor of philosophy at UC Irvine.

If being a person with basic moral status means anything, it at very least means that one is owed respect and consideration as being endowed with capacity to reason. In particular, people are endowed with powers that enable them to consider and evaluate how someone has acted. The community of persons is, in this way special. I, as an ordinary person, have special powers of self-consciousness, reasoning and judgment. I can observe someone acting, as a mere event in the order of things, but also ask (if only to myself) certain questions of justification. Why, I might ask, should an act such as that be acceptable? In particular, is such an act justifiable to me if it was done in my direction, given how it might effect me?

Likewise, any one of us, so endowed, can ask what would be justifiable to another person, from his or her particular point of view. Is that something she can reasonably find acceptable, given the consequences for her? Or could she reasonably complaint of how she is in effect being treated? In that case, what we think another could or could not accept should have special significance for us and how we act.  It will influence our choices, at least if we are at all morally concerned. Each of us, in acting, has to consider not only what might make the world better rather than worse from an impersonal point of view – factoring in the fate of mountains, whales and trees – but also what could be acceptable to each and every one of us, for reasons arising from  the different, distinctive personal standpoint of each separate person in our common world.

This is not to say that just any complaint someone voices in a conversation should carry the day, as though one always needed explicit or implicit permission from everyone who could be affected by one’s choices, no matter how unreasonable those people might be. The objections or complaints we actually voice sometimes reflect ignorance of crucial facts or lack concern with what is reasonably acceptable from everyone’s point of view. We can be ignorant or selfish, or both.

Neither are our complaints and objections always or inevitably ill- founded in these ways, however. So when someone does object to a particular act, with a quizzical glare or loud words. There is usually some reason to think that the person may have a reasonable complaint.  Even if the objection is ultimately unreasonable, it might also have a element of truth.  Accordingly, one of our basic moral responsibilities is to hear people out, to at least take seriously the reasons they give for wanting to be treated differently, even if we ultimately object. The expectation, in other words, is for us to recognize the person objecting, in something like the way a deliberative body grants someone in the room the right to speak before the group. This is, as we might put it, part and parcel of basic moral respect –that is, respect not simply for the person’s complaint but for the person who makes it.

The Asshole,by contrast, is wholly immunized against the complaints of others.  Whether or not the complaint is ultimately reasonable, the person is not registered, from the asshole’s point of view, as worthy of consideration.  The person who complains is not seen as a potential source of reasonable complaint but is simply walled out. If the person complaining is “standing up for herself” in order to be recognized, it is as though she were physically present but morally nonexistent in the asshole’s view of the world.

This is why otherwise coolheaded people fall into a fit of rage or lash out at an asshole: they are fighting to be recognized.  They are not fighting for the small benefit of having the asshole move to the back of the line or, more generally, for a slightly more fair distribution of the benefits and burdens of cooperation. The person taking a stand against an asshole is fighting to be registered in the asshole’s point of view as morally real.

The fight can become extraordinarily frustrating because the asshole usually wins: his sense of entitlement is entrenched, so there is usually no way of getting through. (Hence one may spontaneously desire to give the man a sound beating, as though that would help.) The fully cooperative person is accustomed to listening when people complain, and used to be heard when even a suggestion of complaint is made. That is how cooperative people normally work out what is acceptable to all, what the moral equity of each person requires. This comes to feel natural, expected, a matter of course. The asshole, by contrast, is equally accustomed to walling others out. He does it all the time. This is comfortable for him. He is exceptionally good at it: when others complain, he easily dismisses the objection, or quickly finds convincing arguments that rationalize the objection away, and moves on. He compliments himself on how good he is at this because he is very good at it indeed. .  . 
                           
                                                              .  .  .

Certain styles of capitalism are inherently prone to decline or, more specifically, to degrade, due to the proliferation of assholes. Asshole capitalism, as we hereby define the term, is the name of this kind of unstable social system.

Every kind of society requires a reliable asshole-dampening system – that is, a set of social institutions, such as the family, religion, public education, or the rule of law –that keeps the asshole population from getting out of hand. For if the proportion of assholes in the population becomes too large (i.e. the non-asshole to asshole ratio takes a dive) cooperative people will become increasingly unable or unwilling or just too few in number to uphold the practices and institutions need for society to stave off decline. Asshole capitalism is especially prone to undoing itself in this way.

The asshole feels entitled to special advantages in cooperative life to which in fact he has no moral claim. The culture of an asshole capitalism sends just this kind of strong entitlement message.  Roughly, the message is that you can rightly get something for nothing or get rich without having to worry about the cost to others. This message creates powerful incentives for asshole-style reasoning and action, not just among those who are already assholes but among many who would otherwise be content to cooperate as equals in society. The result is a profusion of assholery throughout social and economic life that overwhelms the dampening systems that might otherwise keep the asshole population from exploding out of control. As assholes grow in numbers, or are simply perceived to grow in numbers, cooperative people gradually withdraw from upholding the practices and institutions needed for capitalism to function by its own standard of value.

A helpful way to think about how this works is to start by imagining a capitalist society that more or less fulfills capitalism’s social promises. This means that cooperative people, despite the usual assholes, mostly uphold the various practices and institutions needed for almost everyone to have things like real freedom, real opportunity,  a goodly share in general prosperity: advance in the general welfare, a rising tide (standard of living) in which all boats are lifted, the yacht and dinghy alike. Capitalism we are told, advances these values as well as or better than alternative social forms.

Assuming for the sake of argument that this is right, it is extremely important  to recognize that those grand promises can’t be fulfilled without supportive social practices and institutions. The idea of a  large-scale, self-sustaining, self-organizing “perfectly competitive” and “efficient” market is an intellectual fiction, it bears little relation to any real markets. Large-scale exchange is possible, for example, only within a system of property that demarcates different things as “mine” and “thine.” That will in turn require any institutions of security, law, contract, adjudication, taxation and politics to generally not fall apart (because rampant theft or corruption or constant endemic conflict and so forth).

 But now suppose the society switches to the entitlement system (perhaps the Entitlement Party rises to power). The system is now sending a powerful entitlement message, for instance, that having ever more is one’s moral right, even when it comes at a cost to others. As asshole thinking and culture spread and hold, the asshole-dampening systems that used to keep assholery in check become overwhelmed. Parents start preparing their kids for an asshole economy, the law is increasingly compromised, the political system is increasingly controlled through systems of bribery and so on. As some switch sides while others mainly withdraw, cooperative people ( who recognize each other as ‘morally real’) find it more difficult to uphold the practices and institutions needed for capitalism to do right by its on values. What happens?

Probably living standards increasing rise only for the fortunate few,” the rising tide of capitalism” lifts the yacht but swamps the dinghy. The growth of gross domestic product year after year may increasingly become like everyone in a bar getting “richer”, on average, because Bill Gates just walked in; average per capita wealth spikes, but most aren’t personally richer for it. In more concrete terms, this may show up in various ways: maybe people become increasingly uncertain about their prospects for stable employment and eventual retirement, even though they have “worked hard and played by the rules” their whole lives; or perhaps people are increasingly unable to stay in school, try as they may, because their increasingly vulnerable family can’t support their debts or need them to work to pay urgent bills; or it could be that average people are increasingly unable to get the basic protections of the law in an increasingly cash-strapped police or judicial system, even as assholes get the best justice money can buy; and maybe any or all of these trends result from political power being increasingly concentrated in the hands of an influential few, who steadily change the rules to further entrench that influence which, in asshole culture, become increasingly impervious to complaint, In short, in one way or another, people increasingly see “liberty”, “opportunity”, or “prosperity” in name only, in a form that isn’t especially valuable to them, that doesn’t make good on the promise of capitalism in their eyes.

Now, as we understand entitlement capitalism, the encouraged sense of entitlement is not limited to proper assholes. They readily take to the message, since it confirms what they already believe about themselves. More important is that others who would not otherwise think like assholes are also swayed, especially as the entitlement messages catches on and the practices and institutions designed to hold assholery in check weaken. They, too, begin to aggressively and indignantly defend so-called reforms that give them an ever-greater slice of the pie, regardless of its social rationale and even the great cost to others. That doesn’t necessarily mean that assholery pervades all areas of life. The thinking may be limited to work or to politics, or generally to the economic system. Ordinary persons have no need or compulsion to be particularly “entrenched” in the mentality of entitlement capitalism. When the winds of culture blow in a different, perhaps more cooperative direction, many will go with the flow and perhaps later feel puzzled about how they could have previously thought so much like an asshole. And even asshole reasoning per se will have some sense of limit. Even proper assholes will not knowingly push things into complete collapse. After all, where cooperation doesn’t exist, as in Hobbes’s state of nature, there are no special advantages for the asshole to take.

[Which is perhaps not an unduly optimist note upon which to end this blog entry.]

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Working in Bara Tooti by Aman Sethi




Kaka’s tea shop wasn’t much of a shop as it was the fossilized remains of a creature formed by the inbreeding of generations of pots, pans, stoves, and cement. The shop began as a large concrete shelf –about six feet high, ten feet across, and three feet deep- fused onto the real wall of the Aggarwal  Samati Mandir premises, but soon grew to take up most of the alleyway called Barna Galli. The temple management had leased out half the shelf to a silent machinist, who spent his day crouched on his narrow ledge with an array of lathes, wires, capacitors, and resistors for company.

On the other half lay a disused kerosene stove, a large rectangular coffee machine, a telephone, and jars of tea. On a large table placed adjacent to the shelf, a kettle hissed on a gas burner placed amidst glasses, teaspoons, sieves, and packets of milk.  On the floor, a few feet from the table, a young boy stirred a shallow vat of milk propped up over a gas burner by a set of bricks. A second boy scurried around taking orders from workers seated all along the alley.

Sanjay ‘Kaka’ Kumar was a flabby forty-year-old with a salt-and-pepper beard. He sat comfortably on a plastic chair placed equidistant from a three stoves, directing his assistants with a series of precise hand gestures and the occasional curse. His tea shop was currently the subject of a legal battle between the jeweler who had built the shelf and the temple management which owned the wall on which the shelf was built.. The jeweller had sublet the space out to Kaka who dutifully deposited his rent of two hundred rupees every month in court.

Bara Tooti began its day at Kaka’s tea shop. The milk would arrive by five in the morning and the first batch of ‘morning special’ tea would be ready by a quarter past five. Ashraf and Lalloo would show up soon after and sit on a low ledge, waiting for the early morning cramps that milky tea and a beedi invariably produce.

‘It’s almost eight and they are still sitting here,’ Kaka would exclaim irrespective of when I arrived. ‘Outside at the chowk, work has come and gone, but these two are still waking up. Drink your chai, smoker your beedi, pay your two rupees for a shit, and go to work.’

What’s so special about about the “morning special”?’ I once asked Kaka.
‘It helps build pressure,’ Kaka replied. ‘You understand pressure? Because a man doesn’t truly wake up till he shits.’

If you want a job in Bara Tooti, wake up early, order a cup of chai, and wait by the main road –work will come to you. Shopkeepers looking to extend their storage space by knocking dowbn a wall between two adjacent rooms; house owners looking to turn a balcony into an extra bedroom; contractors searching for extra labour; families looking for someone to whitewash their staircase the day before their daughters – they all come down the Bara Tooti in search of mistrys and beldaars, karigars and mazdoors.  .  .

In the early days, I worried that my interviews were keeping Ashraf and Lalloo from finding work, only to be assured by Ashraf that if they were wasting time talking to me, they probably weren’t looking for work that day.

‘Only barsati mendaks work every day, Aman bhai,’ said Ashraf. ‘Not lafunters like us. We work when we feel like it.’

The barsati mendaks, the rain frogs of Bara Tooti, are seasonal workers from villages in Dehli’s neighboring states of Uttar Pradesh, Haryana and Rajasthan. Most of them have land back home, a few acres that their fathers own, which will soon be divided among brothers.

They first come in January after the winter crop has been harvested and the fields lie fallow, and return home in time for the sowing season in July. Once sowing is complete, they return to Bara Tooti for another few months of work before heading back to the village around Diwali.

The barsati medaks work frantically and live frugally to save as much money as they can. In the weeks leading up to Diwali they top drinking or smoking, and save every last rupee so as to have something to show for the long absence from home. On the day before they leave, the mendaks hurriedly pay off their debts and pile into interstate buses headed homewards, leaving behind a corps of hardened Bara Tooti denizens.

Old-timers like Lalloo and Ashraf, with nowhere to go and no one to send money to, sit by the roadside shrine, puffing on their beedis, rolling joints, and sipping whiskey and water out of disposable Pepsi glasses. As Lalloo put it, ‘We are old frogs now, Aman bhai, with nowhere to hop to.  .  .’

Ashraf and Lalloo could be described as ‘work orientated’ rather than ‘work seeking’. They usually worked for a week at a time, followed by a week of leisure financed by their earnings. Some weeks, Ashraf would make up to a thousand rupees, but he had to be careful when his money ran out.

“The worst was this one morning when I woke up –still completely drunk – and I didn’t have two rupees to take a shit, all my money was gone. Everything. I didn’t know where Lalloo was. I had to ask Kaka for the money – oh, the humiliation.’

“Kaka, can I have two rupees?” I ask.
“Why two rupees, Ashraf bhai? You can have this tea for free.”
“No, tea will make it worse, I need two rupees.”
“But what can you get for two rupees these days?”
“Oh god, it was terrible.’ Ahraf shuddered at the thought. ‘I think I should keep two rupees in my special pocket.’

‘Inside pocket, outside pocket, it doesn’t make a difference if you are dead drunk on a pavement in Old Dehli,’ Lalloo once said sullenly. ‘You can save a thousand rupees only to have it stolen in one night. Perfectly decent young boys, who neither smoke nor drink, have awoken to find their slippers stolen in the night. Who knows where the money in the night? In the morning there is always mazdoori’

In the morning there will  be shops to be painted, walls to be built, loads to be lifted, and trenches to be dug. There is always work on offer, but Ashraf and Lalloo have been around long enough to keep a lookout for the right job.

‘The ideal job,’Ashraf once said, as if elucidating a complex mathematical function, ‘has the perfect balance of kamai and azadi.’ Through the course of his life, a working man must experiment with as many combinations as he can before discovering the point where these counteracting forces offset each other to arrive at a solitary moment of serenity – a point when he both free and fortunate. At that point, a man may be excused for rocking back and forth gently, tempting fate on both sides –reaching out for the tipping point, but sliding back before his fingers touch either side. Alas, it is a bliss that few, like Ashraf, attain.

‘Kamai is what makes work work. Without kamai, it is not work, it is a hobby. Some call it charity; others may call it exercise –but it certainly isn’t a job. A job is something a man is paid to do – and his pay is his kamai Many of us .  .  .’ Ashraf paused to stand up and take in the tea-sipping mazdoors, the gossiping mistrys, and the lazing beldaars in the smooth arc of his arm, ‘many of us chose jobs only on the basis of their kamai. Six thousand rupees a month! A man could get rich with that kind of money. But they forget a crucial thing. What is that crucial thing?

‘Azadi, Aman bhai, Azadi,’ he continued withou twaiting for an answer. ‘Azadi is the freedom to tell the maalik to fuck off when you want to.The maalik owns your work. He does not own us. Every morning a hundred contractors come to Bara Tooti offering permanent jobs for six thousand rupees a month. But those haramis wouldn’t pay their mother six thousand rupees if she worked for them. On the first day the contactor will give you two hundred rupees and say, “Let no one say that contractor Choduram Aggarwal doesn’t pay his workers.” On the second day he’ll do the same.  But on the third day, he will give you only a hundred rupees, and promise to pay the rest later. By the end of the second week, he will pay you only a third of what he owes you. And by the end of the month, you will realize that conrtactor Chorduram Aggarwal really does not pay his workers. But by now it is too late. You can’t leave. He owes you three thousand rupees already. You are now .  .  . What are you now, Aman bhai?’

“I have no idea, Ashraf bhai.’ It was clear that these questions were purely rhetorical.

‘A gulam! A slave. A khacchar, a mule with neither kamai or azadi. Which is why the best way to earn is on dehadi. If Choduram pays you on the first day, you work for him on the second. He pays you on the second, work fopr the third. He stops paying, you stop working. After all, even if you are LLPP, you still have your self-respect.’

‘An LLPP?’

Ashraf couldn’t help grinning to himself. This was classic Ashraf. There was a punchline somewhere, but he wasn’t going to give it away cheap. He paused for a theatrical pull on his beedi and intoned with mock gravitas, ‘In the super-specialized world today everyone needs a degree. Some are BA’s, Some are MA’s, sone are CA’s, and the truly unfortunate are PA’s. The really well read are PhD’s, but here on the chowk, ninety percent of the mazdoors are LLPPs – the universal degree that we are all born with.’

‘An LLPP?’

Yes, an LLPP – Likh Lowda Padh Pathar. And when they ask you what you are, answer loudly and proudly. Chances are they will never know what it means.’

What it means, literally, is Write Penis Read Stone – Ashrafspeak for someone who is completely illiterate.

Asshra understands the need to appear educated.  Many years ago, Ashraf had a friend who, when asked what his qualifications were, answered, ‘Double BA.

‘The other party was so impressed that they gave us the contract right away.
‘So what were his degrees in, Ashraf bhai?’
‘Oh, in nothing and nothing. In Bengali, we say ‘biye’ for marriage. Raja was twice married, hence “double biye”. Smart, no?

‘Brilliant.’

‘In our line we have to be brilliant,’ Ashraf continued with some earnestness. ‘To become a businessman you should be ready for anything, you should have answers for everything.’

To become a businessman is Ashraf’s fondest dream because he blieves it wil free him from the clutches of a maalik forever. Even a mazdoor must answer to the man who hires him for the day; but to be a businessman, Ashraf believes, is never to be answerable to anyone.



Tuesday, September 10, 2013

The Terror Factory by Trevor Aaronson




The FBI currently spends $3 billion annually to hunt an enemy that is largely of its own creation. Evidence in dozens of terrorism cases – involving plots to blow up synagogues, skyscrapers, military recruiting stations, and bars and nightclubs – suggests that today’s terrorists in the United States are nothing more than FBI creations, impressionable men living on the edges of society who become bomb-triggering would-be killers only because of the actions of FBI informants. The FBI and the Justice Department then cite these sting cases as proof that the government is stopping terrorists before they strike. But the evidence available for review in these cases  shows that these “terrorists” never had the capability to launch an attack themselves.  Most of the targets in these stings were poor, uneducated,  and easily manipulated.  In many cases, it’s likely they wouldn’t have come up with the idea at all without prodding –often over the course of many months – by one of the FBI’s 15,000 registered informants ( many of whom have extensive criminal convictions). In sting after sting, from Miami to Seattle the FBI and its informants have provided the means for America’s would-be terrorists to carry out an attack, creating what one federal judge has called “fantasy terror operations.”

According to government and federal court records, the Justice Department has prosecuted more than 500 terrorism defendants since 9/11. Of these cases, only a few posed actual threats to people or property such as: Hesham Mohamed Hadayet, who opened fired on the El Al ticket counter at Los Angeles International Airport on July 4, 2002; Najibullah Zazi, who came close to bombing the New York City subway system in September 2009; and Faisal Shahzad, who failed to detonate a car bomb in Times Square on May 1, 20010. Of the rest of the approximately 500 defendants, more than 150  were caught conspiring not with terrorists but with FBI informants in sting operations. The remainder of the Justice Department’s prosecutions involve crimes such as money laundering or immigration violations in which the link to terrorism was tangential or on another continent, and no evidence in these cases suggested credible safety threats to the United States.

The men the FBI and The Justice Department describe today as terrorists – among them Narseal Batiste, James Cromitie, Dritan Duka, Michael Finton, Hamid Hayay, Mohammad Osman Mohamud, Walli Mujahidh, Tark Shah and Derrick Shareff  [whose cases are described in this book]- may technically be terrorists under the law, as they have been convicted of terrorism-related charges in federal courts. But if they are indeed terrorists, the government has stretched the definition of a terrorist well beyond any reasonable limit. These men, some broke, others with mental problems, couldn’t have committed even small-time offenses on their own, and yet the FBI and Justice Department have convinced court and the public that they are terrorists, even though it was the government informants and agents who provided the plans and weapons that allowed them to become terrorists in the first place.

There’s a famous saying – first used in Gerald Seymour’s 1975 novel about the IRA, Harry’s Game – that alludes to how the definition of a terrorist can be so loose and imprecise as to be form-fitting for the user of the word: “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.” This saying is used so often, it’s become a cliché. But I don’t think this well-worn maxim can be used any longer, once you take a close at the terrorism cases that have moved through the federal courts in the years after 9/11. No one would think former crack addict James Cromitie, lured into a terrorist plot by the prospect of money, was a freedom fighter, or the young and disgruntled Antonio Martinez, who had trouble driving a car, a revolutionary. Like all FBI terrorism sting targets Cromitie and Martinez were dupes. Today, we need a new saying. One man’s terrorist is another man’s fool.
                                                  .  .  .

A Florida native whose Manhattan apartment walls are covered with pictures of terrorists, Evan Kohlman –once dubbed the ‘Doogie Howser of terrorism’-  is the government’s most prolific terrorism expert, having served as an expert witness in seventeen terrorism trials in the United States and in nine others abroad since 2002.  With most of his knowledge gleaned from the Internet – the type of information the CIA describes as “open source intelligence” – Kohlman has testified to juries about the history of Islamic terrorism, how terrorist organizations finance themselves, and how they spread propaganda and recruit others for terrorist acts. Since 9/11, Kohlman has made a living testifying for the prosecution in terrorism trials as well as appearing on cable news as a terrorism expert. Jonathan Turley, a constitutional law professor at George Washington University, described Kohlman to New York magazine as having been “grown hydroponically in the basement of the Bush Justice Department.”  Several; defense lawyers, including those in the cases of “dirty bomber” Jose Padilla and the so-called Virginia jihad group, have tried to have Kohlman disqualified as an expert witness, arguing that his only qualifications as a terrorism expert are self-fashioned. However, because few experts with university credentials and social science backgrounds are willing to testify about terrorism, the Justice Department has had little trouble persuading judges to allow Kohlman to take the stand where, as one of his critics put it, he spews “junk science” by suggesting that anyone who watches jihadi videos has self-radicalized.

Kohlman is one of a cadre of self-appointed terrorism experts who today earn handsome paychecks pushing forward the idea that Islamic terrorism is a real and immediate threat in the United States. Among his peers is Rita Katz who finds a way to trace just about anything to Islamic terrorism. Many of these experts, including Kohlman and Katz, have worked under Steve Emerson, a former journalist who has earned millions of dollars while making such hyperbolic claims as that 80 percent of mosques in the United States are controlled by Islamic extremists.  In 2009 and 2010, Emerson’s nonprofit organization, Investigative Project on Terrorism Foundation, raised $5.4 million in grants and individual contributions. The nonprofit then paid Emerson’s corporation, SAE Productions, $3.4 million in management fees, allowing the tax-exempt Investigative Project on Terrorism Foundation to act as a pass-through for  a for-profit company – a questionable but not illegal practice. Simply put, there is big money to be made in stoking terrorism fears.

Saturday, September 7, 2013

A Course in English Literature by Jorge Luiz Borges

In his Autobiografia, after mentioning his appointment as the director of the National Library in 1955 Borges explains: “The following year I received a new satisfaction, by being named professor of English and North American literature at the University of Buenos Aires. Other candidates had sent detailed accounts of their translations, articles, conferences, and other accomplishments. I limited myself to the following declaration: ‘Without realizing it, I have been preparing for this position my entire life.’ That simple statement had the desired effect. They hired me, and I spent twelve happy years at the university.”

The 25 classes presented in this book were recorded by a small group of students of English literature so that other students, who couldn’t attend class because they were working, would be able to study the the material. The transcriptions of these recordings, produced by the same students, form the basis of this book.

The tapes have been lost; they were probably used to tape other classes, in other subjects. Such carelessness might seem unpardonable today.  However, we need to understand that in 1966 – the year these lectures were given- Jorges Luis Borges was not yet considered the indisputable genius he is today. For many in his class, Borges –though an eminent writer and director of the National Library –must have simply been one more professor. The transcriptions of the classes, therefore, were made for the purposes of studying the material, and were probably done quickly in order to prepare for the exam.

We might, in fact, be grateful for this: there was no attempt to modify Borges’s spoken language, nor edit his sentences, which have thus reached us intact with their repetitions and their platitudes  This fidelity can be verified by comparing Borges’s language here with that of other texts of his oral discourse, such as his many lectures and published interviews. The transcribers also made certain to note under the transcription of each class the phrase: “A faithful version.” This faithfulness was maintained, fortunately, not only in Borges’s discourse, but also in asides and colloquialisms the professor used to address his students.

Editing this book was like running after a Borges who was constantly getting lost among the books in a library – disappearing around corner after corner of a vast labyrinth. As soon as we had found a date or a biography we were looking for, Borges would race ahead and vanish behind an unknown personage or an obscure Oriental legend.  When, after looking long and hard, we found him again, he would toss us an anecdote without a date, a quote from an author, and again we would watch him disappear, escaping through the crack of a door left ajar o between rows of shelves and racks. In order to recover his words we followed him through the pages of innumerable encyclopedias and rooms of the National Library in Buenos Aires; we searched for him in the pages of the books he wrote and in dozens of lectures and interviews he gave; we found him in his nostalgia for Latin, in the Norse sagas, and in the memories of his colleagues and friends.  By the time we finally completed our task, we had traversed more than two thousand years of history, the seven seas, and the five continents. But Borges kept fleeing from us, calm and smiling. Running from ancient India to medieval Europe hadn’t tired him out. Traveling from Caedmon to Coleridge was, for him, an everyday affair.

Within the framework of these classes, Borges erudition us always apparent. This erudition, however, never limits his communication with his students. Borges doesn’t quote in order to show off his knowledge, but only when it seems appropriate to the subject a hand.  What matters to him more than the precise facts are the ideas. In spite of this, and in spite of excusing himself for his bad memory for dates, it is surprising the number of dates he does remember, and with what incredible precision. We must remember that at the time he gave these classes – and since 1955 – Borges was almost completely blind, and certainly unable to read. His quoting of texts, therefore, and his recitation of poetry, depended upon his memory, and are a testimony to the vast extent of his reading.
                                                          .  .  .  .  .

…There is something very strange about Boswell, something that has been interpreted in two different ways. I’m going to look at the two extreme views: the one of the English essayist and historian Macaulay who wrote around the middle of the nineteenth century, and that of Bernard Shaw, written, I believe, around 1915, or something like that. Then there is the whole range of judgments between the those two. Macaulay says that preeminence of Homer as an epic poet, of Shakespeare as a dramatic poet, of Demosthenes as an orator, and of Cervantes as a novelist is no less indisputable than the preeminence of Boswell as a biographer. And then he says that all those eminent names owe their preeminence to their talent and brilliance, and that the odd thing about Boswell is that he owes his preeminence as a biographer to his foolishness, his inconsistency, his vanity, and his imbecility. Then he recounts a series of instances in which Boswell appears as a ridiculous character. He says that if these things that happened to Boswell had happened to anybody else, that person would have wanted the earth o swallow him up. Boswell, however, dedicated himself to publicizing them. For example, there’s the scorn shown to him by an English duchess, and the fact that the members of the club he managed to join thought that there could not be a person less intelligent than Boswell.

But Macaulay forgets that we owe the narration of almost all those facts to Boswell himself. Moreover, I believe a priori that a person with the lights out upstairs can write a good poem. I have known poets, “whose name I do not wish to recall”, who were extremely vulgar, and even trivial, apart from their poetry, but they were were well enough informed to know that a poet should exhibit delicate sentiments, should express noble melancholy, should limit himself to certain vocabulary. And o these people, outside their work – some were broken men- but to tell the truth, when they wrote, they did so with decorum because they had learned the trade.  Now, I think this is possible in the case of a short composition – a fool can utter a brilliant sentence – but it seems quite rare for a fool to be able to write an admirable biography of seven or eight hundred pages in spite of being a fool or, according to Macaulay, because he was a fool.

Now, let us take a look at the opposite opinion, that of Bernard Shaw. Bernard Shaw, in one of his long and incisive prologues, says that he is heir to an apostolic succession of dramatists, that tis succession comes from the Greek tragedians – from Aeschylus, Sophocles, through Euripides – and then passes through Shakespeare, through Marlowe.  He says that he is not, in fact, better than Shakespeare, that if he had lived in Shakespeare’s century he would not have written works better than Hamlet or Macbeth; but now he can, for he cannot stand Shakespeare, because he has read authors who are better than him. Before, he mentioned other dramatists, names that are somewhat surprising for such a list.  He says we have the four Evangelists, those four great dramatists who created the character of Christ. Before, we had Plato, who created the character of Socrates. Then we have Boswell, who created the character of Johnson. “And now, we have me, who has created so many characters it is not worth listing them, the list would be almost infinite, as well as being well known.” “Finally,” he says, “I am heir to the apostolic succession that begins with Aeschylus and ends in me and that undoubtedly will continue.”

So here we have these two extreme opinions: one, that Boswell was an idiot who had the good fortune to meet Johnson and write his biography – that’s Macaulay’s – and the other, the opposite, of Bernard Shaw, who says that Johnson was, among his other literary merits, a dramatic character created by Boswell.

It would be unusual for the truth to be exactly in the middle between these two extremes. Lugones, in his prologue to El imperio jesuitico  [The Jesuit Empire], says that people often claim that the truth can be found between two extreme statements, but that would be very strange in a particular case for there to be, for instance, 50 percent in favor and 50 percent against. The most natural would be for there to be 52 percent against and 48 percent in favor, or something like that. And this can be applied to any war and any argument. In other words, one side will be a little more right and one a little more wrong.

So, now we will return to the relationship between Boswell and Johnson.  .  .


Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Country Places by Lowry Pei




In the late 1960’s or early 70’s, my mother bought a country place in rural Missouri, the first of three she was to own. She had grown up in Columbus, Kansas, a town of 3500 souls in the southeastern corner of the state, and surely some dream of returning to the country from St. Louis, where she and my father had lived since 1949, and where she still lived after their divorce and her remarriage, lay behind her purchase of a remote property in the Ozarks, a mile from the nearest house on a road of mud and rocks—even though those back woods were nothing like the flat, exposed Kansas town in which she had been born.

It seems strange to me now that my mother, with her powerful ties to Columbus, should have picked a place like Piquet to fulfill her dream of a place in the country. The landscape of the Ozarks is closed-in and almost sinister; it is a region without views, an extraordinarily lonely place whose isolation is more than geographical. Farming is impossible there; the land is poor and full of rocks and almost none of it is flat. Bumper crops will never be piled in the streets of its suspicious towns. Or perhaps I think all this because by the time I saw it I was several years out of college, no longer a child. 

My mother’s property was on a dirt road, two miles from where the paved road stopped, outside Dixon, Missouri. The road was winding, studded with rocks that could be treacherous to a car’s suspension — but when it rained those rocks were all that kept a visitor from being cut off there, separated by two miles of mud from the rest of the world. Trees closed in the view in any direction, not first growth, but scrubby forest that seemed as worn down as the Ozarks themselves — true mountains in some geologically distant past, now no more than hills. Whenever I remember that road I think of cloudy, raw days, leaves everywhere dripping with rain, the sound of trickling water and an almost underwater light; I remember the feeling of mud sucking at my shoes.

The house was nothing special—a Quonset hut with a screened-in porch built onto it—but she hadn’t bought the property for the house. There were two ponds on the property, separated by a narrow isthmus; one was fed by a spring, marked by a bent tree someone had trained as a sapling long ago, and the other by a stream coming out of Piquet Cave, directly behind the house. It was the cave that made my mother buy the place; she expressed her proprietary feeling about it once by writing me scornfully that the natives pronounced its name “P.K.,” but I was never able to draw the distinction between that and her own correct way of saying it. The cave’s entrance was an arch a good thirty feet high, as grand as a storybook illustration, with a dirt floor leading steeply uphill, quickly narrowing into a passage that had been explored and mapped two miles back into the earth, where the spelunkers had finally chosen to stop; there was more cave after that, no one knew how much. A team from the University of Missouri had come and collected artifacts there and said that the site had been a human habitation for twenty thousand years. It made sense—there was shelter and water, and all the rocks in the world for making stone tools. The place had been a Stone Age workshop; failed tools that had broken while being made were scattered in and around the mouth of the cave, easy to find even when I came there, after my mother and her new husband had already collected pounds of artifacts—arrowheads, ax heads, scrapers, some of them perfect enough to put in a museum.

Wild strawberries grew in the grass between the cave mouth and the spring, where the sun was hot; there were fish in the ponds—sometimes a great blue heron would fish there in the early mornings, while mist rose like smoke from the water. Bats lived in the cave, and came out when dusk was almost night, so that I could barely see them even if I was waiting for them to come. Sometimes for a moment I caught the outline of one against stars. My mother told me—after I had gone swimming—that a snapping turtle lived in one of the ponds; I never saw the turtle, but I did see a king snake once, moving along the bank intent on some project of its own. When I was at Piquet alone, as I usually was, the silence followed me everywhere. It watched me—a presence I was always obscurely relieved to get away from by returning to the lights of town. I could tell at Piquet how far from human origins I was, how much a product of a later civilization. At night the darkness there was absolute—nothing like the half-light of streetlamps called night where I lived the rest of my life. I had felt the same way about the darkness in Columbus as a child—it had been scary to me at first, and then enfolding; this was still deeper, and though I didn’t like to admit it, it scared me a little even as a supposed adult. Yet the challenge of that presence always drew me back.


The nearest house, a mile up the road in the direction of the blacktop, belonged to Freddy Newman and his wife; the next house after that, at the point where the pavement began, belonged to Freddy’s son-in-law, Lyman Kennedy. Both of these people had befriended my mother, and so they were, perforce, friendly to me. But I knew as soon as I came there that I was there on sufferance, that there were rules in effect about which I knew nothing. Freddy and his wife looked about seventy, but I could have been entirely mistaken; they seemed both decrepit and strong. They lived in a ramshackle wooden house that was unpainted and black with age, and sat on the porch looking at the scarcely-travelled road in the evenings without a light on in their place. I once spoke to Freddy there on their porch, in the daytime, and saw through the screen door that they had a washing machine; up until then I hadn’t been sure that they had electricity. Freddy’s wife, who as far as I can remember never spoke to me, kept a cow and some chickens, and my mother told me that her finances were entirely separate from her husband’s; he did odd jobs in town sometimes, but essentially Freddy knew how to live off the land—how to fish and hunt and even gather: in his travels through the woods he found ginseng plants, remembered their locations, waited the years it took for them to grow big enough to be worth money, then dug up their roots and sold them. He was a friendly man, kind enough not to laugh at my ignorance of the world around me there; when he came to my mother’s place he would stand on the doorstep and talk for half an hour, but no amount of urging would make him set foot inside the house. He seemed not to hear such invitations, and I felt like a fool repeating them, as if I were inviting a tree or a turtle to come in where it didn’t belong. I think he would have had to ask me into his house first, and I don’t know what would have needed to happen to make such a thing possible.

Freddy’s son-in-law, Lyman Kennedy, lived a mile further along, just at the point where the dirt road met the blacktop, in a mobile home up on bricks with a TV antenna on the roof; he was building a new concrete-block house when I first came to Piquet. He had four or five dogs who would rush any car that came onto his property, barking and snarling in a frantic display of viciousness; then Lyman would step out the door and shout and they would slink off to hide under the house with their chins on the ground, transformed. He was rumored to have been a minor gangster in Kansas City; now he worked at demolishing buildings, and his front yard was piled with the evidence of his trade—mountains of radiators, window frames, iron fences, balustrades; the obligatory old cars and trucks; engines, car parts, what looked like a well-drilling rig—he lived half-surrounded by a fairly sizable and well-organized junkyard, and it was said there was nothing he couldn’t fix. It was also said that some men—city people—had once been foolish enough to go hunting on his land without asking his permission. Lyman drove up in his pickup and told them, with his shotgun much in evidence, to get off his land; then he pushed their car, with them inside, off his property and a ways up the road, ruthlessly accelerating, until he was sure he had made his point. His wife, Freddy’s daughter, did speak to me; she was an attractive woman and like Lyman, she came of tough stock, but unlike him she did not seem hard. Once Lyman stopped by at my mother’s place while I was there alone, to look at something that needed fixing there—a frozen water pump, perhaps; the weather was bitterly cold and he had more or less appointed himself her caretaker. Unlike Freddy, Lyman would come inside; I even persuaded him to sit and have a cup of coffee with me. After an hour or so he got up and thanked me for the hospitality and left; only when I glanced out the window at him getting into his truck did I realize that his wife had been sitting in the truck the entire time. I had not seen her, he had not mentioned her, she had not come in out of the cold.

Sometimes all one had to do at Piquet was turn one’s back and people would break in; someone once smashed a window and stole some insignificant things while I was in town buying a paper. Freddy once helped me clean up after someone broke into the shed and stole the lawnmower; I was going to screw on the hasp for the new lock, but he said no, I should hammer in ten-penny nails and bend them over on the inside—that would be harder to pull out than screws. I took his advice, but in the long run it did no good; thieves cleaned out the place, took everything, even the refrigerator and stove, and my mother sold it. The silence, the cave, stone tools, twenty thousand years, and all. Probably for a song.



By that time my mother had already bought her second country place, the one that she eventually lived out her life in—a tiny house in a place called Holstein, a farming town—a village, really, where about two hundred people lived. To get there I would drive west from St. Louis on Interstate 70 for an hour or so, to Warrenton, the county seat of Warren County, then south on state road 47 to the small town of Hopewell, then turn southwest on a road which as far as I can remember had no number. It was three or four miles at most from Hopewell to Holstein, a curving road over and between rolling hills, passing mailboxes at the ends of dirt lanes. In summer, on some stretches of that road, the corn that was planted right up to the fence on each side would be so tall that there was nothing to be seen but road, corn, and sky. The Missouri River was only a few miles away, and though the area around Holstein was not the true bottom land, it seemed to be all that a farmer could ask for. One look at the fields said that the round-topped silos dotting that landscape should be full. Every mile or so there would be an old cemetery with a spindly wrought-iron fence gradually rusting away, and granite angels on the more elaborate gravestones, worn down a little over the past hundred and fifty years, sometimes slightly tilted. Most of the names were German. The dead in that region far outnumbered the living, but I only realized that on second thought; as I passed by them, they seemed to fit in, to be modestly at home there. There was plenty of room for them, plenty of light and air.

The last stretch of the drive there was an experience of constantly coming over the top of a hill or around a bend, and the road that actually led into Holstein always seemed to appear suddenly, just when I had begun to wonder if I had missed it. The first evidence of the town was its only new building—an elementary school that looked big enough for two or three classrooms; past it was the new cemetery, less than half-occupied, and then, at a fork in the road, my mother’s house.

Holstein was so small it did not have a single store or a commercial establishment of any sort; it consisted of white houses, cemeteries, and a church. Nothing about it, not even the church steeple, interrupted the continuity of the rolling hills. My mother’s house, white like the rest, stood between the two forks of the road, its front porch facing west, toward the left fork and the valley beyond. It was four rooms when she first bought it, a tiny old house with two rooms downstairs and a cramped bedroom in its attic, and a kitchen added on at the back — visibly a separate building, though only inches from the original house. In the back yard was the round cement lid of a cistern fed by a drainpipe from the roof, and a pump for drawing water—a chain pump, cranked by hand; the outhouse was farther away and slightly downhill, closer to the road.

The house seemed to be stationed so that anyone in it would be sure to see or hear whatever went by; but hardly anything did. Once when I was visiting my mother after she had developed cancer, we were sitting on the screened-in front porch in the middle of the afternoon and she asked me to step across the road to the mailbox (it was only a few yards away) and see if anything was in it; I did, but I wondered to myself how the mail could have been delivered—how anyone could have driven by and stopped in front of the house, at any point in the day—without our knowing it.

The quiet at Holstein was different from the silence at Piquet, which had seemed to emanate from a presence lying in wait; at Holstein, in the long stretches of time between one passing car or pickup and the next, the quiet was the sound of the whole surrounding world itself, almost as if human beings had not yet come on the scene. In my memory of it I am there alone on a hot afternoon, the sun coming down hot without a breath of wind, and there is not one figure visible anywhere in the valley I am watching from the front porch, though I know that between the clumps of woodland I can see, and the tops of hills, there are fields being worked as I sit there. Some of the fields are visible, but no human figure makes its way down the rows, no sound of a distant tractor drifts up to my ears. All I can hear is an occasional bird cry, coming and going so quickly that I wonder if I actually heard it, and the legs of crickets making a sound which swells up and dies down and only accentuates the stillness. My mother once told me that when she was a child in Kansas, on certain hot days after a good rain she could actually hear the corn grow, and maybe, if I am hearing anything, that is what I am hearing now—a world of plants, at one with itself. I begin to imagine that there is no one in the other houses up the road, no other person within range of my hearing but me, and so I might lose the sense of being a person myself, if not for the reminder of the house.

As she started to look like my grandmother, my mother built onto the house and began to surround herself with my grandmother’s possessions. Treasured things from the house in Columbus ended up there: portraits in heavy frames—one of the legendary Great-Aunt Iowa Wright, who went to Russia in 1900 or so and whose letters home from that trip my mother once showed me; uncomfortable antique chairs and loveseats with legs and backs of carved mahogany; lamps with hand-painted milk glass shades, samplers, a mantel clock that chimed the hours, a fashion illustration from 1879 showing thirteen impossibly shaped young women in impossible dresses, and two children who appeared to be about to play badminton in their very best clothes. The house acquired running water, a rebuilt kitchen, and eventually three more rooms and an outbuilding for storage, so that it could hold all the family items she had inherited. Whenever I looked in a cupboard or a drawer, there was always a possibility of finding a candy dish or serving platter or piece of silverware that would for a moment yield up a glimpse of some scene from a childhood visit—something taken for granted then, and after that let go of, to sink into the countless layers of the past. Now here it would be in my hand, as if that past still lived, but that world had been my mother’s world—never entirely mine.

My mother and her husband retired to the house in Holstein, and after some years he was buried across the road in a cemetery plot she could see from the house. By the time he died, my mother had developed cancer; a local woman, Shirley Hase, took care of her at home, spending more and more time at my mother’s house until she hardly saw her own family—doing for my mother what her relatives, almost all of them far away, almost all of them living in cities, could not.

When she and her husband moved to Holstein for good, my mother joined the United Church of Christ—as she said, you had to belong to the church to live in a town like that. She had been an atheist since a Methodist minister in Columbus had made a pass at her when she was sixteen; she had conveyed to me all my life that religion and believing in God were for superstitious, backward minds. But in Holstein the church was next door to her house, and the minister, a man about my age—pushing forty—knew her well enough to deliver a eulogy that I could recognize as being about her after she died.

My mother wanted to die at home, but in the end she did not; the logistics of it proved impossible. She did, however, “move across the road,” as she had put it more than once, to the last piece of property she bought, part of which her husband already occupied, and part of which is still reserved for two of her children. She was buried on a windy day in February. One of my uncles for some reason insisted on driving his car the couple of hundred yards from the church to the cemetery, and after the burial he found it wouldn’t start. The rest of the family and the people of Holstein ate and drank and said what one says after funerals, in the house in which she no longer lived; through the kitchen window I watched my uncle trying to start his car with the help of some other men, and the crew from the funeral home finishing up the filling-in of the grave—making it neat, or as neat as it could be, until the dirt should settle and grass should begin to grow.

First published in Southwest Review, vol. 78, no. 3 (1993)
http://www.lowrypei.com/memoirs/