newyorker--2020-03-01--Michael Bloomberg’s Black Agenda Gets Reviewed on Black Wall Street

The Vernon African Methodist Episcopal Church is one of Tulsa ’ s smallest congregations , attracting only about seventy-five members on a good Sunday .
The three-story , red brick building , which appears stately from a distance , reveals its age on closer inspection .
The white paint on its windowsills is chipped nearly bare , the plaster walls that line its main hall are cracked , and its clouded stained-glass windows rattle when a semi trundles across the interstate overpass next door .
This is not a typical place of respite for billionaires .
But Presidential candidate Michael @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ballot for the first time in Oklahoma and thirteen other states on Tuesday , stood in the Vernon pulpit on the last Sunday in January and spoke about the economic legacy of racism .
Campaigning the day before Martin Luther King , Jr. , Day , Bloomberg had chosen a potent symbol of black history .
Vernon AME ’ s neighborhood , the Greenwood district , was a thriving enclave of black-owned businesses in the early twentieth century that came to be known as Black Wall Street .
In 1921 it was burned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ violence by members of Tulsa ’ s white community , after a teen-age black shoe shiner was arrested for allegedly assaulting a white woman in the elevator she operated .
Thousands of assailants , armed with kerosene , rifles , and even a machine gun , systematically burned and looted the homes and businesses of Greenwood .
As many as three hundred people were killed .
The community was rebuilt , but many families never recovered their previous wealth .
The basement of the Vernon church , built in 1919 , was one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inferno left intact .
The Tulsa race massacre has long been left out of American-history books and accounts of the so-called Roaring Twenties , but the upcoming centennial of the attack has brought Greenwood national attention—and political utility .
To signal their commitment to issues such as voting rights and social equality , Presidential hopefuls have long visited sanctuaries that served as nerve centers of the civil-rights movement , such as Brown Chapel AME in Selma , Alabama , or Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta .
Now they are adding Vernon to their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that they understand how systemic racism over the course of centuries has impacted black people financially .
Last year , Beto O ’ Rourke , Cory Booker , and Elizabeth Warren all came to Vernon AME .
“ For candidates who have any type of urban or inner-city policy , it just makes sense for them to come to the most prosperous place on record for black people in the country , ” Robert Turner , Vernon ’ s 37-year-old pastor , told me .
“ That was Tulsa , Greenwood , 1921.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ church service , Bloomberg delivered a speech in the sunlit atrium of the Greenwood Cultural Center , a community event space that doubles as a memorial to massacre victims .
There , he announced a series of economic programs for African-Americans that he called the “ Greenwood Initiative.
” The plan involves helping a million African-Americans become homeowners , doubling the number of black-owned small businesses , and investing seventy billion dollars in a hundred low-income communities .
Bloomberg cast the agenda as part of his growing realization of his own privilege and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ faced in establishing intergenerational wealth .
He coined the initiative ’ s name himself , according to his staffers .
“ The challenge of African-American wealth creation today is inextricably linked to the racial inequalities of the past , and I ’ m determined to make breaking that link a centerpiece of my Presidency , ” Bloomberg said as he stood in front of a large American flag .
The speech impressed the Reverend Turner , Vernon ’ s pastor , who lived a past life as a campaign staffer in Alabama state @ @ @ @ @ @ @ many national politicians .
“ I don ’ t give endorsements to candidates , but I really love his plan , ” he told me over breakfast recently , donning a black-and-gold Black Wall Street hoodie .
“ His plan is the first in my adult life of economic development specifically for black people , and tying it to a historical issue like Jim Crow or redlining or racism.
” All of the major Democratic candidates have plans that in some way address racial economic injustice .
Elizabeth Warren wants to issue seven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Pete Buttigieg , among other incentives , ups the figure to ten billion for people from underrepresented backgrounds , but in a more complex arrangement in which the government would “ co-invest ” with private firms .
Bernie Sanders ’ s tax plan to reduce income inequality and forgive student debt is supposed to lift all boats .
But Bloomberg has marketed his plan the most aggressively .
Unbeknownst to attendees , his Greenwood visit and speech were turned into a national campaign ad that has aired more than twenty-three hundred times @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sent mailers to voters in Super Tuesday states touting the Greenwood Initiative , including black-and-white photos of Black Wall Street at the peak of its success .
He launched a “ Mike for Black America ” get-out-the-vote campaign alongside a dozen black mayors , in Houston .
Many of Tulsa ’ s black leaders say they are honored to have their community ’ s story brought to more Americans by Presidential candidates .
Some black Oklahomans say that Bloomberg ’ s full-court press has proved to them that the former mayor has the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He ’ s got the finances that we need , that he ’ s willing to give , to win this election , ” said Freda Lang , a sixty-two-year-old Oklahoma City resident , who plans to work at a phone bank for Bloomberg before Tuesday ’ s primary .
“ That ’ s very important to me , that we have the money to defeat this current President.
” For some , though , the rollout has been almost too efficient .
“ It ’ s too strategic to be authentic , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in New York for a decade while Bloomberg was mayor and is the curator of the Black Wall Street Gallery on Greenwood Avenue .
“ You want us to support your candidacy .
But how do we know that you ’ re genuine ?
” Tulsa is a city where the government ’ s failure to do right by its black citizens has played out in devastating fashion , again and again .
After the massacre , dozens of black residents filed lawsuits against the city , arguing that officials had failed to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ some of the white attackers who had reduced Greenwood to rubble and placed black survivors in internment camps downtown .
Local judges threw out the cases .
Decades later , as Greenwood slid into a second , slower decline , in the nineteen-sixties , the city seized large tracts of land under the banner of urban renewal and built the interstate that now roars next to Vernon , splintering a once thriving community .
In the early two-thousands , the U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear a case seeking reparations for survivors as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Even for residents galvanized by Bloomberg ’ s plan , there is a wariness born of experience .
“ Here ’ s the thing black Tulsans have been a victim of : For the last six decades , there ’ s been proposal after proposal to make Greenwood great again , ” Jim Goodwin , the 80-year-old attorney and publisher of the Oklahoma Eagle , the state ’ s longest-running black newspaper , told me .
“ From Model Cities to community block-grant funds , you name it .
.
.
.
They @ @ @ @ @ @ @ citizenry , but we suffer from what I call institutional amnesia .
From one Administration to the next , there seems to be no recollection of the promises made in the past.
” Goodwin said that if he could be sure Bloomberg ’ s Greenwood Initiative would be implemented , he would definitely vote for the former New York mayor .
For now , he ’ s still evaluating candidates .

The Vernon African Methodist Episcopal Church is one of Tulsa’s smallest congregations, attracting only about seventy-five members on a good Sunday. The three-story, red brick building, which appears stately from a distance, reveals its age on closer inspection. The white paint on its windowsills is chipped nearly bare, the plaster walls that line its main hall are cracked, and its clouded stained-glass windows rattle when a semi trundles across the interstate overpass next door. This is not a typical place of respite for billionaires. But Presidential candidate Michael Bloomberg, who will be on the ballot for the first time in Oklahoma and thirteen other states on Tuesday, stood in the Vernon pulpit on the last Sunday in January and spoke about the economic legacy of racism.
Campaigning the day before Martin Luther King, Jr., Day, Bloomberg had chosen a potent symbol of black history. Vernon AME’s neighborhood, the Greenwood district, was a thriving enclave of black-owned businesses in the early twentieth century that came to be known as Black Wall Street. In 1921 it was burned down in a brutal act of terrorist violence by members of Tulsa’s white community, after a teen-age black shoe shiner was arrested for allegedly assaulting a white woman in the elevator she operated. Thousands of assailants, armed with kerosene, rifles, and even a machine gun, systematically burned and looted the homes and businesses of Greenwood. As many as three hundred people were killed. The community was rebuilt, but many families never recovered their previous wealth. The basement of the Vernon church, built in 1919, was one of the only structures from before the inferno left intact.
The Tulsa race massacre has long been left out of American-history books and accounts of the so-called Roaring Twenties, but the upcoming centennial of the attack has brought Greenwood national attention—and political utility. To signal their commitment to issues such as voting rights and social equality, Presidential hopefuls have long visited sanctuaries that served as nerve centers of the civil-rights movement, such as Brown Chapel AME in Selma, Alabama, or Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta. Now they are adding Vernon to their list of campaign stops, to show that they understand how systemic racism over the course of centuries has impacted black people financially. Last year, Beto O’Rourke, Cory Booker, and Elizabeth Warren all came to Vernon AME. “For candidates who have any type of urban or inner-city policy, it just makes sense for them to come to the most prosperous place on record for black people in the country,” Robert Turner, Vernon’s 37-year-old pastor, told me. “That was Tulsa, Greenwood, 1921.”
A few hours after the January church service, Bloomberg delivered a speech in the sunlit atrium of the Greenwood Cultural Center, a community event space that doubles as a memorial to massacre victims. There, he announced a series of economic programs for African-Americans that he called the “Greenwood Initiative.” The plan involves helping a million African-Americans become homeowners, doubling the number of black-owned small businesses, and investing seventy billion dollars in a hundred low-income communities. Bloomberg cast the agenda as part of his growing realization of his own privilege and the additional obstacles black people have long faced in establishing intergenerational wealth. He coined the initiative’s name himself, according to his staffers. “The challenge of African-American wealth creation today is inextricably linked to the racial inequalities of the past, and I’m determined to make breaking that link a centerpiece of my Presidency,” Bloomberg said as he stood in front of a large American flag.
The speech impressed the Reverend Turner, Vernon’s pastor, who lived a past life as a campaign staffer in Alabama state politics and has now rubbed shoulders with many national politicians. “I don’t give endorsements to candidates, but I really love his plan,” he told me over breakfast recently, donning a black-and-gold Black Wall Street hoodie. “His plan is the first in my adult life of economic development specifically for black people, and tying it to a historical issue like Jim Crow or redlining or racism.”
All of the major Democratic candidates have plans that in some way address racial economic injustice. Elizabeth Warren wants to issue seven billion dollars in grants to minority-owned businesses. Pete Buttigieg, among other incentives, ups the figure to ten billion for people from underrepresented backgrounds, but in a more complex arrangement in which the government would “co-invest” with private firms. Bernie Sanders’s tax plan to reduce income inequality and forgive student debt is supposed to lift all boats.
But Bloomberg has marketed his plan the most aggressively. Unbeknownst to attendees, his Greenwood visit and speech were turned into a national campaign ad that has aired more than twenty-three hundred times since mid-February. Bloomberg’s campaign sent mailers to voters in Super Tuesday states touting the Greenwood Initiative, including black-and-white photos of Black Wall Street at the peak of its success. He launched a “Mike for Black America” get-out-the-vote campaign alongside a dozen black mayors, in Houston.
Many of Tulsa’s black leaders say they are honored to have their community’s story brought to more Americans by Presidential candidates. Some black Oklahomans say that Bloomberg’s full-court press has proved to them that the former mayor has the means to beat Donald Trump. “He’s got the finances that we need, that he’s willing to give, to win this election,” said Freda Lang, a sixty-two-year-old Oklahoma City resident, who plans to work at a phone bank for Bloomberg before Tuesday’s primary. “That’s very important to me, that we have the money to defeat this current President.”
For some, though, the rollout has been almost too efficient. “It’s too strategic to be authentic,” said Ricco Wright, who lived in New York for a decade while Bloomberg was mayor and is the curator of the Black Wall Street Gallery on Greenwood Avenue. “You want us to support your candidacy. But how do we know that you’re genuine?”
Tulsa is a city where the government’s failure to do right by its black citizens has played out in devastating fashion, again and again. After the massacre, dozens of black residents filed lawsuits against the city, arguing that officials had failed to protect them. Instead, police deputized some of the white attackers who had reduced Greenwood to rubble and placed black survivors in internment camps downtown. Local judges threw out the cases. Decades later, as Greenwood slid into a second, slower decline, in the nineteen-sixties, the city seized large tracts of land under the banner of urban renewal and built the interstate that now roars next to Vernon, splintering a once thriving community. In the early two-thousands, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear a case seeking reparations for survivors as many of them were approaching death.
Even for residents galvanized by Bloomberg’s plan, there is a wariness born of experience. “Here’s the thing black Tulsans have been a victim of: For the last six decades, there’s been proposal after proposal to make Greenwood great again,” Jim Goodwin, the 80-year-old attorney and publisher of the Oklahoma Eagle, the state’s longest-running black newspaper, told me. “From Model Cities to community block-grant funds, you name it. . . . They make these promises, they engage the citizenry, but we suffer from what I call institutional amnesia. From one Administration to the next, there seems to be no recollection of the promises made in the past.” Goodwin said that if he could be sure Bloomberg’s Greenwood Initiative would be implemented, he would definitely vote for the former New York mayor. For now, he’s still evaluating candidates.
Greenwood is currently undergoing another bout of rapid change, a mix of community-focussed black businesses, in the vein of the neighborhood’s roots, and sprawling mega-developments by national chains and powerful white real-estate developers in Oklahoma. At the Black Wall Street Liquid Lounge, a new black-owned coffee shop in the heart of the district, patrons mulled Bloomberg’s authenticity days before the primary. Although some viewed his wealth as an asset in the battle against Trump—Bloomberg has a net worth of sixty-four billion dollars and has self-funded a five-hundred-million-dollar political campaign—it gave pause to Brooke Chase, a 24-year-old co-manager of the shop. “It’s just like, ‘How much more power do you want?’ ” she wondered, reclining on a brown leather couch. “Just because you can run a business and make all this money, what makes you think you can run a country? We have a billionaire in the office, and we see how that’s going.” Chase said that she plans to vote for Bernie Sanders.


newyorker--2020-03-01--B. Smith Was the Consummate Host

B. Smith Was the Consummate Host

For me , growing up , after Saturday-morning cartoons came “ B .
Smith with Style.
” I ’ d flip to NBC4 and wait for the sound of the show ’ s R. & B. instrumentals to fill my bedroom .
Filmed in soft focus , with Smith ’ s straight-to-camera commentary guiding viewers through cooking segments and life-style tips , the show was peak nineties television .
The opening sequence , a montage of aspirational images—Smith smelling pink roses , Smith cooking in a sherbet-colored chef ’ s coat and toque , Smith strolling with her husband , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by a theme song performed by Smith herself .
“ Every day is your own holiday , ” she sang .
I would settle into my twin bed to watch , luxuriating in Smith ’ s stylish world like a cat bathing in a beam of sunlight .
As a black girl living in southern Maryland , I considered Smith , who died , at seventy , last Saturday , an icon , and her show a revelation .
For each episode ’ s half-hour duration , I watched Smith explain how to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ least , more elegant and delicious .
Even before Ina Garten established her Barefoot Contessa empire , before the concept of a “ domestic goddess ” became a marketing tool , there was Smith , whisking her viewers into showrooms to meet fashion designers , into the kitchen of her Hamptons home to learn the right way to clean copper pots , all while looking like she ’ d just stepped out of a photo shoot .
Though Smith is largely remembered as a restaurateur , television host , and life-style guru , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Born Barbara Elaine Smith , near Pittsburgh , Pennsylvania , she knew she wanted to work in fashion from a young age , and begged her mother and father to send her to modelling school , in Philadelphia , and they relented .
After graduating from high school , she moved to New York City , where she was signed to the Wilhelmina Models agency .
She sang in lounges and landed small acting gigs while searching for modelling work .
“ I used to make calls to magazines all the time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I made them discover me , ” she said in an interview in 2011 .
In 1976 , she became the second African-American model to appear on the cover of Mademoiselle .
She opened her first restaurant in 1986 , serving nouvelle cuisine meets Southern cooking , and incorporating the worldly influences she ’ d accumulated during her travels as a model .
Smith made black-eyed-pea soup with vegetable stock and kale before kale was a buzzword .
She repurposed fried okra as a topping for her veggie burgers .
In Smith ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inextricable from hosting and entertaining .
I loved watching her cook with celebrities like Mary Wilson or Kathleen Battle , assembling dishes with meticulously styled vegetables and seasonings .
Smith was the consummate host , shaking hands and giving hugs , always poised , and able to engage and carry conversation with all kinds of people .
( Even Eartha Kitt ’ s suggestive purrs weren ’ t enough to throw her off . )
Smith talked to viewers as if they were acquaintances , describing the feel of gorgeous handmade wood furniture @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a fashion designer she was newly obsessed with , or the fabulous restaurant she and Gasby had discovered on their latest trip .
When I went away to college in the Northeast and travelled home to Maryland , I would always peek into Smith ’ s eponymous restaurant inside Union Station , in Washington , D.C .
The smell of garlic and spices would waft through the entryway into the cavernous station hall just outside .
The cursive lettering on the glass above the door complemented the opulent feel of the dining room @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s grand Presidential Suite—a space that was originally conceived as a waiting room for the Chief Executive .
I made a point to always pass by the restaurant on my way outside the station , where my mom would be waiting in a car to pick me up .
I don ’ t think my mother , who worked for the government , had any interest in Smith or her celebrity , but , to me , a culinary-school student at the time , the space was hallowed ground ; it felt @ @ @ @ @ @ @ foot inside .
Smith was often characterized as a “ black Martha Stewart , ” but Smith herself resisted the comparison , or at least qualified it .
“ Martha Stewart has presented herself doing the things domestics and African-Americans have done for years , ” she famously said in New York , in 1997 , the year Smith ’ s show began airing .
“ This is the legacy that I was left .
Martha just got there first.
” She was one of the first black women I saw cooking and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ obligation to others but for her own pleasure .
Smith showed me that it was possible to build a life out of hospitality .
Her show also gave me some unrealistic expectations .
I pictured myself becoming a food mogul one day , my life as elegant as hers seemed on television .
The weeds in the garden of my seaside mansion need to be pulled ?
No problem .
Usher and Ashanti are in town and want to stop by for dinner ?
I ’ d have a quiche or a pot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ greet them at the door wearing a custom-made gown .
We ’ d chat and linger for hours over dessert .
But Smith ’ s life wasn ’ t as tidy as it seemed on her show .
In 2013 , during a cooking demonstration on the “ Today ” show , Smith forgot the name of one of the main ingredients in a marinade .
Soon after , she announced that she had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer ’ s .
She and Gasby co-authored a book about her struggles , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ speaking out about Alzheimer ’ s their mission .
( Black people and women , they noted , are more likely to suffer from the disease . )
In 2014 , Smith briefly went missing , prompting a search in New York City before she was spotted in a café in Manhattan .
Her health continued to deteriorate , and she closed her restaurants , starting with the Union Station outpost , which served its last meal in 2013 .
In 2018 , Gasby angered Smith ’ s fans when he announced that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and that his girlfriend had a room in the house that he and Smith shared .
I felt a pang of sadness looking at the photo of the threesome that accompanied the story .
B. wasn ’ t facing the camera , commanding attention as she always had .
She stood off to the side , her hair cropped short , while Gasby and his new partner—white , blond—communed in the center of the frame .
I wanted to hold on to the self-possessed B. Smith I remembered from her television show , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ear to ear .
Smith ended each episode of her show with a charge : “ Whatever you do , do it with style.
” She ’ d be decked out in some fabulous outfit , standing in some beautiful location .
Then our peek into her world would abruptly end , and the credits would roll .
I ’ d look forward to seeing her face again the next week .
I remember thinking then that it wasn ’ t possible to be as stylish as B. Smith , and today I @ @ @ @ @ @ @

On her TV show, B. Smith would introduce viewers to fashion designers or show them the proper way to clean copper pots, all while looking like she’d just stepped out of a photo shoot. Photograph by Barbara Alper / Getty
For me, growing up, after Saturday-morning cartoons came “B. Smith with Style.” I’d flip to NBC4 and wait for the sound of the show’s R. & B. instrumentals to fill my bedroom. Filmed in soft focus, with Smith’s straight-to-camera commentary guiding viewers through cooking segments and life-style tips, the show was peak nineties television. The opening sequence, a montage of aspirational images—Smith smelling pink roses, Smith cooking in a sherbet-colored chef’s coat and toque, Smith strolling with her husband, Dan Gasby, on the beach—was backed by a theme song performed by Smith herself. “Every day is your own holiday,” she sang. I would settle into my twin bed to watch, luxuriating in Smith’s stylish world like a cat bathing in a beam of sunlight.
As a black girl living in southern Maryland, I considered Smith, who died, at seventy, last Saturday, an icon, and her show a revelation. For each episode’s half-hour duration, I watched Smith explain how to make everything around you better—or, at least, more elegant and delicious. Even before Ina Garten established her Barefoot Contessa empire, before the concept of a “domestic goddess” became a marketing tool, there was Smith, whisking her viewers into showrooms to meet fashion designers, into the kitchen of her Hamptons home to learn the right way to clean copper pots, all while looking like she’d just stepped out of a photo shoot.
Though Smith is largely remembered as a restaurateur, television host, and life-style guru, she began her career as a model. Born Barbara Elaine Smith, near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, she knew she wanted to work in fashion from a young age, and begged her mother and father to send her to modelling school, in Philadelphia, and they relented. After graduating from high school, she moved to New York City, where she was signed to the Wilhelmina Models agency. She sang in lounges and landed small acting gigs while searching for modelling work. “I used to make calls to magazines all the time. I wasn’t discovered. I made them discover me,” she said in an interview in 2011. In 1976, she became the second African-American model to appear on the cover of Mademoiselle. She opened her first restaurant in 1986, serving nouvelle cuisine meets Southern cooking, and incorporating the worldly influences she’d accumulated during her travels as a model. Smith made black-eyed-pea soup with vegetable stock and kale before kale was a buzzword. She repurposed fried okra as a topping for her veggie burgers.
In Smith’s world, food and dining seemed inextricable from hosting and entertaining. I loved watching her cook with celebrities like Mary Wilson or Kathleen Battle, assembling dishes with meticulously styled vegetables and seasonings. Smith was the consummate host, shaking hands and giving hugs, always poised, and able to engage and carry conversation with all kinds of people. (Even Eartha Kitt’s suggestive purrs weren’t enough to throw her off.) Smith talked to viewers as if they were acquaintances, describing the feel of gorgeous handmade wood furniture in Jamaica, the silky fabrics of a fashion designer she was newly obsessed with, or the fabulous restaurant she and Gasby had discovered on their latest trip.
When I went away to college in the Northeast and travelled home to Maryland, I would always peek into Smith’s eponymous restaurant inside Union Station, in Washington, D.C. The smell of garlic and spices would waft through the entryway into the cavernous station hall just outside. The cursive lettering on the glass above the door complemented the opulent feel of the dining room, which was housed in the station’s grand Presidential Suite—a space that was originally conceived as a waiting room for the Chief Executive. I made a point to always pass by the restaurant on my way outside the station, where my mom would be waiting in a car to pick me up. I don’t think my mother, who worked for the government, had any interest in Smith or her celebrity, but, to me, a culinary-school student at the time, the space was hallowed ground; it felt familiar, although I had never set foot inside.
Smith was often characterized as a “black Martha Stewart,” but Smith herself resisted the comparison, or at least qualified it. “Martha Stewart has presented herself doing the things domestics and African-Americans have done for years,” she famously said in New York, in 1997, the year Smith’s show began airing. “This is the legacy that I was left. Martha just got there first.” She was one of the first black women I saw cooking and entertaining on television, not out of obligation to others but for her own pleasure. Smith showed me that it was possible to build a life out of hospitality. Her show also gave me some unrealistic expectations. I pictured myself becoming a food mogul one day, my life as elegant as hers seemed on television. The weeds in the garden of my seaside mansion need to be pulled? No problem. Usher and Ashanti are in town and want to stop by for dinner? I’d have a quiche or a pot of soup whipped up stat, and greet them at the door wearing a custom-made gown. We’d chat and linger for hours over dessert.
But Smith’s life wasn’t as tidy as it seemed on her show. In 2013, during a cooking demonstration on the “Today” show, Smith forgot the name of one of the main ingredients in a marinade. Soon after, she announced that she had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. She and Gasby co-authored a book about her struggles, “Before I Forget,” and made speaking out about Alzheimer’s their mission. (Black people and women, they noted, are more likely to suffer from the disease.) In 2014, Smith briefly went missing, prompting a search in New York City before she was spotted in a café in Manhattan. Her health continued to deteriorate, and she closed her restaurants, starting with the Union Station outpost, which served its last meal in 2013. In 2018, Gasby angered Smith’s fans when he announced that he had begun a new relationship, and that his girlfriend had a room in the house that he and Smith shared. I felt a pang of sadness looking at the photo of the threesome that accompanied the story. B. wasn’t facing the camera, commanding attention as she always had. She stood off to the side, her hair cropped short, while Gasby and his new partner—white, blond—communed in the center of the frame. I wanted to hold on to the self-possessed B. Smith I remembered from her television show, her dreadlocks beautifully coiffed, smiling from ear to ear.
Smith ended each episode of her show with a charge: “Whatever you do, do it with style.” She’d be decked out in some fabulous outfit, standing in some beautiful location. Then our peek into her world would abruptly end, and the credits would roll. I’d look forward to seeing her face again the next week. I remember thinking then that it wasn’t possible to be as stylish as B. Smith, and today I still think that’s true.


newyorker--2020-03-02--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Weather , by Jenny Offill ( Knopf ) .
Lizzie , the narrator of this novel , is hired to answer e-mails for a prominent professor who lectures widely about the imminence of climate apocalypse .
As she fields questions from evangelicals , environmentalists , preppers— “ everyone who writes her is either crazy or depressed ” —she finds her life mired in dread .
In diaristic fragments , Lizzie builds a taxonomy of end-times experts : disaster psychologists , futurists , climate scientists , survival instructors , war journalists , hippies .
Offill ’ s mordant humor keeps the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its central inquiry : How do we make our way to safety , and whom do we bring with us ?
Apeirogon , by Colum McCann ( Random House ) .
This multifaceted novel , whose title means “ a shape with a countably infinite number of sides , ” tells the story of an unlikely friendship amid the Israel-Palestine conflict .
Bassam Aramin , a Palestinian who served a prison sentence for throwing a grenade , and Rami Elhanan , a former Israeli soldier , each lost a child to the violence @ @ @ @ @ @ @ now work to educate people about the conflict ’ s human cost .
Blending fiction and nonfiction in more than a thousand mini-chapters , McCann ’ s account includes tales about the history , people , and weapons involved in the occupation of Palestine as well as interviews with Rami and Bassam .
The ambitious form sometimes elides the nuances of Rami ’ s and Bassam ’ s stories , but McCann ’ s generous narrative amplifies their emotionally resonant message .
Something That May Shock and Discredit You , by Daniel Mallory @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of this collection of essays and humorous interludes illuminates the story of his gender transition by assembling an unlikely group of interlocutors , including William Shatner , Ovid , the Golden Girls , and John Bunyan .
Ortberg does not simply narrate his experience of transition ; he also grapples with the challenge of doing so , toggling skillfully between criticism , personal essay , and literary pastiche , and at one point satirizing the “ po-faced transmasculine memoir I am trying not to write.
” Animated by Ortberg ’ s Christian faith @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a syllabus of sorts—a road map for navigating one remarkable writer ’ s mind .
In the Dream House , by Carmen Maria Machado ( Graywolf ) .
The titular house in this memoir is where the author and her girlfriend live in passionate bliss , until the girlfriend turns manipulative , cruel , and sometimes violent .
Then it becomes a “ dungeon of memory ” and the unifying metaphor of an account that emerges in shards of autobiography , history , and fable .
Searching for other stories like hers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the “ archival silence ” surrounding queer domestic abuse .
The memoirist ’ s task , she writes , is to “ braid the clays of memory and essay and fact and perception together , smash them into a ball , roll them ﬂat .
”

Weather, by Jenny Offill (Knopf). Lizzie, the narrator of this novel, is hired to answer e-mails for a prominent professor who lectures widely about the imminence of climate apocalypse. As she fields questions from evangelicals, environmentalists, preppers—“everyone who writes her is either crazy or depressed”—she finds her life mired in dread. In diaristic fragments, Lizzie builds a taxonomy of end-times experts: disaster psychologists, futurists, climate scientists, survival instructors, war journalists, hippies. Offill’s mordant humor keeps the story nimble even as the novel reveals its central inquiry: How do we make our way to safety, and whom do we bring with us?
Apeirogon, by Colum McCann (Random House). This multifaceted novel, whose title means “a shape with a countably infinite number of sides,” tells the story of an unlikely friendship amid the Israel-Palestine conflict. Bassam Aramin, a Palestinian who served a prison sentence for throwing a grenade, and Rami Elhanan, a former Israeli soldier, each lost a child to the violence. Drawn together by grief, they now work to educate people about the conflict’s human cost. Blending fiction and nonfiction in more than a thousand mini-chapters, McCann’s account includes tales about the history, people, and weapons involved in the occupation of Palestine as well as interviews with Rami and Bassam. The ambitious form sometimes elides the nuances of Rami’s and Bassam’s stories, but McCann’s generous narrative amplifies their emotionally resonant message.
Something That May Shock and Discredit You, by Daniel Mallory Ortberg (Atria). The author of this collection of essays and humorous interludes illuminates the story of his gender transition by assembling an unlikely group of interlocutors, including William Shatner, Ovid, the Golden Girls, and John Bunyan. Ortberg does not simply narrate his experience of transition; he also grapples with the challenge of doing so, toggling skillfully between criticism, personal essay, and literary pastiche, and at one point satirizing the “po-faced transmasculine memoir I am trying not to write.” Animated by Ortberg’s Christian faith and eclectic cultural enthusiasms, the book is a syllabus of sorts—a road map for navigating one remarkable writer’s mind.
In the Dream House, by Carmen Maria Machado (Graywolf). The titular house in this memoir is where the author and her girlfriend live in passionate bliss, until the girlfriend turns manipulative, cruel, and sometimes violent. Then it becomes a “dungeon of memory” and the unifying metaphor of an account that emerges in shards of autobiography, history, and fable. Searching for other stories like hers, she ﬁnds few, and reﬂects on the “archival silence” surrounding queer domestic abuse. The memoirist’s task, she writes, is to “braid the clays of memory and essay and fact and perception together, smash them into a ball, roll them ﬂat.”


newyorker--2020-03-02--Your Check Is Ready

Your Check Is Ready

JANUARY 8 Dear Sir , Your check has been cut and is ready to be mailed to you .
The person who will mail it to you is currently being mailed to us .
We will keep a close eye on our mail , and as soon as it arrives , with him in it , we will transfer the check to him to mail to you immediately .
FEBRUARY 15 Dear Sir , Thank you for your inquiry .
Your check is still here , ready to go , but the person who was mailed to us so that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ longer than expected to be mailed .
When he finally did arrive , with the rest of our mail , he was mistaken for junk mail and ended up in the recycled mail .
We have put in a special request , and another person who will promptly mail your check to you is being mailed to us , via overnight mail .
MARCH 11 Dear Sir , The person who was being mailed to us by overnight mail so that he could mail your check to you was mailed from someplace north @ @ @ @ @ @ @ told ) , where night lasts a long time , which naturally affects the mail .
We are closely tracking this overnight mailing and expect it to arrive at our offices with our other mail as soon as night up there is over—no later than mid-April , we believe .
Please be assured that your check is sitting right here on our desk , still crisp and fresh and beautiful , all set to be mailed .
MARCH 23 Dear Sir , Just to reassure you that your check really does exist , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : it is eight inches long by three and a half inches high , printed on that handsome mini-herringbone-patterned background that the best checks are printed on , and it says “ Pay to the order of , ” followed by your clearly typed and correctly spelled name .
So there can be no mistake about the exact person for whom the check is intended—you .
Your address also appears on the check , which will come in handy when the check is mailed .
MARCH 24 Dear Sir , Apologies for contacting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ communication about your check , but we admired it again this morning , here on our desk , and somehow , in our absence , the sum seems to have been changed to a larger number than it was yesterday !
It really is a substantial check .
You must be very eager to have such a check mailed to you , and , indeed , in all likelihood , it probably will be mailed before long .
APRIL 12 Dear Sir , The mail containing the person whose job it was to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and he has mailed you your check .
Unfortunately , our mail service uses a mail drop in which there are two regular-mail slots for outgoing mail , the first marked “ EARTH MAIL ” and the second marked “ OTHER.
” Assuming that the “ EARTH MAIL ” slot had something to do with Earth Day , and thinking that was not appropriate , he dropped your check into the slot marked “ OTHER.
” A reasonable mistake—but , regrettably , the “ OTHER ” slot is for mail addressed to places @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a further mail delay , for which we apologize .
NOVEMBER 18 Dear Sir , We met a fellow in the past two-three weeks who said that he ran into your check at the famous “ Star Wars ” bar sometime last summer , although he forgets the exact date .
We just thought you would like to know .
DECEMBER 1 Dear Sir , Yes , we suppose we could put a “ stop ” on your check and issue ( but not mail ) a check to replace the check that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ really , why bother ?
DECEMBER 8 Dear Sir , Against our better judgment , we have voided your original check and issued a replacement .
Oh , what a gorgeous thing this spanking-new check is !
At the moment , it is sitting , pert and pretty , on our desk , waiting to be mailed .
FEBRUARY 9 Dear Sir , We were getting way too attached to each other , your check and us , and so we made the painful decision to end the relationship .
The check has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ service , and we are monitoring its progress .
Already , it has travelled half the distance to you , and we are informed that very soon it will cover half the remaining distance , and then , quickly , half the remaining distance after that , etc .
So be on the lookout !
FEBRUARY 11 Dear Sir , The driver of the Ever Go truck informs us that he is one-thirty-second of an inch from your address and expects to be one-sixty-fourth of an inch from it shortly .
He will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ clock Eastern Standard Time this morning ( Tuesday , 2/11 ) and infinity .
We appreciate your patience .
♦

JANUARY 8 Dear Sir,
Your check has been cut and is ready to be mailed to you. The person who will mail it to you is currently being mailed to us. We will keep a close eye on our mail, and as soon as it arrives, with him in it, we will transfer the check to him to mail to you immediately.
FEBRUARY 15 Dear Sir,
Thank you for your inquiry. Your check is still here, ready to go, but the person who was mailed to us so that he could mail it to you took longer than expected to be mailed. When he finally did arrive, with the rest of our mail, he was mistaken for junk mail and ended up in the recycled mail. We have put in a special request, and another person who will promptly mail your check to you is being mailed to us, via overnight mail.
MARCH 11 Dear Sir,
The person who was being mailed to us by overnight mail so that he could mail your check to you was mailed from someplace north of the Arctic Circle (we are told), where night lasts a long time, which naturally affects the mail. We are closely tracking this overnight mailing and expect it to arrive at our offices with our other mail as soon as night up there is over—no later than mid-April, we believe. Please be assured that your check is sitting right here on our desk, still crisp and fresh and beautiful, all set to be mailed.
MARCH 23 Dear Sir,
Just to reassure you that your check really does exist, we are looking at it right now: it is eight inches long by three and a half inches high, printed on that handsome mini-herringbone-patterned background that the best checks are printed on, and it says “Pay to the order of,” followed by your clearly typed and correctly spelled name. So there can be no mistake about the exact person for whom the check is intended—you. Your address also appears on the check, which will come in handy when the check is mailed.
MARCH 24 Dear Sir,
Apologies for contacting you again so soon after our previous communication about your check, but we admired it again this morning, here on our desk, and somehow, in our absence, the sum seems to have been changed to a larger number than it was yesterday! It really is a substantial check. You must be very eager to have such a check mailed to you, and, indeed, in all likelihood, it probably will be mailed before long.
APRIL 12 Dear Sir,
The mail containing the person whose job it was to mail your check to you arrived, and he has mailed you your check. Unfortunately, our mail service uses a mail drop in which there are two regular-mail slots for outgoing mail, the first marked “EARTH MAIL” and the second marked “OTHER.” Assuming that the “EARTH MAIL” slot had something to do with Earth Day, and thinking that was not appropriate, he dropped your check into the slot marked “OTHER.” A reasonable mistake—but, regrettably, the “OTHER” slot is for mail addressed to places other than Earth. This may cause a further mail delay, for which we apologize.
NOVEMBER 18 Dear Sir,
We met a fellow in the past two-three weeks who said that he ran into your check at the famous “Star Wars” bar sometime last summer, although he forgets the exact date. We just thought you would like to know.
DECEMBER 1 Dear Sir,
Yes, we suppose we could put a “stop” on your check and issue (but not mail) a check to replace the check that we weren’t mailing previously—but, really, why bother?
DECEMBER 8 Dear Sir,
Against our better judgment, we have voided your original check and issued a replacement. Oh, what a gorgeous thing this spanking-new check is! At the moment, it is sitting, pert and pretty, on our desk, waiting to be mailed.
FEBRUARY 9 Dear Sir,
We were getting way too attached to each other, your check and us, and so we made the painful decision to end the relationship. The check has just been mailed via Ever Go ground service, and we are monitoring its progress. Already, it has travelled half the distance to you, and we are informed that very soon it will cover half the remaining distance, and then, quickly, half the remaining distance after that, etc. So be on the lookout!
FEBRUARY 11 Dear Sir,
The driver of the Ever Go truck informs us that he is one-thirty-second of an inch from your address and expects to be one-sixty-fourth of an inch from it shortly. He will make the delivery sometime between eight o’clock Eastern Standard Time this morning (Tuesday, 2/11) and infinity. We appreciate your patience. ♦


newyorker--2020-03-02--A “Swan Lake” Star Drinks Hot Water in Sinatra’s Old Haunt

When the F.B.I .
recently disclosed that Vladimir Putin was meddling in the American Presidential election again , Irina Kolesnikova , a principal ballerina with the St. Petersburg Ballet Theatre , was preparing to perform another bit of malevolent Russian meddling—in Tchaikovsky ’ s balletic saga “ Swan Lake , ” at the Brooklyn Academy of Music .
In the ballet , Kolesnikova plays a pair of look-alike polar-opposite beauties .
First , she is Odette , a princess cursed to remain a swan until a suitor swears his love to her .
Then she is Odile , Odette ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rival ’ s would-be rescuer .
Chaos ensues .
“ I ’ m more like Odette , ” Kolesnikova said , the night before the première .
She was seated at a table at the Russian Samovar , the midtown vodka-and-caviar joint that used to be the Frank Sinatra hangout Jilly ’ s .
Her pale hair was clipped back , and her angular cheekbones rested on her hands .
“ But I prefer to dance Odile.
” If Odette is generically princesslike— “ trusting , proud , ” Kolesnikova said—Odile is a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Putin ’ s ? )
are mysterious , explained Konstantin Tachkin , Kolesnikova ’ s husband and the founder of the St. Petersburg Ballet Theatre .
“ She can be seductive , or she can be—I don ’ t know this word in English , ” he said .
Kolesnikova picked up her phone and consulted Google Translate .
“ Insidious !
” she said .
( She speaks limited English . )
Her favorite scene , she went on , is when , as Odile , she throws a bouquet in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ having deceived him into pledging his devotion to the wrong tutu .
“ I get satisfaction from that , ” she said .
A waitress came over .
Tachkin never eats after 6 p.m. , and he ordered a slice of Napoleon cake with ninety minutes to go .
Kolesnikova , who as a rule does not eat dinner , ordered hot water with lemon .
The couple is specific about their sleeping arrangements , too .
The night before , they had rejected four rooms , in two hotels , before grudgingly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Holiday Inn .
The Marriott near the Brooklyn Bridge had been “ let ’ s call it .
.
.
not fresh , ” Tachkin , a slight , blond man with a preppie haircut , said .
A Hilton , he added , would have been out of the question .
BAM had been advertising Kolesnikova as “ Swan Lake ” ’ s headliner .
“ I have many responsibilities , ” she said , carefully .
“ When you have your name on the poster , it ’ s very hard @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in this country in 1998 , as a student , to perform at BAM with her ballet school .
That year , she joined the St. Petersburg Ballet Theatre , which Tachkin had founded after a stint in the Soviet special forces .
“ I was jumping with parachute .
I was running through the forest , ” he said .
“ It ’ s not the Soviet Union now , ” Tachkin went on .
“ When the Western media says there ’ s no freedom , that ’ s not true @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can see on the television lots of programs.
” ( Both he and his wife recalled , with puzzlement , the way the Soviet authorities , when they wanted to impose a news blackout , would broadcast “ Swan Lake ” on a loop . )
He acknowledged that Russia did have “ some problems inside , of course .
But which country doesn ’ t ?
” His dream , he said , is that Russia and the U.S. “ become , maybe not friends , but two countries who can coöperate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He went on , “ I do not think that the United States is our enemy .
I know many American people .
They are very friendly people .
We are also very friendly people.
” Since the birth of the couple ’ s daughter , five years ago , Kolesnikova said , she feels very calm onstage , as if she is now free to relax .
She will turn forty next month , and she has been reading books about how to prevent bodily degeneration by staying mentally fit .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ derive from their emotions , ” she said .
“ I want to continue dancing for many years .
I ’ m working from all angles—on my body , as well as on my emotional state.
” “ She thinks she ’ s more disciplined than me , ” Tachkin said , putting an elbow into his frosting .
His wife made a face .
“ It ’ s just a jacket !
” he said , dabbing with a napkin .
Does he agree that Kolesnikova is more Odette than Odile ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ No.
” His wife laughed , and hid the lower half of her face in her turtleneck .
“ Swan Lake ” does not always end swimmingly .
Sometimes the prince drowns after discovering his error .
But St. Petersburg Theatre ’ s version ends in triumph for the prince and his ( correct ) bride—an ending written under Stalin , according to the dance scholar Janice Ross , because his regime demanded “ optimistic art.
” The moral , Kolesnikova said , is that , “ when people love each other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also , she added , perhaps the prince should have paid more attention .
♦

When the F.B.I. recently disclosed that Vladimir Putin was meddling in the American Presidential election again, Irina Kolesnikova, a principal ballerina with the St. Petersburg Ballet Theatre, was preparing to perform another bit of malevolent Russian meddling—in Tchaikovsky’s balletic saga “Swan Lake,” at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. In the ballet, Kolesnikova plays a pair of look-alike polar-opposite beauties. First, she is Odette, a princess cursed to remain a swan until a suitor swears his love to her. Then she is Odile, Odette’s evil doppelgänger, who seduces her rival’s would-be rescuer. Chaos ensues.
“I’m more like Odette,” Kolesnikova said, the night before the première. She was seated at a table at the Russian Samovar, the midtown vodka-and-caviar joint that used to be the Frank Sinatra hangout Jilly’s. Her pale hair was clipped back, and her angular cheekbones rested on her hands. “But I prefer to dance Odile.”
If Odette is generically princesslike—“trusting, proud,” Kolesnikova said—Odile is a stranger bird, whose motives (like Putin’s?) are mysterious, explained Konstantin Tachkin, Kolesnikova’s husband and the founder of the St. Petersburg Ballet Theatre. “She can be seductive, or she can be—I don’t know this word in English,” he said.
Kolesnikova picked up her phone and consulted Google Translate. “Insidious!” she said. (She speaks limited English.) Her favorite scene, she went on, is when, as Odile, she throws a bouquet in the prince’s face, joyous at having deceived him into pledging his devotion to the wrong tutu. “I get satisfaction from that,” she said.
A waitress came over. Tachkin never eats after 6 p.m., and he ordered a slice of Napoleon cake with ninety minutes to go. Kolesnikova, who as a rule does not eat dinner, ordered hot water with lemon. The couple is specific about their sleeping arrangements, too. The night before, they had rejected four rooms, in two hotels, before grudgingly settling on a suite at the downtown-Brooklyn Holiday Inn. The Marriott near the Brooklyn Bridge had been “let’s call it . . . not fresh,” Tachkin, a slight, blond man with a preppie haircut, said. A Hilton, he added, would have been out of the question.
BAM had been advertising Kolesnikova as “Swan Lake” ’s headliner. “I have many responsibilities,” she said, carefully. “When you have your name on the poster, it’s very hard for my head.” She was last in this country in 1998, as a student, to perform at BAM with her ballet school. That year, she joined the St. Petersburg Ballet Theatre, which Tachkin had founded after a stint in the Soviet special forces. “I was jumping with parachute. I was running through the forest,” he said.
“It’s not the Soviet Union now,” Tachkin went on. “When the Western media says there’s no freedom, that’s not true. There’s freedom. You can see on the television lots of programs.” (Both he and his wife recalled, with puzzlement, the way the Soviet authorities, when they wanted to impose a news blackout, would broadcast “Swan Lake” on a loop.) He acknowledged that Russia did have “some problems inside, of course. But which country doesn’t?” His dream, he said, is that Russia and the U.S. “become, maybe not friends, but two countries who can coöperate much, much better than now.” He went on, “I do not think that the United States is our enemy. I know many American people. They are very friendly people. We are also very friendly people.”
Since the birth of the couple’s daughter, five years ago, Kolesnikova said, she feels very calm onstage, as if she is now free to relax. She will turn forty next month, and she has been reading books about how to prevent bodily degeneration by staying mentally fit. “All of a person’s illnesses derive from their emotions,” she said. “I want to continue dancing for many years. I’m working from all angles—on my body, as well as on my emotional state.”
“She thinks she’s more disciplined than me,” Tachkin said, putting an elbow into his frosting. His wife made a face. “It’s just a jacket!” he said, dabbing with a napkin.
Does he agree that Kolesnikova is more Odette than Odile?
“No,” he said. “No.” His wife laughed, and hid the lower half of her face in her turtleneck.
“Swan Lake” does not always end swimmingly. Sometimes the prince drowns after discovering his error. But St. Petersburg Theatre’s version ends in triumph for the prince and his (correct) bride—an ending written under Stalin, according to the dance scholar Janice Ross, because his regime demanded “optimistic art.” The moral, Kolesnikova said, is that, “when people love each other, they can win anything.” But also, she added, perhaps the prince should have paid more attention. ♦


newyorker--2020-03-02--“Night Swim,” by Anne Enright

“Night Swim,” by Anne Enright

She was driving Ben to a friend ’ s house , and this added journey was the cause of some irritation in her day ; she had too much else to do .
Though she did like the privacy of the car , the feeling of his voice coming over her shoulder as she checked the mirror and slowed to make a turn .
He was up on the booster seat—Ben was small for eight—and he looked out the window at suburban streets and parked cars , while she used his mobile phone to map the route .
She had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up on the gray plastic fascia .
It was hard to read the little arrow through the disaster of Ben ’ s cracked screen—the thing was rarely out of his hand , unless he dropped it .
Now he looked out on the real world as though mildly surprised it was there .
“ I don ’ t like Barry McIntyre , ” he said .
They had their best chats in the car .
If they ’ d been at home , he would have said , “ Dunno , ” or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the car , he said things like “ I like boys , though .
I do like boys.
” She wondered why he couldn ’ t speak when they were face to face .
What was it about her eyes on him that made him shrug and shift under his clothes ?
“ I know that , ” he said .
Of course , she was his mother , so when she looked at him she was always checking him over to adjust or admire .
Though she tried not to .
She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kind of woman who said , “ Sit up straight , ” or “ Leave your hair alone.
” She glanced at the rearview mirror and saw only the side of his head .
His coarse hair was darkening through the winter .
In a year or two , it would be fully brown .
Recently , he had used the word “ gay ” as an insult .
“ That ’ s so gay , ” he ’ d said at dinner , and his little sister missed a beat .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she said warmly .
That lie .
He did not answer .
In the rearview mirror , she saw his hand move toward his hidden face .
“ Leave your nose alone !
” she said .
It was hard not to .
They were so temporarily beautiful , her children .
They were so perfect , and then they were not perfect .
She loved them too much to let them be .
She drove on while he watched the Dublin suburbs : spring trees , semidetached houses , a bundled old @ @ @ @ @ @ @ app was taking her down a familiar street , though it was an unfamiliar route , one she would not have known to take herself .
Ben ’ s friend was called Ava , and she was new .
She lived in St. Clare Crescent , which was somewhere near the motorway , apparently .
But they did not take the motorway ; they took a network of small streets , some of which she had driven down before—this was the way to the garden center , that was the way to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could cross from one to the other if you turned at the right place .
“ Would you rather ?
” Ben said , then he stopped .
If you did not let Ben know that you were listening , he would refuse to continue .
And , now that he knew he had her full attention , he said , “ Would you rather drink a cup of lava or be drowned in a lava lake ?
” “ Would you rather fall off a roof or have a tree fall on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with choices , especially impossible ones .
“ Neither .
I would rather neither of those things happened to me.
” “ Would you rather fall off a roof , ” he insisted , “ or have a tree fall on your head ?
” Maybe he was obsessed with death itself .
There was no getting out of it , one way or the other .
“ Not your best , ” she said .
He paused , took the challenge .
“ Would you rather be stung to death by fire @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from a big crane until your head burst ?
” He would keep going until she was completely stuck .
“ Would you rather drown in the dark or be strangled in the dark ?
” He would keep going until she was actually dead .
“ Really not .
Absolutely not .
I would not rather.
” She was taken , as she drove , by the memory of a night swim , many years before Ben was born .
It was in a lake , in the Irish countryside ; a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pub , no moon , no sex , at a guess—not that morning , or the night before , when they were supposed to have their holiday-cottage sex—and she pulled her dress up over her head as she made her way , in the darkness , toward the lake .
Of course there was a man in the group who was not , actually , the man she was seeing at the time ; he was some other , forbidden man .
And neither of these men would later become the father of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seat .
Getting naked in the deserted woodland in the middle of the night was a taunt to both of them—either one would do .
It was all a long time ago .
The dress was a blue linen shift , loose and practical , her underwear possibly quite fancy and impractical in those days before booster seats and children with sleepovers and phones that told you which way to turn .
Her body also a finer thing , back then , if only she had known it .
And she was drunk @ @ @ @ @ @ @ little boardwalk was patchily remembered , her experience at the time also patchy , though it slowed and cleared when she dropped her dress onto the still-warm wood and looked out over the water .
There were turf grains in the silk of it that turned the lake brown , even in daylight .
Now , at midnight , it was darker than you could imagine , so it was like a sixth sense , the feeling of open space in front of her .
When she looked down , she saw the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sat at the dock ’ s edge to unclip her fancy bra and shrugged it off .
A man ’ s voice telling her to stop .
Another man saying nothing .
A woman ’ s voice , saying , “ No , really , Michelle.
” And she was in .
She pushed out from the wooden lip as she dropped down into it , was swallowed in a bang of water that turned to a liquid silence , then she struggled back up to where the air began .
Black water @ @ @ @

Audio available Listen to this story Audio: Anne Enright reads.
She was driving Ben to a friend’s house, and this added journey was the cause of some irritation in her day; she had too much else to do. Though she did like the privacy of the car, the feeling of his voice coming over her shoulder as she checked the mirror and slowed to make a turn. He was up on the booster seat—Ben was small for eight—and he looked out the window at suburban streets and parked cars, while she used his mobile phone to map the route. She had it down by the gearshift, propped up on the gray plastic fascia. It was hard to read the little arrow through the disaster of Ben’s cracked screen—the thing was rarely out of his hand, unless he dropped it. Now he looked out on the real world as though mildly surprised it was there.
“I don’t like Barry McIntyre,” he said.
“No? Why not?”
They had their best chats in the car. If they’d been at home, he would have said, “Dunno,” or “Just . . .” In the car, he said things like “I like boys, though. I do like boys.”
“Of course you do.”
She wondered why he couldn’t speak when they were face to face. What was it about her eyes on him that made him shrug and shift under his clothes?
“You are a boy.”
“I know that,” he said.
Of course, she was his mother, so when she looked at him she was always checking him over to adjust or admire. Though she tried not to. She really tried not to turn into the kind of woman who said, “Sit up straight,” or “Leave your hair alone.”
“Well, then.”
She glanced at the rearview mirror and saw only the side of his head. His coarse hair was darkening through the winter. In a year or two, it would be fully brown.
“I just hate basketball.”
“Do you?”
“I really do.”
Recently, he had used the word “gay” as an insult. “That’s so gay,” he’d said at dinner, and his little sister missed a beat.
“Of course you like basketball,” she said warmly. That lie.
He did not answer.
“Does Barry McIntyre play basketball?”
In the rearview mirror, she saw his hand move toward his hidden face.
“Leave your nose alone!” she said.
It was hard not to. They were so temporarily beautiful, her children. They were so perfect, and then they were not perfect. She loved them too much to let them be.
She drove on while he watched the Dublin suburbs: spring trees, semidetached houses, a bundled old citizen walking her dog. The phone app was taking her down a familiar street, though it was an unfamiliar route, one she would not have known to take herself. Ben’s friend was called Ava, and she was new. She lived in St. Clare Crescent, which was somewhere near the motorway, apparently. But they did not take the motorway; they took a network of small streets, some of which she had driven down before—this was the way to the garden center, that was the way to the dog groomer’s—without knowing that you could cross from one to the other if you turned at the right place.
“Would you rather?” Ben said, then he stopped.
If you did not let Ben know that you were listening, he would refuse to continue.
“What?” she said, finally.
And, now that he knew he had her full attention, he said, “Would you rather drink a cup of lava or be drowned in a lava lake?”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Would you rather?”
“Not this again.”
“Which?”
“You can’t drink lava.”
“Yes, you can.”
“In a cup?”
“A stone cup.”
“I’ll take the lake.”
“Would you rather fall off a roof or have a tree fall on your head?”
He was obsessed with choices, especially impossible ones.
“Neither. I would rather neither of those things happened to me.”
“Would you rather fall off a roof,” he insisted, “or have a tree fall on your head?”
Maybe he was obsessed with death itself. There was no getting out of it, one way or the other.
“Roof,” she said.
“O.K.”
“What about you?”
“Yeah, roof,” he admitted.
“Not your best,” she said.
He paused, took the challenge.
“Would you rather be stung to death by fire ants or strung up by your toes from a big crane until your head burst?”
“Lovely!”
He would keep going until she was completely stuck.
“Crane, please.”
“Would you rather drown in the dark or be strangled in the dark?”
He would keep going until she was actually dead.
“Seriously?”
“A huge dark lake full of eels.”
“Really not. Absolutely not. I would not rather.”
She was taken, as she drove, by the memory of a night swim, many years before Ben was born. It was in a lake, in the Irish countryside; a gang of them coming back from the pub, no moon, no sex, at a guess—not that morning, or the night before, when they were supposed to have their holiday-cottage sex—and she pulled her dress up over her head as she made her way, in the darkness, toward the lake. Of course there was a man in the group who was not, actually, the man she was seeing at the time; he was some other, forbidden man. And neither of these men would later become the father of the boy now sitting in the back seat. Getting naked in the deserted woodland in the middle of the night was a taunt to both of them—either one would do. It was all a long time ago.
The dress was a blue linen shift, loose and practical, her underwear possibly quite fancy and impractical in those days before booster seats and children with sleepovers and phones that told you which way to turn. Her body also a finer thing, back then, if only she had known it. And she was drunk, so the pathway down to the little boardwalk was patchily remembered, her experience at the time also patchy, though it slowed and cleared when she dropped her dress onto the still-warm wood and looked out over the water. There were turf grains in the silk of it that turned the lake brown, even in daylight. Now, at midnight, it was darker than you could imagine, so it was like a sixth sense, the feeling of open space in front of her. When she looked down, she saw the blackness gleam, like oil. She sat at the dock’s edge to unclip her fancy bra and shrugged it off. A man’s voice telling her to stop. Another man saying nothing. A woman’s voice, saying, “No, really, Michelle.” And she was in. She pushed out from the wooden lip as she dropped down into it, was swallowed in a bang of water that turned to a liquid silence, then she struggled back up to where the air began. Black water into black air.
As she rose and turned, she could feel the alcohol swell under the surface of her skin, and the water was not so much cold as numb. Or she was numb. The water slipped past her as she hauled her way through it, in a long, reaching overarm that took her away from everyone, even as she seemed to stay in the same place. She could tell by their voices that she was moving—the fragments of sound she caught as she plowed along the surface, out toward the center of the lake.
If it was the center. If it was even the surface she was swimming along. It was so dark and wet that it was hard to know if her eyes were closed or open. She was afraid that she was not quite level, as she swam, that she was tilting downward, afraid that when she turned her face up to inhale she would find only water. The shouts from the bank were more sporadic now; it was as though they had given up on her as she circled or tried to circle back toward them, because the scraps of sound gave her a sense of horizon and it was important not to lose this. She needed to know which way was up. She pulled the water along the sides of her body, and though she twisted into it as she went, she was not sure that she was making the turn. She should just stop a moment and get her bearings, but she could not stop; she did not want to. It was—this was the secret, sudden thing—so delicious. Not knowing which way was which, or where the edges were. She was dissolved by it. She could drown right now and it would be a pleasure.
She caught a flash of her white arm, a sinewy gleam that she followed—her body its own compass—until she heard, on the bank, the voice of the man she was supposed to sleep with, saw the intermittent cigarette glow of the man she was not supposed to sleep with (and never did, for some reason; perhaps she had him fully spooked). Her big statement was a little undercut, in the shallows, by the sharpness of the stones in the silt under her feet as she made her way up out of the lake, toward recrimination and cold-skinned sex.


The Mail

John Cassidy ’ s critique of continual economic growth brings welcome attention to a grave concern of many environmental scientists ( “ Steady State , ” February 10th ) .
He nicely describes the alternative economic approach referred to as “ green growth , ” which some people believe will allow us to “ enjoy perpetual growth and prosperity while also reducing carbon emissions and our consumption of natural resources.
” Unfortunately , it seems that green-growth enthusiasts have drunk a more diluted batch of the same Kool-Aid as people who think that conventional growth can go on indefinitely .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ carbon emissions , but we still need to deal with invasive species , desertification , and other insults to natural ecosystems .
Clever new technologies can help , but efficiency gains are finite and can be overwhelmed when these technologies are scaled up .
A longer-term solution may require the slowing , and the eventual reversal , of population growth , combined with a decrease in average individual consumption in richer countries .
The latter change will require resisting common marketing tactics .
But , once many of us do so , we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have more time for relationships , leisure , and other delights .
After forty years as an ecologist , I believe that the transition to a less materialistic world would be a cakewalk compared with living on a planet with too little photosynthesis .
Peter C. Schulze Professor of Biology and Environmental Science Austin College Sherman , Texas I enjoyed Adam Gopnik ’ s review of Fergus M. Bordewich ’ s “ Congress at War ” ( Books , February 10th ) .
Like Gopnik , I believe that Abraham Lincoln was central @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but I question whether he was always a great politician .
Lincoln chose Andrew Johnson as his Vice-President because he believed that a pro-Union Southern running mate would help him win reëlection .
Perhaps he was right .
But , after the North won the war , Johnson did his best to guarantee that it lost the peace .
Gopnik marvels at the completeness of the Union victory , which insured that secession is rarely considered anymore .
But I marvel at , and grieve , the extent to which racism and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ still threaten our democracy .
Adam Entous and Evan Osnos , in their piece about targeted killings , meticulously describe the historical background to the assassination of Qassem Suleimani ( “ Last Man Standing , ” February 10th ) .
Although the article concludes by highlighting some of the unintended consequences of the assassination , including a stampede in Suleimani ’ s home town which killed fifty-six people , I was surprised that it failed to mention the tragic fate of Ukraine International Airlines Flight 752 .
It appears that the Iranian government @ @ @ @ @ @ @ left Tehran , killing all one hundred and seventy-six people on board .
Even if this was truly a horrific accident , it is clear that the chaotic aftermath of the drone strike on Suleimani was a contributing factor .
Flight 752 is a reminder that both the short-term and long-term consequences of targeted killings are more likely to be borne by innocent civilians and foreign nationals than by people in power .
Letters should be sent with the writer ’ s name , address , and daytime phone number via e-mail to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ edited for length and clarity , and may be published in any medium .
We regret that owing to the volume of correspondence we can not reply to every letter .

This Green Earth
John Cassidy’s critique of continual economic growth brings welcome attention to a grave concern of many environmental scientists (“Steady State,” February 10th). He nicely describes the alternative economic approach referred to as “green growth,” which some people believe will allow us to “enjoy perpetual growth and prosperity while also reducing carbon emissions and our consumption of natural resources.” Unfortunately, it seems that green-growth enthusiasts have drunk a more diluted batch of the same Kool-Aid as people who think that conventional growth can go on indefinitely. Perhaps economic growth can be decoupled from carbon emissions, but we still need to deal with invasive species, desertification, and other insults to natural ecosystems. Clever new technologies can help, but efficiency gains are finite and can be overwhelmed when these technologies are scaled up. A longer-term solution may require the slowing, and the eventual reversal, of population growth, combined with a decrease in average individual consumption in richer countries. The latter change will require resisting common marketing tactics. But, once many of us do so, we will suffer less financial stress and will have more time for relationships, leisure, and other delights. After forty years as an ecologist, I believe that the transition to a less materialistic world would be a cakewalk compared with living on a planet with too little photosynthesis.
Peter C. Schulze
Professor of Biology and Environmental Science
Austin College
Sherman, Texas
War and Peace
I enjoyed Adam Gopnik’s review of Fergus M. Bordewich’s “Congress at War” (Books, February 10th). Like Gopnik, I believe that Abraham Lincoln was central to the outcome of the Civil War, but I question whether he was always a great politician. Lincoln chose Andrew Johnson as his Vice-President because he believed that a pro-Union Southern running mate would help him win reëlection. Perhaps he was right. But, after the North won the war, Johnson did his best to guarantee that it lost the peace. Gopnik marvels at the completeness of the Union victory, which insured that secession is rarely considered anymore. But I marvel at, and grieve, the extent to which racism and an authoritarian desire to maintain white supremacy still threaten our democracy.
Rachel Kreier
Port Jefferson, N.Y.
A Fatal Error
Adam Entous and Evan Osnos, in their piece about targeted killings, meticulously describe the historical background to the assassination of Qassem Suleimani (“Last Man Standing,” February 10th). Although the article concludes by highlighting some of the unintended consequences of the assassination, including a stampede in Suleimani’s home town which killed fifty-six people, I was surprised that it failed to mention the tragic fate of Ukraine International Airlines Flight 752. It appears that the Iranian government mistakenly shot down this plane as it left Tehran, killing all one hundred and seventy-six people on board. Even if this was truly a horrific accident, it is clear that the chaotic aftermath of the drone strike on Suleimani was a contributing factor. Flight 752 is a reminder that both the short-term and long-term consequences of targeted killings are more likely to be borne by innocent civilians and foreign nationals than by people in power.
Peter Gill
Toronto, Canada
•
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.


newyorker--2020-03-02--Thomas Piketty Goes Global

Thomas Piketty Goes Global

Speaking in 1918 , with Europe ravaged by the horrors of modern warfare and Russia in the hands of the Bolsheviks , Irving Fisher warned his colleagues at the annual meeting of the American Economic Association of “ a great peril.
” That peril , which risked “ perverting the democracy for which we have just been fighting , ” was extreme inequality .
“ We may be sure that there will be a bitter struggle over the distribution of wealth , ” Fisher , perhaps the most celebrated economist of his day , maintained .
More than a century @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Economic Association—the spectre once more loomed over the discipline .
“ American capitalism and democracy are not working for people without a college degree , ” Anne Case , an economist at Princeton , declared in January , as she flipped through slides in a large , windowless conference room .
On a screen , charts showed breathtaking increases in suicide , drug overdoses , and alcoholism among less-educated whites over the past two decades .
These “ deaths of despair , ” as she and her husband-collaborator , Angus Deaton , call @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of American society .
When Fisher issued his warning , the richest ten per cent of Americans were taking home forty-one per cent of all domestic income .
Today , they take forty-eight per cent .
If inequality has become the subject of intense public attention , a good deal of the credit goes to the French economist Thomas Piketty .
In 2014 , “ Capital in the Twenty-first Century , ” a dense tome published in English by an academic press , became an unlikely global best-seller ; there are more than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Piketty , who teaches at the Paris School of Economics , had been an academic luminary but not a public one ; the focus of his research , inequality , had long been a niche subject .
Timing and talent catapulted him to fame .
His book perfectly fit the post-Occupy Wall Street ethos , providing empirical rigor for the upswell in anger .
The wounds of the Great Recession had hardly scabbed over ; disillusionment with the rich and powerful verged on Jacobinism .
The moment was ripe for a grand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s exactly what Piketty provided , with detailed figures and lucid prose .
In earlier work , he and a frequent collaborator , the economist Emmanuel Saez , had the innovative idea of framing inequality in terms of the top one per cent ’ s share versus everyone else ’ s—eschewing the discipline ’ s usual formula of Gini coefficients , which are meaningless to the masses , and identifying a clear , common enemy .
The problem was inherent in capitalism itself .
Over the past century , the rate of return @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wealth , owned disproportionately by the rich , had exceeded the rate of growth in the economy ( g ) as a whole .
That had created a chasm of inequality comparable to what existed during the Gilded Age , before the gilding was removed by two cataclysmic world wars and the Great Depression .
You could distill the core of Piketty ’ s theory down to three characters ( r > g ) and emblazon the formula on a T-shirt—something that nerdier subgroups of the population actually did .
Success has launched @ @ @ @ @ @ @ French global intellectual , like Pierre Bourdieu , Michel Foucault , and Claude Lévi-Strauss before him .
Le Monde hosts his blog ; he was enlisted as an adviser by a 2017 French Presidential campaign ( of the Socialist Party candidate Benoît Hamon ; he ’ d previously advised another such candidate , Ségolène Royal ) .
And now , as if to secure his preëminence in this role , Piketty has published a yet more ambitious book , “ Capital and Ideology ” ( Harvard ) .
It encompasses history , political @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is even more voluminous than its predecessor .
This reviewer must report that the eleven-hundred-page work broke an ( admittedly unsteady ) card table and later caused a carry-on to exceed the weight limit on an ( admittedly stingy ) European airline .
There ’ s a reason for the heft .
“ Capital and Ideology ” sets out not only to describe capitalism but also to help us “ transcend ” it .
Piketty both diagnoses and prescribes : he tries to expose the contradictions of the reigning ideology of “ hypercapitalism @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a populist-nativist backlash ) , and , to stave off disaster , recommends a breathtaking series of reforms .
They include a schedule of taxation on income and wealth that reaches ninety per cent and the elimination of nation-states in favor of “ a vast transnational democracy , ” which will secure “ a universal right to education and a capital endowment , free circulation of people , and de facto virtual abolition of borders.
” A serious disease , Piketty believes , calls for strong medicine .
“ Capital and Ideology ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Every human society must justify its inequalities : unless reasons for them are found , the whole political and social edifice stands in danger of collapse.
” War , recession , religion—every facet of human existence has its roots in inequality , Piketty tells us .
Indeed , he uses “ society ” and “ inequality regime ” almost interchangeably .
If there are hazards in such a monocausal account , it may be a necessary simplification in the quest to anatomize social organization from the Middle Ages to modernity .
Adopting a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Piketty writes that early societies were “ trifunctional ” —in ways largely determined by birth , you were a member of the clergy , the warrior-nobility , or the peasantry .
( Something similar , he notes , can be seen in “ Planet of the Apes ” and “ Star Wars.
” ) During this period of limited mobility , inequality was justified by the notion that the castes were interdependent—like the limbs of the body .
If someone gets to be the brains , then someone else has to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the central state and later disruptions like the French Revolution , inequality was taken to be a necessary feature of “ ownership societies , ” premised on individual liberty but also on the “ sacralization of private property.
” In the twentieth century , this model fell apart .
“ The ideology of the self-regulated market in the 19th century led to the destruction of European societies in the period 1914-1945 and ultimately to the death of economic liberalism , ” Piketty writes .
“ We know now that this death was only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ societies drifted into either social democracy , which Piketty thinks is flawed but closest to his ideal society , or communism , which failed utterly .
What ensued was the revenge of the ownership society .
The dominant ideology of the modern era , in Piketty ’ s view , has been one of “ neo-proprietarianism , ” in which private-property rights are worshipped above all , auguring another disaster .
Spenglerian in scope , Piketty ’ s critique reaches far back in history and across the globe : he explores the “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ slave colonies in the West Indies , and post-Soviet republics .
It ’ s an admirable corrective to the usual Eurocentrism of Western economists , even if most readers will feel the impulse to skip ahead four hundred pages to the discussion of modern economies .
Piketty has modified his thinking since his previous opus .
Rather than imply that rising inequality is a problem inherent in capitalism , he now suggests that the levels of inequality we get are the ones we countenance—that they ’ re entirely a matter of political and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ r > g , has all but disappeared .
In his retelling , the so-called Trente Glorieuses , the thirty years of relative equality between 1950 and 1980 , were the result not of two world wars—which played “ only a minor part in this collapse , ” he has determined—but , rather , of political decisions made “ to reduce the social influence of private property .
”

Speaking in 1918, with Europe ravaged by the horrors of modern warfare and Russia in the hands of the Bolsheviks, Irving Fisher warned his colleagues at the annual meeting of the American Economic Association of “a great peril.” That peril, which risked “perverting the democracy for which we have just been fighting,” was extreme inequality. “We may be sure that there will be a bitter struggle over the distribution of wealth,” Fisher, perhaps the most celebrated economist of his day, maintained. More than a century later—at another annual meeting of the American Economic Association—the spectre once more loomed over the discipline. “American capitalism and democracy are not working for people without a college degree,” Anne Case, an economist at Princeton, declared in January, as she flipped through slides in a large, windowless conference room. On a screen, charts showed breathtaking increases in suicide, drug overdoses, and alcoholism among less-educated whites over the past two decades. These “deaths of despair,” as she and her husband-collaborator, Angus Deaton, call them, originated in the deep unfairness of American society. When Fisher issued his warning, the richest ten per cent of Americans were taking home forty-one per cent of all domestic income. Today, they take forty-eight per cent.
If inequality has become the subject of intense public attention, a good deal of the credit goes to the French economist Thomas Piketty. In 2014, “Capital in the Twenty-first Century,” a dense tome published in English by an academic press, became an unlikely global best-seller; there are more than two million copies in print. Previously, Piketty, who teaches at the Paris School of Economics, had been an academic luminary but not a public one; the focus of his research, inequality, had long been a niche subject. Timing and talent catapulted him to fame. His book perfectly fit the post-Occupy Wall Street ethos, providing empirical rigor for the upswell in anger. The wounds of the Great Recession had hardly scabbed over; disillusionment with the rich and powerful verged on Jacobinism. The moment was ripe for a grand, iconoclastic theory, and that’s exactly what Piketty provided, with detailed figures and lucid prose. In earlier work, he and a frequent collaborator, the economist Emmanuel Saez, had the innovative idea of framing inequality in terms of the top one per cent’s share versus everyone else’s—eschewing the discipline’s usual formula of Gini coefficients, which are meaningless to the masses, and identifying a clear, common enemy. The problem was inherent in capitalism itself. Over the past century, the rate of return on capital (r) and existing wealth, owned disproportionately by the rich, had exceeded the rate of growth in the economy (g) as a whole. That had created a chasm of inequality comparable to what existed during the Gilded Age, before the gilding was removed by two cataclysmic world wars and the Great Depression. You could distill the core of Piketty’s theory down to three characters (r>g) and emblazon the formula on a T-shirt—something that nerdier subgroups of the population actually did.
Success has launched Piketty into the venerated position of the French global intellectual, like Pierre Bourdieu, Michel Foucault, and Claude Lévi-Strauss before him. Le Monde hosts his blog; he was enlisted as an adviser by a 2017 French Presidential campaign (of the Socialist Party candidate Benoît Hamon; he’d previously advised another such candidate, Ségolène Royal). And now, as if to secure his preëminence in this role, Piketty has published a yet more ambitious book, “Capital and Ideology” (Harvard). It encompasses history, political science, and political theory, and is even more voluminous than its predecessor. This reviewer must report that the eleven-hundred-page work broke an (admittedly unsteady) card table and later caused a carry-on to exceed the weight limit on an (admittedly stingy) European airline.
There’s a reason for the heft. “Capital and Ideology” sets out not only to describe capitalism but also to help us “transcend” it. Piketty both diagnoses and prescribes: he tries to expose the contradictions of the reigning ideology of “hypercapitalism” and its malign consequences (including a populist-nativist backlash), and, to stave off disaster, recommends a breathtaking series of reforms. They include a schedule of taxation on income and wealth that reaches ninety per cent and the elimination of nation-states in favor of “a vast transnational democracy,” which will secure “a universal right to education and a capital endowment, free circulation of people, and de facto virtual abolition of borders.” A serious disease, Piketty believes, calls for strong medicine.
“Capital and Ideology” opens with an arresting pronouncement: “Every human society must justify its inequalities: unless reasons for them are found, the whole political and social edifice stands in danger of collapse.” War, recession, religion—every facet of human existence has its roots in inequality, Piketty tells us. Indeed, he uses “society” and “inequality regime” almost interchangeably. If there are hazards in such a monocausal account, it may be a necessary simplification in the quest to anatomize social organization from the Middle Ages to modernity.
Adopting a theory of the French philologist Georges Dumézil, Piketty writes that early societies were “trifunctional”—in ways largely determined by birth, you were a member of the clergy, the warrior-nobility, or the peasantry. (Something similar, he notes, can be seen in “Planet of the Apes” and “Star Wars.”) During this period of limited mobility, inequality was justified by the notion that the castes were interdependent—like the limbs of the body. If someone gets to be the brains, then someone else has to be the feet. After the development of the central state and later disruptions like the French Revolution, inequality was taken to be a necessary feature of “ownership societies,” premised on individual liberty but also on the “sacralization of private property.”
In the twentieth century, this model fell apart. “The ideology of the self-regulated market in the 19th century led to the destruction of European societies in the period 1914-1945 and ultimately to the death of economic liberalism,” Piketty writes. “We know now that this death was only temporary.” In the postwar era, societies drifted into either social democracy, which Piketty thinks is flawed but closest to his ideal society, or communism, which failed utterly. What ensued was the revenge of the ownership society. The dominant ideology of the modern era, in Piketty’s view, has been one of “neo-proprietarianism,” in which private-property rights are worshipped above all, auguring another disaster.
Spenglerian in scope, Piketty’s critique reaches far back in history and across the globe: he explores the “inequality regimes” in Mughal India, slave colonies in the West Indies, and post-Soviet republics. It’s an admirable corrective to the usual Eurocentrism of Western economists, even if most readers will feel the impulse to skip ahead four hundred pages to the discussion of modern economies. Piketty has modified his thinking since his previous opus. Rather than imply that rising inequality is a problem inherent in capitalism, he now suggests that the levels of inequality we get are the ones we countenance—that they’re entirely a matter of political and ideological choices. His famous formula, r>g, has all but disappeared. In his retelling, the so-called Trente Glorieuses, the thirty years of relative equality between 1950 and 1980, were the result not of two world wars—which played “only a minor part in this collapse,” he has determined—but, rather, of political decisions made “to reduce the social influence of private property.”
And the policies we adopt certainly do influence inequality. Steeply progressive income taxes and estate taxes shaped income distributions during those Trente Glorieuses. Consider, for that matter, how corporations and the very rich are indulged by the current taxation regime in the West. Tax-collection agencies are resigned to the fact that the biggest fortunes also tend to be the most mobile. In the U.S., many states compete to provide rich people with advantageous tax rates, in order not to lose them. But whatever revenue is gained by holding on to some fortunes is more than undercut by the diminished rates. Since Congress passed its 2017 package of tax cuts—which Republican sponsors justified on global-competition grounds, and claimed would “pay for itself”—corporate-tax collections have fallen by a third. The U.S. is now running trillion-dollar deficits, during a period of long-lasting economic growth, no major military engagements, and no ramp-up in social spending.
What’s more, when states start taxing mobile assets less, they also usually start taxing immobile assets more—and immobile assets, like homes, are usually the only ones working people have. Emmanuel Saez and Gabriel Zucman have argued in a recent book of their own, “The Triumph of Injustice,” that effective tax rates on the rich have declined so much in the U.S. that the tax system is now flat, even regressive. The Congressional Budget Office recently estimated that post-tax inequality will continue to climb, with the country’s top one per cent earning 3.1 per cent more each year while the bottom twenty per cent earns just one per cent more per year.
Meanwhile, Piketty estimates, ten per cent of global financial assets are now stashed in tax havens. Ireland, a favorite haven for American companies, had to start publishing modified national economic statistics because of all the foreign assets it harbors. In theory, international taxation could be harmonized by treaties, in the way countries have come together to ban certain kinds of munitions or pollutants. So far, there hasn’t been the will.