newyorker--2020-12-28--Toppling the Statues, Virtually

Toppling the Statues, Virtually

On a recent gray morning , John Brown Gordon sat astride his horse outside Georgia ’ s capitol building .
Gordon , a Confederate general , was Georgia ’ s governor in the eighteen-eighties .
Today , tax dollars pay for the upkeep of his large bronze likeness .
A temporary barricade stood between the century-old statue and Richard Rose , a seventy-two-year-old Black man in a suit .
When Rose was younger , he would walk an extra block to avoid statues like Gordon ’ s .
Now he raised his phone and took a photograph .
Gordon was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ku Klux Klan in Georgia .
“ A particularly cruel person , ” Rose said .
“ And that makes him the hero here.
” Rose endeavored to learn more about problematic local landmarks in 2014 , after being elected president of Atlanta ’ s N.A.A.C.P .
chapter .
“ The more I walked around , the more incensed I became , ” he said .
“ I remember this monstrous portrait of Robert E. Lee in full Confederate uniform on the third floor of the capitol.
” ( A statue of Lee @ @ @ @ @ @ @ last week . )
The Georgia building also houses a bust of Alexander Hamilton Stephens , despite , Rose said , “ his belief that Africans are inferior to white people.
” Rose recalled giving a speech , in 2015 , about his anger at the celebration of “ these traitors to America.
” Two years later , a company called 22Squared pitched the Atlanta N.A.A.C.P .
an idea that Rose called a “ Christmas present.
” Using the Southern Poverty Law Center ’ s map of more than eighteen hundred symbols of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ flags , park benches , statues—22Squared created a Web site called Invisible Hate .
Its purpose , Courtney Jones , a twenty-eight-year-old 22Squared employee , said , is “ identifying and dismantling symbols of systemic racism.
” She stood on the sidewalk with Rose , providing tech support .
“ You open up the map and zoom in , ” she said .
“ Find the closest monument .
Read some fact-checked history about it .
Take a pic .
Add a sticker .
Then post to social !
” The site ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Silence is Compliance ” ; “ Shame on You ” ; “ Hate Is Not Heroic ” ; and “ Statue of Non-Liberty.
” Jones said , “ Our main one , of course , is ‘ Tear Them Down ’ ” —Rose affixed it to his picture of Gordon .
“ We ’ re talking to Snapchat about custom filters , ” Jones added .
“ And trying to get more influencers on board.
” “ There are six monuments to the Confederacy within two miles of here , ” Rose @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He walked along the capitol ’ s lawn .
“ This is Governor Joseph Brown and his wife , ” he explained , stopping before a bearded man and a seated lady .
Jones pulled up the monument on her phone .
“ He was quoted saying that interracial marriage was evil , ” she read .
“ Erected 1928.
” “ It ’ s infuriating , ” Rose said .
“ But , again , it ’ s educational.
” Jones took a picture and added a ‘ Shame on You ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I had a white guy tell me once that Alexander Hamilton Stephens was being satirical in his Cornerstone Speech , ” Rose said .
“ Are you kidding me ?
He gave an hour-long satirical speech on how the war really was about slavery ?
” He laughed .
“ And this business about how there were a hundred thousand Black Confederate soldiers .
It just didn ’ t happen !
Think how that would ’ ve gone : Slave master says , ‘ Hey , I know I been kinda tough on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ defend this arrangement.
’ ” He laughed again .
“ ‘ Because it could be worse if they win the war !
’ ” “ It ’ s never left , ” Jones said , of that argument .
“ Listen to Trump.
” “ He ’ s the worst racist in office since Woodrow Wilson , ” Rose said .
“ The worst President in the history of America .
I don ’ t think he ’ ll get a statue on government property .
” “ They ’ ll have to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Jones said .
The two walkers squeezed through a gap in a fence , passing a statue of Eugene Talmadge , a governor in the nineteen-thirties and forties .
“ The best thing I can say about Talmadge is that he wasn ’ t as racist as Richard Russell , ” Rose said , citing an earlier governor , also memorialized on the lawn .
Rose pointed across the street : “ See those buildings ?
They ’ re named for this legislator they called Sloppy Floyd .
Sloppy Floyd Towers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Luther King , Jr. , Drive , but the address is on the side street.
” He continued , “ They didn ’ t want Sloppy Floyd to have an M.L.K .
address .
That ’ s how insidious this is.
” Around the corner , a Black man and a white man were working on a fence .
“ Ebony and ivory , ” Rose said .
Nearby stood a statue of Martin Luther King , Jr. , dedicated in 2017 .
“ Right by the back door , ” Rose said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ universe ?
“ The DeKalb County Confederate Monument was just removed , ” Rose said .
“ Henry County came down .
Rockdale County came down.
” On the Invisible Hate map , these sites had become red “ X ” marks .
“ We ’ re working on one in Newton County.
” He kept walking .
“ We ’ re working.
” ♦

On a recent gray morning, John Brown Gordon sat astride his horse outside Georgia’s capitol building. Gordon, a Confederate general, was Georgia’s governor in the eighteen-eighties. Today, tax dollars pay for the upkeep of his large bronze likeness. A temporary barricade stood between the century-old statue and Richard Rose, a seventy-two-year-old Black man in a suit. When Rose was younger, he would walk an extra block to avoid statues like Gordon’s. Now he raised his phone and took a photograph. Gordon was thought to be the leader of the Ku Klux Klan in Georgia. “A particularly cruel person,” Rose said. “And that makes him the hero here.”
Rose endeavored to learn more about problematic local landmarks in 2014, after being elected president of Atlanta’s N.A.A.C.P. chapter. “The more I walked around, the more incensed I became,” he said. “I remember this monstrous portrait of Robert E. Lee in full Confederate uniform on the third floor of the capitol.” (A statue of Lee was removed from the U.S. Capitol just last week.) The Georgia building also houses a bust of Alexander Hamilton Stephens, despite, Rose said, “his belief that Africans are inferior to white people.” Rose recalled giving a speech, in 2015, about his anger at the celebration of “these traitors to America.”
Two years later, a company called 22Squared pitched the Atlanta N.A.A.C.P. an idea that Rose called a “Christmas present.” Using the Southern Poverty Law Center’s map of more than eighteen hundred symbols of white supremacy around the country—street names, flags, park benches, statues—22Squared created a Web site called Invisible Hate. Its purpose, Courtney Jones, a twenty-eight-year-old 22Squared employee, said, is “identifying and dismantling symbols of systemic racism.” She stood on the sidewalk with Rose, providing tech support.
“You open up the map and zoom in,” she said. “Find the closest monument. Read some fact-checked history about it. Take a pic. Add a sticker. Then post to social!” The site’s digital stickers bear slogans such as “Silence is Compliance”; “Shame on You”; “Hate Is Not Heroic”; and “Statue of Non-Liberty.” Jones said, “Our main one, of course, is ‘Tear Them Down’ ”—Rose affixed it to his picture of Gordon. “We’re talking to Snapchat about custom filters,” Jones added. “And trying to get more influencers on board.”
“There are six monuments to the Confederacy within two miles of here,” Rose said, peering at his phone. He walked along the capitol’s lawn. “This is Governor Joseph Brown and his wife,” he explained, stopping before a bearded man and a seated lady. Jones pulled up the monument on her phone. “He was quoted saying that interracial marriage was evil,” she read. “Erected 1928.”
“It’s infuriating,” Rose said. “But, again, it’s educational.” Jones took a picture and added a ‘Shame on You’ sticker.
Cartoon by Liana Finck Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
They continued on. “I had a white guy tell me once that Alexander Hamilton Stephens was being satirical in his Cornerstone Speech,” Rose said. “Are you kidding me? He gave an hour-long satirical speech on how the war really was about slavery?” He laughed. “And this business about how there were a hundred thousand Black Confederate soldiers. It just didn’t happen! Think how that would’ve gone: Slave master says, ‘Hey, I know I been kinda tough on you, but take this gun and defend this arrangement.’ ” He laughed again. “ ‘Because it could be worse if they win the war!’ ”
“It’s never left,” Jones said, of that argument. “Listen to Trump.”
“He’s the worst racist in office since Woodrow Wilson,” Rose said. “The worst President in the history of America. I don’t think he’ll get a statue on government property. ”
“They’ll have to put it outside one of his hotels,” Jones said.
The two walkers squeezed through a gap in a fence, passing a statue of Eugene Talmadge, a governor in the nineteen-thirties and forties. “The best thing I can say about Talmadge is that he wasn’t as racist as Richard Russell,” Rose said, citing an earlier governor, also memorialized on the lawn. Rose pointed across the street: “See those buildings? They’re named for this legislator they called Sloppy Floyd. Sloppy Floyd Towers. Well, those buildings face Martin Luther King, Jr., Drive, but the address is on the side street.” He continued, “They didn’t want Sloppy Floyd to have an M.L.K. address. That’s how insidious this is.”
Around the corner, a Black man and a white man were working on a fence. “Ebony and ivory,” Rose said. Nearby stood a statue of Martin Luther King, Jr., dedicated in 2017. “Right by the back door,” Rose said.
“Half the size of John B. Gordon,” Jones added.
But the arc of the moral universe? “The DeKalb County Confederate Monument was just removed,” Rose said. “Henry County came down. Rockdale County came down.” On the Invisible Hate map, these sites had become red “X” marks. “We’re working on one in Newton County.” He kept walking. “We’re working.” ♦


newyorker--2020-12-28--“The Rivals,” by Andrea Lee

“The Rivals,” by Andrea Lee

The owners of the Red House , Senna and his wife , Shay , have left Madagascar and are back home in Italy at the time , but there are plenty of witnesses to give them , later , a detailed report of the fight between their resident accountant and their old friend and next-door neighbor .
There is Madame Rose , their neighbor on the opposite side and their chief informant .
There are the gardeners and maids from the Red House , including the formidable head housekeeper , Bertine la Grande .
There are several Antandroy market women @ @ @ @ @ @ @ vegetables on their heads .
There is a boy driving a herd of zebu up the side path from their morning bath in the sea .
There is an oyster vender in a straw pillbox hat .
The maids and gardeners rush to separate the struggling old vazaha while other people stop and stare , but with a notable lack of astonishment .
Everybody up and down Finoana Beach knows the history of the trouble and the name of the woman behind it .
Not long ago , the combatants were close friends @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who have been in Madagascar since the early years of independence , both men of dignity and substance , as much as they can be in that libertine island atmosphere where foreigners ’ souls can rot as quickly as a bunch of soft-skinned bananas .
Both speak fluent Malagasy , highland and coastal dialects .
They ’ ve been on Naratrany long enough for the islanders to have christened them with fondly mocking nicknames .
Pianon is Valiha , the word for a tall thin twanging bamboo musical instrument , and Floristella is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ food.
” Pianon is a notary from Verona , a widower who dresses in elegant shirts and trousers tailored , colonial-style , from linen of an archaic thickness .
He has cropped white hair , a hatchet nose , and the intense yet ascetic air of erudition that is the unmistakable sign of a Jesuit education .
A passionate amateur ethnologist , he spends his free time interviewing missionaries and village headmen for a monograph he is writing on the Sakalava royal family .
His job as the live-in bookkeeper and rental manager @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him , yet he has grown attached to the space and the beauty of the big villa , which he often has to himself outside of peak vacation season , and where he has built a library .
Like everyone else , he is fond of his boss , the boisterous and decidedly nonintellectual Senna ; Shay he admires for her degree of learning , which he was surprised to find in an American woman , and he sometimes invites her along on his research expeditions .
No one could differ more from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of fallen fortunes who carries his huge belly with the complacent ease of a pasha .
In his adventurous youth , he was a famous yachtsman and deep-sea diver , whose prowess and seductive charm ensnared the hearts of beauties from Capri to Zanzibar .
Although riches , youth , and health have vanished , leaving him to a frugal pensioner ’ s existence on Naratrany , he still has a grand manner , which has made him an island personage .
His aquiline profile—noble despite his two chins—and his silver crest of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Beach , where he holds court daily from the porch of his tiny bungalow , which adjoins the grounds of the Red House .
There , ensconced in a sagging director ’ s chair , surrounded by a motley array of cats and dogs and even a three-legged pet tortoise , he contemplates the tides and the changing skies over the Mozambique Channel .
He exchanges greetings with passersby , from village children to hotel owners , while perusing documents or eating heaping plates of pasta prepared by his faithful housekeeper , Marianne @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , reads thrillers , and doles out wages to the Sakalava workmen who , in starts and stops linked to the fluctuating state of his finances , have for years been at work on a grandiose extension to his bungalow , which he secretly hopes will outshine the Red House .
When Pianon first came to work for the Sennas , the two neighbors established a habit of meeting up on Floristella ’ s porch in the cool of the early morning to drink powerful Sicilian coffee from Floristella ’ s battered pot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the sun rose and the fishermen set out in their pirogues and Floristella ’ s thin gray kitten purred on Pianon ’ s bony , linen-covered knee , they traded island gossip .
Shay , who liked to take fins and a mask and swim the length of Finoana Bay before breakfast , often paused far out in the water to observe the two old men on the porch of the little bungalow beside her own big house .
They had a look of casual harmony that was in keeping with the early-morning @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and casuarinas that lay along the immaculate curve of beach .
When Shay came , dripping , out of the water , they ’ d call out greetings and offer her coffee , but she never wanted to disrupt their modest but perfect intimacy .
Unlike most of the village women who became embroiled with foreign men , Noelline was educated—she had completed two years at the lycée run by the sugar refinery at Ankazobe .
She could type and use a computer , and spoke French and Italian .
Beyond her intelligence @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reputed genius for sex , her greatest talents were ones she shared with most resourceful wives and mistresses : an inconspicuous but relentless persistence , the ability to bide her time , to cling without being obvious , and never to show offense .
Eventually , Floristella entrusted her with the keys to his bungalow , the secrets of his defunct business exporting medicinal jungle herbs , the erratic construction work on his property , and the care and the pleasures of his swollen , diabetic body .
Noelline didn ’ t move @ @ @ @ @ @ @ away in a rented two-room cinder-block house—luxurious by village standards , and paid for , of course , by Floristella—set among palms and thornbushes in one of the warren-like settlements that sprawled messily off the only paved road in Finoana .
Each morning , she buzzed up to Floristella ’ s bungalow on a battered motorbike , offering a cordial but slightly condescending greeting to Marianne , who pounded laundry and cleaned fish in the small trodden-sand yard by the sea .
In the course of the day , Noelline wrote Floristella ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ injections , climbed nimbly astride his big belly during the siesta hour , and sometimes lingered after sunset on his lamplit porch , patiently listening to his fantastical plans for rebuilding his fortune .
She never spent the night .
To Floristella ’ s many friends , and especially to Pianon , she was quietly respectful .
She absorbed Italian idioms with rapt attention , and laughed appropriately when the two men chatted on the porch .
Occasionally , she typed a document for Pianon , and sometimes , in the tone of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ obscure term in Sakalava dialect , or explained some custom , like why it was fady for certain young girls to eat chicken .
The villagers knew that Noelline had her own giambillys , or lovers on the side , notably a handsome cabdriver from Saint Grimaud , a métis who was said to beat his penniless French mother .
However , the young woman jealously guarded her position with the Sicilian .
In the village , she acquired the title of Madame Floristella , much to the annoyance of his wife back @ @ @ @ @ @ @ return to the island until Floristella had discarded Noelline .
When Senna and Shay drove to the market at Saint Grimaud , they often caught sight of the portly Floristella , conferring with some sous-official on the broken , weedy courthouse steps , as Noelline , in tight jeans and pointed high heels , stood demurely in the background .
“ There she is , that sly baggage !
” Senna invariably said , and Shay as always protested .
“ Why call her that—she ’ s just doing her job !
How @ @ @ @ @ @ @ girl ?
” “ Because the other little hussies have kind hearts , but she ’ s a troublemaker , that one .
She ’ ll be the death of old Flori , wait and see.
” Senna loved to rattle his American wife with a show of cynical wisdom where Madagascar was concerned , and Shay was generally amused .
Still , she felt that , as a woman of color , she had to express solidarity with Noelline .
What would she herself do in the same circumstances ?
The fact @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the island seemed to like Noelline , and no one could explain her unpopularity , except to say that , although she wasn ’ t beautiful , she gave herself airs .
Bertine la Grande , the housekeeper , simply observed to Shay , “ Elle n ’ est pas bien , cette fille.
” Bertine had a Manichean vision of the world as divided into “ bien ” and “ pas bien , ” which had little to do with conventional morality : many an island prostitute was described by Bertine as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ if Bertine defined Noelline , who was from the same village as she was and whom she had known since childhood , as “ pas bien , ” she was referring to something other than the girl ’ s ambitious seductiveness—a deep flaw in her nature that was visible only to someone with the same origins .
Yet , with a strange kind of loyalty , Bertine went no further in criticizing Noelline , or in trying to thwart her actions ; instead , she stood back with a fatalistic air , as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they did .

Audio available Listen to this story Audio: Andrea Lee reads.
When Floristella catches sight of Pianon on the Red House veranda—the side that overlooks Madame Rose Rakotomalala’s jackfruit tree—he gives a martial bellow, charges down the garden path, and attacks his neighbor with a walking stick. And though the two old Italian men, both well over seventy, are ludicrous combatants—Floristella, a diabetic, is ponderously fat, while tall Pianon is skeletal from annual bouts of malaria, so that their skirmish suggests a clash between Falstaff and Ichabod Crane—their energy and passion run high, and no one who witnesses the incident feels inclined to laugh.
The owners of the Red House, Senna and his wife, Shay, have left Madagascar and are back home in Italy at the time, but there are plenty of witnesses to give them, later, a detailed report of the fight between their resident accountant and their old friend and next-door neighbor. There is Madame Rose, their neighbor on the opposite side and their chief informant. There are the gardeners and maids from the Red House, including the formidable head housekeeper, Bertine la Grande. There are several Antandroy market women heading up the beach bearing baskets of vegetables on their heads. There is a boy driving a herd of zebu up the side path from their morning bath in the sea. There is an oyster vender in a straw pillbox hat.
The maids and gardeners rush to separate the struggling old vazaha while other people stop and stare, but with a notable lack of astonishment. Everybody up and down Finoana Beach knows the history of the trouble and the name of the woman behind it.
Not long ago, the combatants were close friends. Pianon and Floristella: both Italians who have been in Madagascar since the early years of independence, both men of dignity and substance, as much as they can be in that libertine island atmosphere where foreigners’ souls can rot as quickly as a bunch of soft-skinned bananas. Both speak fluent Malagasy, highland and coastal dialects. They’ve been on Naratrany long enough for the islanders to have christened them with fondly mocking nicknames. Pianon is Valiha, the word for a tall thin twanging bamboo musical instrument, and Floristella is Sakav, meaning, simply, “food.”
Pianon is a notary from Verona, a widower who dresses in elegant shirts and trousers tailored, colonial-style, from linen of an archaic thickness. He has cropped white hair, a hatchet nose, and the intense yet ascetic air of erudition that is the unmistakable sign of a Jesuit education. A passionate amateur ethnologist, he spends his free time interviewing missionaries and village headmen for a monograph he is writing on the Sakalava royal family. His job as the live-in bookkeeper and rental manager at the Red House is undeniably beneath him, yet he has grown attached to the space and the beauty of the big villa, which he often has to himself outside of peak vacation season, and where he has built a library. Like everyone else, he is fond of his boss, the boisterous and decidedly nonintellectual Senna; Shay he admires for her degree of learning, which he was surprised to find in an American woman, and he sometimes invites her along on his research expeditions.
No one could differ more from Pianon than Floristella, a Sicilian baron of fallen fortunes who carries his huge belly with the complacent ease of a pasha. In his adventurous youth, he was a famous yachtsman and deep-sea diver, whose prowess and seductive charm ensnared the hearts of beauties from Capri to Zanzibar. Although riches, youth, and health have vanished, leaving him to a frugal pensioner’s existence on Naratrany, he still has a grand manner, which has made him an island personage. His aquiline profile—noble despite his two chins—and his silver crest of brilliantined hair are a landmark on Finoana Beach, where he holds court daily from the porch of his tiny bungalow, which adjoins the grounds of the Red House.
There, ensconced in a sagging director’s chair, surrounded by a motley array of cats and dogs and even a three-legged pet tortoise, he contemplates the tides and the changing skies over the Mozambique Channel. He exchanges greetings with passersby, from village children to hotel owners, while perusing documents or eating heaping plates of pasta prepared by his faithful housekeeper, Marianne. He naps, smokes endless cigarettes, reads thrillers, and doles out wages to the Sakalava workmen who, in starts and stops linked to the fluctuating state of his finances, have for years been at work on a grandiose extension to his bungalow, which he secretly hopes will outshine the Red House.
When Pianon first came to work for the Sennas, the two neighbors established a habit of meeting up on Floristella’s porch in the cool of the early morning to drink powerful Sicilian coffee from Floristella’s battered pot. For a pleasant hour, as the sun rose and the fishermen set out in their pirogues and Floristella’s thin gray kitten purred on Pianon’s bony, linen-covered knee, they traded island gossip. Shay, who liked to take fins and a mask and swim the length of Finoana Bay before breakfast, often paused far out in the water to observe the two old men on the porch of the little bungalow beside her own big house. They had a look of casual harmony that was in keeping with the early-morning hush, the long shadows of palms and casuarinas that lay along the immaculate curve of beach. When Shay came, dripping, out of the water, they’d call out greetings and offer her coffee, but she never wanted to disrupt their modest but perfect intimacy.
The woman who did break up the idyll was Noelline. For years, she was Floristella’s secretary and mistress, filling the gap left by his wife, who long before had grown weary of the tedium of Madagascar and returned to Trapani, where she awaited her husband’s twice-yearly visits. Noelline, twenty-six and childless, was no longer young by island standards and, in a land where lovely women were as abundant as grains of sand, had never been considered a beauty, though she had an almost preposterously voluptuous body, a product of her mixed Sakalava and Antankarana background. The daughter of a seamstress and a ferryman, she had a demure wide face, its teak surface roughened by outbreaks of tiny pimples, a high forehead, and bright, shallow-set eyes that missed nothing. She kept her hair short and stylish, sometimes enhancing it with a waist-length tail of beaded Chinese braids, and her enviable wardrobe consisted of tight imported jeans and dresses, purchased by Floristella.
Unlike most of the village women who became embroiled with foreign men, Noelline was educated—she had completed two years at the lycée run by the sugar refinery at Ankazobe. She could type and use a computer, and spoke French and Italian. Beyond her intelligence, her undeniable energy, and a reputed genius for sex, her greatest talents were ones she shared with most resourceful wives and mistresses: an inconspicuous but relentless persistence, the ability to bide her time, to cling without being obvious, and never to show offense.
Eventually, Floristella entrusted her with the keys to his bungalow, the secrets of his defunct business exporting medicinal jungle herbs, the erratic construction work on his property, and the care and the pleasures of his swollen, diabetic body. Noelline didn’t move in with him but lived a mile away in a rented two-room cinder-block house—luxurious by village standards, and paid for, of course, by Floristella—set among palms and thornbushes in one of the warren-like settlements that sprawled messily off the only paved road in Finoana.
Each morning, she buzzed up to Floristella’s bungalow on a battered motorbike, offering a cordial but slightly condescending greeting to Marianne, who pounded laundry and cleaned fish in the small trodden-sand yard by the sea. In the course of the day, Noelline wrote Floristella’s letters, gave him his insulin injections, climbed nimbly astride his big belly during the siesta hour, and sometimes lingered after sunset on his lamplit porch, patiently listening to his fantastical plans for rebuilding his fortune. She never spent the night.
To Floristella’s many friends, and especially to Pianon, she was quietly respectful. She absorbed Italian idioms with rapt attention, and laughed appropriately when the two men chatted on the porch. Occasionally, she typed a document for Pianon, and sometimes, in the tone of a schoolmistress, translated for him an obscure term in Sakalava dialect, or explained some custom, like why it was fady for certain young girls to eat chicken.
The villagers knew that Noelline had her own giambillys, or lovers on the side, notably a handsome cabdriver from Saint Grimaud, a métis who was said to beat his penniless French mother. However, the young woman jealously guarded her position with the Sicilian. In the village, she acquired the title of Madame Floristella, much to the annoyance of his wife back in Trapani, who vowed not to return to the island until Floristella had discarded Noelline.
“Maaaake meeeeee!” Cartoon by Adam Douglas Thompson Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
When Senna and Shay drove to the market at Saint Grimaud, they often caught sight of the portly Floristella, conferring with some sous-official on the broken, weedy courthouse steps, as Noelline, in tight jeans and pointed high heels, stood demurely in the background. “There she is, that sly baggage!” Senna invariably said, and Shay as always protested.


newyorker--2020-12-28--“I Catch Sight of the Now,” by Jorie Graham

unforgettable though then hardly noticed green tiled ledge just up to my right in the glistening shower stall , slightly above my open eyes , square window in it , & slender citrine lip onto which I place , gently , this first handful of hair—always I see it—the window- pane up there letting anything in and out that wishes to pass thru—so freely—drops from the steam of the shower on it , the slipping of forever & for- ever all down the pane , where , beyond the still-wet clump , all seems to shine and murmur it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , another day , filled with the only of this minute , this split minute , in which if I reach now I can feel the years , the fissure in them , these fractions here inside the instant—oh mine—how mine—moving now so differently , as if entering a room with frozen fingers and they say no you can not warm them here at the fire , there is no fire , there is no room , actually there is nothing , though you can start carving the nothing , you can test @ @ @ @ @ @ @ subject is loss , the dark is inside your open mouth not knowing what else there is again to say , a kind of howling without sorrow , no amazement , no wisdom , just the roomlessness of this your suddenly— suddenly everything , suddenly there is no more of what there was , suddenly you do not die of fear you just fear , suddenly there is no such thing as right or wrong yr hand is a claw full of hair there is no purification anywhere as the shower keeps streaming @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this thread of the only water cycle dragged down into here to run all over you , to rake yr skinny neck & down inside of you where you look up , open yr mouth—to scream to sing to say the one right word—as now the next soft handful comes , it is such a surprise , as you raise up yr hand , high , full , to the ledge , to pile it on there— & what will you do now , shooting your gaze into those filaments , your years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wet , in clumps , through which the daylight now is pouring itself , though it is not pouring anything at all or into anything at all because it ’ s just the planet turning again and again into and out of the dark which is not itself actually dark at all .

unforgettable though then hardly noticed green
tiled ledge
just up to my right in the glistening shower stall, slightly above my open
eyes, square window in it, & slender citrine
lip onto which I place, gently, this first handful of hair—always I see it—the window-
pane up there letting anything in and out that
wishes to pass
thru—so freely—drops from the steam of the shower
on it, the slipping of forever & for-
ever all down the
pane, where, beyond the still-wet clump, all seems to shine and
murmur it’s just day, just this day, another day, filled with the only
of this minute, this split minute, in which if I
reach now I can feel
the years, the fissure in them,
these fractions here inside the
instant—oh mine—how mine—moving now so
differently, as if entering a room with frozen fingers and they say
no you cannot warm them here
at the fire,
there is no fire, there is no
room, actually there is nothing, though you can
start carving the nothing, you can test your strength
against the nothing, the subject is
loss, the dark is inside your
open mouth not knowing what else there is again to
say, a kind of howling without
sorrow, no amazement, no
wisdom, just the roomlessness of this your suddenly—
suddenly everything, suddenly there is no more of what there
was, suddenly you do not die of fear you just fear, suddenly
there is no such thing as right or wrong yr hand is
a claw full of hair there is no
purification anywhere as the shower keeps streaming looking for
hollows, more hollows, this thread of the only
water cycle dragged down
into here to
run all over you, to rake yr
skinny neck & down inside of you where you
look up, open yr
mouth—to scream to sing to say the one
right word—as now the next
soft handful
comes, it is such a surprise, as you raise up yr
hand, high, full, to the ledge, to pile it on there—& what
will you do
now, shooting your gaze into those filaments, your years of having & not
knowing, still wet, in clumps, through which the daylight now is pouring itself,
though it is not pouring anything at all or into
anything at all because it’s just the planet
turning again and again into and out of the
dark which is not itself actually dark
at all.


newyorker--2020-12-28--Song Lyrics About My Teen-Age Years if I Were Taylor Swift

Bagels at Panera , Hazelnut coffee At Panera .
Wishing I was a grownup .
Caffeine makes me feel .
I have a crush on a senior— His rumpled shirt , His Mom doesn ’ t iron it .
It ’ s a love that hurts .
Saturday night at Lindsey ’ s , Watching  “ Save the Last Dance ” with Noah .
I miss you , Noah .
Is cat heaven full of aquariums ?
Full of aquariums ?
Time to go to confession again .
What will I say ?
I hope I get the good @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the ice on my windshield That I scrape off in the dark mornings , The dark , dark mornings before school .
My uncles are hilarious .
So , so funny .
I don ’ t need to drink at homecoming to have fun , I don ’ t need to go to homecoming to have fun , I didn ’ t get asked to homecoming .
Waking up early on Saturdays , A tired teen-ager .
I ’ m an assistant volleyball coach For my sister ’ s sixth-grade team .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ other sister .
Go Lancers .
Dad , Don ’ t come up to my room with the video camera .
You ’ re making memories , I ’ m making a scarf For your Christmas present .

Another Friday night,
Listening to Norah Jones—
Baking cookies,
Wearing basketball shorts.
Bagels at Panera,
Hazelnut coffee
At Panera.
Wishing I was a grownup.
Caffeine makes me feel.
Mom and Dad,
I love you.
I love you,
Mom and Dad.
I have a crush on a senior—
His rumpled shirt,
His Mom doesn’t iron it.
It’s a love that hurts.
Saturday night at Lindsey’s,
Watching “Save the Last Dance” with Noah.
I miss you, Noah.
Is cat heaven full of aquariums?
Full of aquariums?
Time to go to confession again.
What will I say?
I hope I get the good priest.
College applications piling up
Like the ice on my windshield
That I scrape off in the dark mornings,
The dark, dark mornings before school.
My uncles are hilarious.
So, so funny.
I don’t need to drink at homecoming to have fun,
I don’t need to go to homecoming to have fun,
I didn’t get asked to homecoming.
Waking up early on Saturdays,
A tired teen-ager.
I’m an assistant volleyball coach
For my sister’s sixth-grade team.
The other coaches are my Mom
and my other sister.
Go Lancers.
Dad,
Don’t come up to my room with the video camera.
You’re making memories,
I’m making a scarf
For your Christmas present.
Cross-country meets,
French Club treats,
Endless laughs and ponytails,
My Camry’s beats.
Straightening my hair,
For you,
For you.
Sorry, Grandma,
You loved my curls.


newyorker--2020-12-28--Anthony Weiner’s Comeback Gig

Anthony Weiner’s Comeback Gig

Weiner wore an orange zip-up sweater , blue khakis , and tennis shoes .
“ This checked a lot of boxes for my dream next thing , ” he said , rapping his knuckles against a five-hundred-pound slab of Portland cement mixed with broken Heineken bottles , which created the flecked appearance of granite .
“ I ’ ve done a lot of consulting in the years since I left Congress .
Being the fifth guy wearing a suit and tie on a Zoom call , trying to figure out how to help some big company get even bigger—it has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bills , but it ’ s not something where I hung up and thought , Oh , I can ’ t wait to do that more .
Countertops are about as real as you can get.
” Reality was all around him : forklifts , calibrators , an overhead crane rolling along tracks near the ceiling .
Sacks of broken glass sat in a corner .
Weiner plunged a hand into one and came out with a fistful of sage-green particles— “ aggregate , ” in countertop parlance .
“ Looks a little @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a big source of our light greens and light blues , ” he said .
The glass is mixed with cement and natural pigments and poured into long rectangular molds , which cure for a day and a half in kilns before being levelled and polished .
Nearby , an employee in an apron and a do-rag buffed a nearly finished slab .
“ Everything before it goes out gets one last round of tender loving care , ” Weiner said , sidling up to the man .
“ How ’ re @ @ @ @ @ @ @ how it ’ s going today.
” The retail politician comes alive in the warehouse .
“ I still get to scratch that itch , ” he said .
“ But I don ’ t , like , stand at my desk and give a speech on whatever outrageous thing the Iranians did this week.
” What the Iranians were doing hadn ’ t been a priority for Weiner since the fall of 2017 , when he began a twenty-one-month prison sentence for sexting with a minor .
Asked about life on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wouldn ’ t recommend it to others.
” One of his prison visitors was Dal LaMagna , the beauty-tools magnate known as Tweezerman , who later pivoted to environmentally friendly countertops .
The two had met , years ago , on the political circuit .
( LaMagna considered running for mayor and sought Weiner ’ s counsel .
Weiner advised against it . )
“ When COVID was crushing the company , and crushing everything else , Dal approached me and said , ‘ What if I stepped back and just kind of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Weiner recalled .
IceStone , a certified B Corp , has a history of helping the downtrodden , including formerly incarcerated people .
“ I would be a high-profile example of that category , ” Weiner said .
“ For years , this company has also hired refugees from Tibet.
” In Congress , Weiner was an exacting boss , known for throwing salads and BlackBerrys .
Nowadays , he ’ s mellowed .
“ Back then , I always had the sense that I knew how to do my staff ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Weiner said .
“ Here , I rely on people who are a lot smarter than I am .
It ’ s a more collaborative environment.
” The switch from public service to private life hasn ’ t been totally smooth .
Vocal citizenry still want Weiner to settle scores and log complaints .
“ A guy stopped me this morning , when I was getting my Citi Bike , ” Weiner said .
“ Tell Biden this .
How come Harris didn ’ t say that ?
Sometimes it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s about the price of things at the supermarket .
For whatever reason , I ’ ve always been someone who people come up to , and they feel they can say stuff to me.
” That afternoon , Weiner would turn his attention to IceStone ’ s warranty , which he wanted to beef up from ten years to lifetime .
“ It ’ s a very durable product , ” he said .
Even slabs that break in the production process get saved .
“ We keep them around for smaller @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Very little goes to waste.
” ♦

Anthony Weiner Illustration by João Fazenda
Not long ago, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Anthony Weiner, the former seven-term congressman, mayoral hopeful, registered sex offender, and cameo star of “Sharknado 3: Oh Hell No!,” pointed a temperature gun at a guest, grabbed a bright-green hard hat, and stepped onto the factory floor of IceStone. “So, we make countertops here,” Weiner said, of the company that he’s been running since May. Notable clients: NASA (bathrooms), Whole Foods (salad bar), Ed Norton (residence). “Fairly low-tech. It’s like what you did in elementary school making pottery.”
Weiner wore an orange zip-up sweater, blue khakis, and tennis shoes. “This checked a lot of boxes for my dream next thing,” he said, rapping his knuckles against a five-hundred-pound slab of Portland cement mixed with broken Heineken bottles, which created the flecked appearance of granite. “I’ve done a lot of consulting in the years since I left Congress. Being the fifth guy wearing a suit and tie on a Zoom call, trying to figure out how to help some big company get even bigger—it has some value, and it pays the bills, but it’s not something where I hung up and thought, Oh, I can’t wait to do that more. Countertops are about as real as you can get.”
Reality was all around him: forklifts, calibrators, an overhead crane rolling along tracks near the ceiling. Sacks of broken glass sat in a corner. Weiner plunged a hand into one and came out with a fistful of sage-green particles—“aggregate,” in countertop parlance. “Looks a little bit like a car windshield, which is a big source of our light greens and light blues,” he said.
The glass is mixed with cement and natural pigments and poured into long rectangular molds, which cure for a day and a half in kilns before being levelled and polished. Nearby, an employee in an apron and a do-rag buffed a nearly finished slab. “Everything before it goes out gets one last round of tender loving care,” Weiner said, sidling up to the man. “How’re you doing, brother? Tell me how it’s going today.”
The retail politician comes alive in the warehouse. “I still get to scratch that itch,” he said. “But I don’t, like, stand at my desk and give a speech on whatever outrageous thing the Iranians did this week.” What the Iranians were doing hadn’t been a priority for Weiner since the fall of 2017, when he began a twenty-one-month prison sentence for sexting with a minor. Asked about life on the inside, he said, “I wouldn’t recommend it to others.” One of his prison visitors was Dal LaMagna, the beauty-tools magnate known as Tweezerman, who later pivoted to environmentally friendly countertops. The two had met, years ago, on the political circuit. (LaMagna considered running for mayor and sought Weiner’s counsel. Weiner advised against it.)
Cartoon by Roz Chast Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
“When COVID was crushing the company, and crushing everything else, Dal approached me and said, ‘What if I stepped back and just kind of gave you the keys?’ ” Weiner recalled. IceStone, a certified B Corp, has a history of helping the downtrodden, including formerly incarcerated people. “I would be a high-profile example of that category,” Weiner said. “For years, this company has also hired refugees from Tibet.”
In Congress, Weiner was an exacting boss, known for throwing salads and BlackBerrys. Nowadays, he’s mellowed. “Back then, I always had the sense that I knew how to do my staff’s job better than they were doing it,” Weiner said. “Here, I rely on people who are a lot smarter than I am. It’s a more collaborative environment.”
The switch from public service to private life hasn’t been totally smooth. Vocal citizenry still want Weiner to settle scores and log complaints. “A guy stopped me this morning, when I was getting my Citi Bike,” Weiner said. “Tell Biden this. How come Harris didn’t say that? Sometimes it’s about politics, sometimes it’s about the price of things at the supermarket. For whatever reason, I’ve always been someone who people come up to, and they feel they can say stuff to me.”
That afternoon, Weiner would turn his attention to IceStone’s warranty, which he wanted to beef up from ten years to lifetime. “It’s a very durable product,” he said. Even slabs that break in the production process get saved. “We keep them around for smaller jobs,” he said. “Very little goes to waste.” ♦


newyorker--2020-12-28--Jorge Colombo’s “Bright Lights”

Jorge Colombo’s “Bright Lights”

On the magazine ’ s latest cover , Jorge Colombo offers an inaugural image for 2021 : a portrait of the new , quiet rhythms of New York streets .
Colombo has long been a connoisseur of city scenes , both pre-pandemic and mid-pandemic .
He recently told us about how he likes to work , his ongoing romance with New York , and finding and sustaining inspiration .
So many of your covers are the product of walking through the city at night .
Does your creative mind feel more alive then ?
Walking at night is like exploring @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the blanks .
I love passing so few people , or none at all , in a city of millions .
And night lights are so theatrical : chunks of blackness , arbitrary pools of warm and cold light , buses going by .
.
.
.
It ’ s blissful and inspiring .
How did you arrive at the title “ Bright Lights ” ?
In the nineteen-eighties , before I ever set foot in New York , I read Jay McInerney ’ s “ Bright Lights , Big City , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Odeon , in the plot and on the cover .
It was a nice glimpse into a city that I hoped to visit .
Many of my explorations , in New York and elsewhere , are triggered by pop-culture references : movie locations , famous photos , name-dropped books or songs .
I like crossing the gap between reality and art .
It makes me think of how pilgrimages were once made to Biblical landmarks or to the birthplaces of saints .
These days , people might visit the spot where an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way of honoring their chosen iconography .
I still try to look at the city with the awe of someone who ’ s just arrived or who dreams about it from afar .
But even though drawing the Odeon was inspired by old New York , the detail that feels most current is that mask dangling from the diner ’ s ear .
It ’ s 2020 ’ s contribution to casual fashion , up there with torn jeans or laceless sneakers .
You often live-draw ; in fact , you ’ ve @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pre-pandemic .
What do you think you gain by beginning a drawing in person , as opposed to working totally from photographs ?
Oh , drawing live is always richer , even if it ’ s just a quick sketch .
Sometimes I choose to be faithful to whatever I ’ m looking at , and sometimes I cheat a bit , but it ’ s always better to make such decisions while facing the subject .
When I draw on location , I keep rectifying my point of view , as I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out an interesting detail or hide an unwanted one .
The “ truth ” of photography doesn ’ t always help me make a good picture .
I can also assess colors better in reality , as opposed to looking at a picture on an iPad .
And framing , composing , and cropping are much more enjoyable activities than letting the camera lens solve the puzzle .
If I have to leave a spot because of weather or time , I ’ ll shoot some pictures to get the details right , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ home .
You lived in the city for decades but have recently spent a lot of time in the Catskills , in Narrowsburg , a four-hundred-person town .
How have you been adjusting to country life ?
Has it changed your work ?
I ’ ve been a full-time resident of Narrowsburg , New York , for two years now .
I still haven ’ t learned how to drive , but that ’ s O.K.
, because I live on Main Street .
I love it here ; it ’ s got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I keep exploring the place : lots of walking around , lots of pictures .
Even if there are fewer streets to draw than in a big city , I try to make each angle special .
The key is looking at something—or someone—as if you have just discovered it .
Seeing what ’ s in front of you is as important as acquired or received knowledge .

On the magazine’s latest cover, Jorge Colombo offers an inaugural image for 2021: a portrait of the new, quiet rhythms of New York streets. Colombo has long been a connoisseur of city scenes, both pre-pandemic and mid-pandemic. He recently told us about how he likes to work, his ongoing romance with New York, and finding and sustaining inspiration.
So many of your covers are the product of walking through the city at night. Does your creative mind feel more alive then?
Walking at night is like exploring a sleeping civilization: your mind fills in the blanks. I love passing so few people, or none at all, in a city of millions. And night lights are so theatrical: chunks of blackness, arbitrary pools of warm and cold light, buses going by. . . . It’s blissful and inspiring.
How did you arrive at the title “Bright Lights”?
In the nineteen-eighties, before I ever set foot in New York, I read Jay McInerney’s “Bright Lights, Big City,” which features a Tribeca restaurant, the Odeon, in the plot and on the cover. It was a nice glimpse into a city that I hoped to visit. Many of my explorations, in New York and elsewhere, are triggered by pop-culture references: movie locations, famous photos, name-dropped books or songs. I like crossing the gap between reality and art. It makes me think of how pilgrimages were once made to Biblical landmarks or to the birthplaces of saints. These days, people might visit the spot where an album cover was shot, as a way of honoring their chosen iconography.
I still try to look at the city with the awe of someone who’s just arrived or who dreams about it from afar. But even though drawing the Odeon was inspired by old New York, the detail that feels most current is that mask dangling from the diner’s ear. It’s 2020’s contribution to casual fashion, up there with torn jeans or laceless sneakers.
Jorge Colombo’s live drawings from the Odeon, in February, 2020.
You often live-draw; in fact, you’ve even drawn live inside the Odeon, pre-pandemic. What do you think you gain by beginning a drawing in person, as opposed to working totally from photographs?
Oh, drawing live is always richer, even if it’s just a quick sketch. Sometimes I choose to be faithful to whatever I’m looking at, and sometimes I cheat a bit, but it’s always better to make such decisions while facing the subject. When I draw on location, I keep rectifying my point of view, as I realize even a small shift can bring out an interesting detail or hide an unwanted one. The “truth” of photography doesn’t always help me make a good picture.
I can also assess colors better in reality, as opposed to looking at a picture on an iPad. And framing, composing, and cropping are much more enjoyable activities than letting the camera lens solve the puzzle. If I have to leave a spot because of weather or time, I’ll shoot some pictures to get the details right, so I can finish the piece at home.
You lived in the city for decades but have recently spent a lot of time in the Catskills, in Narrowsburg, a four-hundred-person town. How have you been adjusting to country life? Has it changed your work?
I’ve been a full-time resident of Narrowsburg, New York, for two years now. I still haven’t learned how to drive, but that’s O.K., because I live on Main Street. I love it here; it’s got a precious cast of personalities. And I keep exploring the place: lots of walking around, lots of pictures. Even if there are fewer streets to draw than in a big city, I try to make each angle special. The key is looking at something—or someone—as if you have just discovered it. Seeing what’s in front of you is as important as acquired or received knowledge.


newyorker--2020-12-28--What Thomas Jefferson Could Never Understand About Jesus

In the early months of 1803 , perhaps the most consequential period of Thomas Jefferson ’ s Presidency—if not , for him , the busiest—American envoys were in France , Jefferson ’ s old ambassadorial stomping ground , negotiating the terms of what would later be called the Louisiana Purchase .
Jefferson , meanwhile , was mulling a book project .
He imagined it as a work of comparative moral philosophy , which would include a survey of “ the most remarkable of the ancient philosophers , ” then swiftly address the “ repulsive ” ethics of the Jews , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ morality ” offered by Jesus was “ the most benevolent & sublime probably that has been ever taught.
” This sublimity , however , would need to be rescued from the Gospels , which were—as Jefferson put it in a letter to the English chemist , philosopher , and minister Joseph Priestley—written by “ the most unlettered of men , by memory , long after they had heard them from him.
” Jefferson pushed Priestley to write the treatise , and , by the following January , seemed to think that he would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Jefferson decided to do the salvage work , at least .
He got a copy of the Bible , cut out some choice passages , glued them onto blank pages , and called the volume “ The Philosophy of Jesus of Nazareth : extracted from the account of his life and doctrines as given by Matthew , Mark , Luke , & John .
Being an abridgement of the New Testament for the use of the Indians unembarrassed with matters of fact or faith beyond the level of their comprehensions.
” One @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have been to demonstrate—to himself , if to no one else—that , contrary to the claims of his political adversaries , he was not anti-Christian .
As Peter Manseau , a curator at the National Museum of American History , points out in “ The Jefferson Bible : A Biography ” ( Princeton ) , the puzzling reference to “ Indians ” in the subtitle may be a joke about the Federalists , and their apparent inability to grasp Jefferson ’ s true beliefs .
His opponents often labelled him a “ freethinker @ @ @ @ @ @ @ milder observers came closer to the mark , pegging him as a deist who largely thought of God as a noninterventionist .
But Jefferson did not openly claim the deist label .
“ I am a Christian , ” he insisted in a letter to the educator and politician Benjamin Rush , “ in the only sense in which he wished any one to be ; sincerely attached to his doctrines , in preference to all others ; ascribing to himself every human excellence , & believing he never claimed any other.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the actual limit of Jesus ’ claims , one had to carefully extricate him from the texts that contain nearly all we know about his life and thought .
That might sound like impossible surgery , but , to Jefferson , the fissures were obvious .
What was genuinely Christ ’ s was “ as easily distinguishable as diamonds in a dunghill , ” he wrote in a letter to John Adams .
Jesus , in the Gospel of John , says , “ My sheep hear my voice , and I know @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jefferson was no lamb , and no follower , but he considered himself a good hearer .
Manseau opens his study with an anecdote from earlier in Jefferson ’ s life , which Jefferson recounts in “ Notes on the State of Virginia.
” As a young man , he went digging through one of the “ barrows ” —huge mounds of earth , covered in grass—that mysteriously dotted the Virginia landscape .
“ That they were repositories of the dead has been obvious to all : but on what particular occasion constructed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jefferson wrote .
The solution , for Jefferson , was to get a shovel .
He travelled to what had once been a Native American community and got to work on a mound , quickly finding “ collections of human bones.
” There were arm bones and loose jaws , vertebrae and several skulls .
Manseau writes : Manseau adds , “ Today the image of Jefferson rummaging through the bones of Native Americans would likely be regarded by many as an obvious desecration , while in his own day it would have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Manseau uses this unsettling anecdote to illustrate the desacralizing impulse in Jefferson—the impulse that would lead to his cut-and-paste Bible .
Jefferson had seen Monacans go in groups to visit the mounds , but the knowledge of their reverence and the ardency of their devotion didn ’ t satisfy him .
He was deeply impatient with myth , ritual , and mystery .
He had to see the bones .
Even in his youth , Jefferson had bridled at the core metaphysical claims of classical Christianity .
Jefferson had no use for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ alone , or the insistence that Christ—or anyone else ; stand down , Lazarus—had risen from the dead .
He didn ’ t even care to affirm the most fundamental doctrine : that , by some mystery of history and providence , Jesus was of the same essence as God , indeed was God .
One of Jefferson ’ s first , and most lasting , points of dissent with Christian orthodoxy had to do with the Trinity , the doctrine affirming that although there is only one God , the godhead is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ persons ” : the Father , who is the creator ; the Son , who appeared on earth in order to reconcile humanity to the Father ; and the Holy Spirit , who is the breath of love between Father and Son , and who invisibly knits all believers together , creating the society called the Church .
To Jefferson , this was all too fuzzy to be true in any real sense—an “ incomprehensible jargon.
” Jefferson was a follower of Jesus in more or less the way that Plato was a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ morals high , his wisdom excellent , his philosophy sound , his observations true .
This is a vision of Jesus as a Great Man , a mover of history and a moral tinkerer , whose work has been marred by friends who were his lessers .
Jefferson tended , in his letters , to portray Jesus as a modernizer , more clarifier than Christ ; he called him a “ great reformer of the vicious ethic and deism of the Jews , ” a formulation that marries anti-Semitic tropes with a rereading @ @ @ @ @ @ @ logic of the Reformation .
For Jefferson , Jesus was to Judaism what Luther was to the Catholic Church .
And Jefferson , in turn , after digging through Christianity ’ s burial heap , would rescue those of its tenets which accorded with reason—his reason—from the vicious ethic that had grown up around it .
At the College of William & Mary , Jefferson fell under the tutelage of a professor named William Small , who introduced him to John Locke , Francis Bacon , and Isaac Newton , shining paragons of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the three greatest men that have ever lived , without any exception.
” They confirmed for him that “ the world was eminently knowable , ” Manseau writes , and modelled the mental mode that would characterize the rest of his life : interested more in science than in faith , more in reason than in emotion , more in minute inspection than in intuition or revelation .
In a real and profound way , the Enlightenment seems to have been the creed in which Jefferson most deeply believed .
( In this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in power might be the French President , Emmanuel Macron , who , in justifying a crackdown on Islam after a pair of recent terrorist attacks in France , said , “ We believe in the Enlightenment.
” ) Locke , Bacon , and Newton were “ a new trinity to replace the old , ” Manseau writes .
And Jefferson ’ s relationship to them was more like that of the apostles to Jesus than he may have realized .
In his correspondence and his speeches—and , most dramatically , in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chief interpreter of the Enlightenment generation .
Jefferson in the colonies was like Paul at the Parthenon : a true believer spreading the Word of his teachers , subtly tweaking it so that the locals could understand .
Another youthful influence on Jefferson was the English parliamentarian Henry St. John , Viscount Bolingbroke , who wrote witheringly of the God of the Scriptures , in both the Old and the New Testaments .
Bolingbroke argued that , at most , “ short sentences ” culled from the Bible might add up to a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ethics and morals .
For Jefferson—who , in his journals , copied long passages of Bolingbroke ’ s religious criticism—the only God worth serving was one whose powers accorded precisely with the powers on display in the visible world .
Later , in the Declaration , Jefferson insisted that all people were “ created ” equal , but he also made sure to invoke “ the Laws of Nature and Nature ’ s God , ” a favorite phrase of the deists of his day .
The urge to independence hadn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on tablets , but was , instead , the logical end point of a long process of looking , and of thought .
God was sovereign only so far as you could track his moves , like an animal leaving footprints in snow .
“ The Philosophy of Jesus ” did not survive ; the only evidence we have for it is in Jefferson ’ s correspondence .
But , in the eighteen-tens , after he had left the White House and had withdrawn almost totally from public life , Jefferson began working @ @ @ @ @ @ @ new edition , incorporating not only the English of the King James Version but also columns of translation .
This version bears a slightly shorter title : “ The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth Extracted Textually from the Gospels in Greek , Latin , French & English.
” He had tried , once again , as he put it in a letter to a young acolyte , to separate “ the gold from the dross.
” Jefferson ’ s Jesus is born in a manger , but there are no angels @ @ @ @ @ @ @ age twelve , he speaks to the doctors in the temple , and everyone is impressed , but he doesn ’ t say that he is “ about my Father ’ s business.
” When Jefferson ’ s Jesus suddenly has disciples , it is not clear why they have decided to follow him .
Jefferson includes Jesus ’ encounter with a man with a “ withered ” hand , and his argument about whether it is “ lawful to heal on the sabbath days ” —the gold in this story , apparently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sabbath was made for man , and not man for the sabbath.
” The dross is the part where Jesus turns to address the poor man directly , like a real person instead of a prop for conjectural argument , and heals his hand .

In the early months of 1803, perhaps the most consequential period of Thomas Jefferson’s Presidency—if not, for him, the busiest—American envoys were in France, Jefferson’s old ambassadorial stomping ground, negotiating the terms of what would later be called the Louisiana Purchase. Jefferson, meanwhile, was mulling a book project. He imagined it as a work of comparative moral philosophy, which would include a survey of “the most remarkable of the ancient philosophers,” then swiftly address the “repulsive” ethics of the Jews, before demonstrating that the “system of morality” offered by Jesus was “the most benevolent & sublime probably that has been ever taught.” This sublimity, however, would need to be rescued from the Gospels, which were—as Jefferson put it in a letter to the English chemist, philosopher, and minister Joseph Priestley—written by “the most unlettered of men, by memory, long after they had heard them from him.” Jefferson pushed Priestley to write the treatise, and, by the following January, seemed to think that he would. But Priestley died in February, and Jefferson decided to do the salvage work, at least. He got a copy of the Bible, cut out some choice passages, glued them onto blank pages, and called the volume “The Philosophy of Jesus of Nazareth: extracted from the account of his life and doctrines as given by Matthew, Mark, Luke, & John. Being an abridgement of the New Testament for the use of the Indians unembarrassed with matters of fact or faith beyond the level of their comprehensions.”
One of Jefferson’s aims seems to have been to demonstrate—to himself, if to no one else—that, contrary to the claims of his political adversaries, he was not anti-Christian. As Peter Manseau, a curator at the National Museum of American History, points out in “The Jefferson Bible: A Biography” (Princeton), the puzzling reference to “Indians” in the subtitle may be a joke about the Federalists, and their apparent inability to grasp Jefferson’s true beliefs. His opponents often labelled him a “freethinker,” or an outright atheist; milder observers came closer to the mark, pegging him as a deist who largely thought of God as a noninterventionist. But Jefferson did not openly claim the deist label. “I am a Christian,” he insisted in a letter to the educator and politician Benjamin Rush, “in the only sense in which he wished any one to be; sincerely attached to his doctrines, in preference to all others; ascribing to himself every human excellence, & believing he never claimed any other.” In order to establish that this was the actual limit of Jesus’ claims, one had to carefully extricate him from the texts that contain nearly all we know about his life and thought. That might sound like impossible surgery, but, to Jefferson, the fissures were obvious. What was genuinely Christ’s was “as easily distinguishable as diamonds in a dunghill,” he wrote in a letter to John Adams. Jesus, in the Gospel of John, says, “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.” Jefferson was no lamb, and no follower, but he considered himself a good hearer.
Manseau opens his study with an anecdote from earlier in Jefferson’s life, which Jefferson recounts in “Notes on the State of Virginia.” As a young man, he went digging through one of the “barrows”—huge mounds of earth, covered in grass—that mysteriously dotted the Virginia landscape. “That they were repositories of the dead has been obvious to all: but on what particular occasion constructed, was matter of doubt,” Jefferson wrote. The solution, for Jefferson, was to get a shovel. He travelled to what had once been a Native American community and got to work on a mound, quickly finding “collections of human bones.” There were arm bones and loose jaws, vertebrae and several skulls. Manseau writes:
It was the skulls that most drew Jefferson’s interest. Some were “so tender,” he noted, that they fell apart at the touch, leaving him with a handful of teeth that were considerably smaller than others. At least one section of the mound seemed to include children—a suspicion reinforced by the discoveries that followed: “a rib and a fragment of the under jaw of a person about half grown; another rib of an infant, and part of the jaw of a child, which had not yet cut its teeth.”
Manseau adds, “Today the image of Jefferson rummaging through the bones of Native Americans would likely be regarded by many as an obvious desecration, while in his own day it would have been praised as a purely scientific inquiry.” Manseau uses this unsettling anecdote to illustrate the desacralizing impulse in Jefferson—the impulse that would lead to his cut-and-paste Bible. Jefferson had seen Monacans go in groups to visit the mounds, but the knowledge of their reverence and the ardency of their devotion didn’t satisfy him. He was deeply impatient with myth, ritual, and mystery. He had to see the bones.
“The first rule of book club is we don’t tell anyone we’re selling cocaine.” Cartoon by Harry Bliss Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
Even in his youth, Jefferson had bridled at the core metaphysical claims of classical Christianity. Jefferson had no use for original sin, or salvation by grace alone, or the insistence that Christ—or anyone else; stand down, Lazarus—had risen from the dead. He didn’t even care to affirm the most fundamental doctrine: that, by some mystery of history and providence, Jesus was of the same essence as God, indeed was God. One of Jefferson’s first, and most lasting, points of dissent with Christian orthodoxy had to do with the Trinity, the doctrine affirming that although there is only one God, the godhead is identified as three distinct but inseparable “persons”: the Father, who is the creator; the Son, who appeared on earth in order to reconcile humanity to the Father; and the Holy Spirit, who is the breath of love between Father and Son, and who invisibly knits all believers together, creating the society called the Church. To Jefferson, this was all too fuzzy to be true in any real sense—an “incomprehensible jargon.” Jefferson was a follower of Jesus in more or less the way that Plato was a follower of Socrates: he found his morals high, his wisdom excellent, his philosophy sound, his observations true.
This is a vision of Jesus as a Great Man, a mover of history and a moral tinkerer, whose work has been marred by friends who were his lessers. Jefferson tended, in his letters, to portray Jesus as a modernizer, more clarifier than Christ; he called him a “great reformer of the vicious ethic and deism of the Jews,” a formulation that marries anti-Semitic tropes with a rereading of Christianity’s roots through the logic of the Reformation. For Jefferson, Jesus was to Judaism what Luther was to the Catholic Church. And Jefferson, in turn, after digging through Christianity’s burial heap, would rescue those of its tenets which accorded with reason—his reason—from the vicious ethic that had grown up around it.
At the College of William & Mary, Jefferson fell under the tutelage of a professor named William Small, who introduced him to John Locke, Francis Bacon, and Isaac Newton, shining paragons of Enlightenment thought. Jefferson considered them “the three greatest men that have ever lived, without any exception.” They confirmed for him that “the world was eminently knowable,” Manseau writes, and modelled the mental mode that would characterize the rest of his life: interested more in science than in faith, more in reason than in emotion, more in minute inspection than in intuition or revelation. In a real and profound way, the Enlightenment seems to have been the creed in which Jefferson most deeply believed. (In this respect, the most Jeffersonian politician currently in power might be the French President, Emmanuel Macron, who, in justifying a crackdown on Islam after a pair of recent terrorist attacks in France, said, “We believe in the Enlightenment.”) Locke, Bacon, and Newton were “a new trinity to replace the old,” Manseau writes. And Jefferson’s relationship to them was more like that of the apostles to Jesus than he may have realized. In his correspondence and his speeches—and, most dramatically, in the Declaration of Independence—he was America’s chief interpreter of the Enlightenment generation. Jefferson in the colonies was like Paul at the Parthenon: a true believer spreading the Word of his teachers, subtly tweaking it so that the locals could understand.


newyorker--2020-12-28--Lawrence Wright on How the Pandemic Response Went So Wrong

The first doses of the COVID-19 vaccine mark what we hope will be the beginning of the end of the @ @ @ @ @ of vaccine development has been truly unprecedented , but this breakthrough is taking place at @ @ @ @ @ death toll has also reached a new peak—more than three thousand per day .
How @ @ @ @ @ a clear danger mismanaged so tragically ?
The New Yorker staff writer Lawrence Wright—who has @ @ @ @ @ the Church of Scientology—has followed the story of the pandemic unfolding in the United States @ @ @ @ @ March .
Wright walks David Remnick through key moments of decision-making in the Trump White @ @ @ @ @ to the earliest reports of a virus to botched mask mandates and testing rollouts , @ @ @ @ @ of the vaccine .
The Trump Administration bears much of the responsibility for the mishandling @ @ @ @ @ but Wright also finds ample evidence of larger , systemic breakdown .
“ The magnitude @ @ @ @ @ he tells Remnick , “ is unparalleled .
”

The first doses of the COVID-19 vaccine mark what we hope will be the beginning of the end of the global pandemic. The speed of vaccine development has been truly unprecedented, but this breakthrough is taking place at a moment when the U.S. death toll has also reached a new peak—more than three thousand per day. How was the response to such a clear danger mismanaged so tragically? The New Yorker staff writer Lawrence Wright—who has reported on Al Qaeda and the Church of Scientology—has followed the story of the pandemic unfolding in the United States since the first lockdowns in March. Wright walks David Remnick through key moments of decision-making in the Trump White House: from the reaction to the earliest reports of a virus to botched mask mandates and testing rollouts, up through the emergency-use authorization of the vaccine. The Trump Administration bears much of the responsibility for the mishandling of the coronavirus pandemic, but Wright also finds ample evidence of larger, systemic breakdown. “The magnitude of our failure,” he tells Remnick, “is unparalleled.”


The Mail

Casey Cep , in her review of Michael Gorra ’ s new book about William Faulkner , writes that “ there is no defending Faulkner ’ s character , only his characters ” ( Books , November 30th ) .
As with all things Faulkner , the interplay between personal life and fiction is complex .
Take , for instance , Faulkner ’ s relationship with Caroline Barr , whom Cep identifies as the “ family ’ s Black maid .
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to whom he dedicated his book ‘ Go Down , Moses.
’ ” Faulkner may have based @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 1929 masterpiece , “ The Sound and the Fury , ” on Barr .
The book ’ s final section is often called the “ Dilsey chapter.
” Almost two decades later , Faulkner added an appendix to the novel , providing more detailed biographies of many of its characters .
As in the novel , Faulkner leaves the final words for Dilsey , saying , simply , “ They endured.
” A few years later , in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech , delivered at the start of the Cold War , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will not merely endure : he will prevail.
” The choice of the word “ endure ” is significant .
In his novels , few characters endure or prevail .
But the use of “ endure ” in both the appendix and the Nobel speech seemingly connect Faulkner ’ s personal belief in the promise of man with the lives of his characters .
Arguably , Faulkner provided the best example of what he believed to be the goal of all authors and poets : to depict “ the human heart in conflict @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that is worth writing about , worth the agony and the sweat.
” The New Yorker ’ s issue of November 30th contains two articles that address the purpose of design .
Burkhard Bilger ’ s Profile of Mark Ellison , a master craftsperson , focusses on high-end residential renovations in New York City—a service rendered to well-off people who agonize over ceiling curves and stair balustrades ( “ Building the Impossible ” ) .
I , too , work in architecture in the city , and I found Bilger ’ s presentation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be well observed .
One thing that Ellison said was particularly revealing : “ No one does what we do to an apartment for value or resale .
No one needs it .
They just want it.
” In contrast , Alexis Okeowo writes movingly about how the confluence of racism , poverty , public health , and municipal infrastructure has led to a lack of essential sanitation design services in Alabama ’ s Black Belt ( “ Tainted Earth ” ) .
This vacuum insures the continued marginalization of communities like that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is not difficult to see that equitable design through the provision of basic septic systems would be of great value to many residents of Lowndes County .
As a retired carpenter with experience of New York City ’ s élite renovation culture , I ’ m impressed by Mark Ellison ’ s skills and achievements .
But construction that only the wealthiest city residents can afford is one thing—doing high-quality work when resources are more limited is another .
Though some of the most beautiful spaces I ever had a hand in creating @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , others are more down-to-earth .
One of my proudest professional moments came when a woman whose staircase I had replaced stopped me in the supermarket to tell me how much she appreciated the beauty and singularity of something designed and built with care .
Such things should be accessible to everyone .
Letters should be sent with the writer ’ s name , address , and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail @ newyorker.com .
Letters may be edited for length and clarity , and may be published in any medium @ @ @ @ @ @ @ volume of correspondence we can not reply to every letter .

Why Faulkner Endures
Casey Cep, in her review of Michael Gorra’s new book about William Faulkner, writes that “there is no defending Faulkner’s character, only his characters” (Books, November 30th). As with all things Faulkner, the interplay between personal life and fiction is complex. Take, for instance, Faulkner’s relationship with Caroline Barr, whom Cep identifies as the “family’s Black maid . . . to whom he dedicated his book ‘Go Down, Moses.’ ” Faulkner may have based the character of Dilsey, in his 1929 masterpiece, “The Sound and the Fury,” on Barr. The book’s final section is often called the “Dilsey chapter.” Almost two decades later, Faulkner added an appendix to the novel, providing more detailed biographies of many of its characters. As in the novel, Faulkner leaves the final words for Dilsey, saying, simply, “They endured.”
A few years later, in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, delivered at the start of the Cold War, Faulkner articulated his belief that “man will not merely endure: he will prevail.” The choice of the word “endure” is significant. In his novels, few characters endure or prevail. But the use of “endure” in both the appendix and the Nobel speech seemingly connect Faulkner’s personal belief in the promise of man with the lives of his characters. Arguably, Faulkner provided the best example of what he believed to be the goal of all authors and poets: to depict “the human heart in conflict with itself . . . because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.”
Jason Dittrich
Germantown, Md.
Design Within Reach
The New Yorker’s issue of November 30th contains two articles that address the purpose of design. Burkhard Bilger’s Profile of Mark Ellison, a master craftsperson, focusses on high-end residential renovations in New York City—a service rendered to well-off people who agonize over ceiling curves and stair balustrades (“Building the Impossible”). I, too, work in architecture in the city, and I found Bilger’s presentation of the politics of this world to be well observed. One thing that Ellison said was particularly revealing: “No one does what we do to an apartment for value or resale. No one needs it. They just want it.” In contrast, Alexis Okeowo writes movingly about how the confluence of racism, poverty, public health, and municipal infrastructure has led to a lack of essential sanitation design services in Alabama’s Black Belt (“Tainted Earth”). This vacuum insures the continued marginalization of communities like that of the late Pamela Rush. It is not difficult to see that equitable design through the provision of basic septic systems would be of great value to many residents of Lowndes County.
Aoife O’Leary
Brooklyn, N.Y.
As a retired carpenter with experience of New York City’s élite renovation culture, I’m impressed by Mark Ellison’s skills and achievements. But construction that only the wealthiest city residents can afford is one thing—doing high-quality work when resources are more limited is another. Though some of the most beautiful spaces I ever had a hand in creating overlook the city from fifty stories up, others are more down-to-earth. One of my proudest professional moments came when a woman whose staircase I had replaced stopped me in the supermarket to tell me how much she appreciated the beauty and singularity of something designed and built with care. Such things should be accessible to everyone.
Lon Bull
New York City
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Letters should be sent with the writer’s name, address, and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail@newyorker.com. Letters may be edited for length and clarity, and may be published in any medium. We regret that owing to the volume of correspondence we cannot reply to every letter.