In general, Morrison does not spend much time on characterization--her women especially run together. Nor does she provide much in the way of historical detail or sociological analysis. In creating the character of the Native American Lina, Morrison recalled in an interview, she briefly worried, "Oh God, now I've got to know all about these tribes," but then decided that the death of Lina's people by plague would save her the effort of research.

Morrison's few descriptions of Lina's traditions are either vague ("she cobbled together neglected rites, merged Europe medicine with native, scripture with lore, and recalled or invented the hidden meaning of things") or seem to be taken straight from the Dances With Wolves school of American Indian neo-hippie mysticism ("she wears bright blue beads and dances in secret at first light when the moon is small").

Such sloppiness is apparent throughout the novel. One knows A Mercy is set in the 17th century only because the characters helpfully announce the year every now
and then. ("1682 and Virginia was still a mess," frets Jacob, and later Lina points out, "Florens, . . . it's 1690").

Labels: Doublethink

PLATO, AS EVERYONE KNOWS, once defined man as a "featherless biped." His student Aristotle insisted instead that man is by nature a political animal, a being whose capacity for speech compels him to live with others.

So who's right, ironic Plato or solid Aristotle? I can think of only one living writer who might reconcile the two--and that's Donald E. Westlake, the author of the best crime-caper stories ever written. Indeed, properly read, Westlake has already reconciled Plato and Aristotle in his stories, by showing us man as the animal who can laugh at himself, use speech to explode human pretensions, and thus reach toward civilization. Donald Westlake is not only our finest living comic mystery writer, but perhaps one of our finest living philosophers.

Labels: alas, lit crit

Labels: Doublethink

Labels: shameless self-promotion

That the Sun lasted the six-and-a-half years it did is something of a miracle. Times haven't exactly been favorable to newspapers, and a proudly right-wing paper in a liberal city — one already stuffed with newspapers — didn't seem like a winning proposition. If those weren't problems enough, the Sun had other issues. There were its soap-operaesque internal battles, chronicled with malicious glee by Gawker and the greater blogosphere. There were its occasionally wacky editorial stands, like its call for Brooklyn to secede, its undying love for the gold standard, its suggestion that political protesters be tried for treason. There were its pugnacious editors, Seth Lipsky and Ira Stoll, always spoiling for a fight and trash-talking the competition. The paper was perpetually short-staffed — its reporters regularly poached by larger papers. Yet somehow the small, harried staff of the Sun put out a consistently interesting paper, which included the best arts pages in the country, a crossword second only to the New York Times's, and lots of scoops.

Labels: journos, shameless self-promotion

"The satirist in me cries out for a McCain-Palin administration. This would be an embarrassment of riches," Christopher Buckley, famed wit and son of William F., tells me. Alas, he's a reluctant Obamacon--"I think he has a first-class temperament" --even though he fears that a Barack Obama presidency will be "boring." Trying to cheer himself up, he allows that Joe Biden will probably provide some "comic fodder."

If Buckley seems worried, that's because he has a new book to write. An amazingly prolific novelist ("I've got a mortgage to pay"), he's just published his 13th book, Supreme Courtship, and already has another on the way, Losing Mum and Pup, a tribute to his parents. He needs a new subject--fast.

Body Shopping describes a science that has become positively vampiric in its insatiable appetite for human tissue and organs, sometimes outright stealing the raw material it needs. A veritable black market in human flesh has been established, with each part individually appraised and priced: "Hand, $350-$850, Brain, $500-$600, Eviscerated torso, $1,100-$1,290." A whole cadaver can fetch up to $20,000. The uses to which this tissue is put are no less gruesome. Bone dust from stolen cadavers might be found in your dental work. The collagen used to plump a starlet's lips is likely derived from the cells of an infant's foreskin. The "secret ingredient" in the various beauty treatments marketed to Russian women? Aborted fetuses from Ukraine.

"One way or another someone makes money off the dead," one proud body snatcher declared, even as he pleaded guilty to over 60 counts of mutilation of human remains, and embezzlement. The entrepreneurial spirit cannot be tamed, it would seem, especially in so lucrative a venture as body shopping.

Labels: shameless self-promotion

It's no mystery why Maddow has become the darling of the progressive blogosphere: She's one of them. Aside from the minor fact that she doesn't actually have a blog, she otherwise fits the bill quite nicely. She's young. She wears those black hipster glasses (or did--before MSNBC's makeover squad got to her). She worked as a barista. And most importantly, she's an unabashed geek who loves talking (and arguing) about policy: Before taking up hosting duties on Air America, she wrote her dissertation about AIDS and served as a prison-reform activist. Meanwhile, her academic credentials are impeccable. Want to send a liberal into a swoon? Just start quoting from Maddow's resume. She got her B.A. from Stanford! She was a Rhodes Scholar! She has a doctorate in political science! From Oxford! (Trust me--no liberal can discuss Maddow without mentioning the D.Phil.)

How did American men get themselves into such a mess? And how do we get them to grow up already? (Or should we even try? For guys in crisis, the slacker man-children in Apatow's movies seem to be having an awful lot of fun.) No matter. It's time to put away childish things--and that includes the remote, the copy of Playboy, and the Wii. Or so say man's latest self-appointed saviors, columnist Kathleen Parker and sociologist Michael Kimmel. American masculinity is in crisis, both say, and something must be done.

Labels: gender wars, journos, shameless self-promotion