newyorker--2020-02-26--Kaitlin Prest, a Voice from #MeToo’s Gray Zone

Palo santo smudge , vape pen , dead yellow roses on an uneven , wide-plank , wooden floor : welcome to Kaitlin Prest ’ s Hollywood apartment .
When she offers coffee , from a French press , she squeals—Yay !
—if you say yes , particularly if you first said no .
She wears a white linen blouse and a skirt with pockets , like a farmwife ; her hair is curly and dark , and her eyes gleam .
Recording her is no problem .
She is thirty-three and for more than a decade has been broadcasting the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ romantic , and emotional life on the radio and on her celebrated Radiotopia podcast , “ The Heart.
” The Guardian has called “ The Heart , ” which got more than seven million listens between 2014 and 2017 , “ poignant , Proustian audio.
” In Prest ’ s elaborately sound-designed productions , she whispers , self-examines , and confides , blending reënactment with verité excerpts of her real life : we listen as she argues , flirts , makes out .
“ I wanted to make something that scratches the same @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is rife with truth , ” she told me .
“ I asked myself , ‘ How do you represent the truth of life ?
’ Narrative does a pretty good job of reproducing the way it feels .
As a storyteller , I ’ m always asking , How do I tell a story that makes the person listening to it feel the way I felt when that person kissed me ?
How can I make it feel as exciting ?
The only answer I ’ ve come to is to create @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that allows for that kiss in the story to feel like just as much of a surprise as when it happened to you.
” She said , “ I have a feeling of I have nothing to hide .
Literally everything about me is out in the world.
” I first heard Prest on “ No , ” a startling mini-season of “ The Heart ” that was presented in the spring of 2017 , and later adapted for WNYC ’ s “ Radiolab.
” “ No ” is about consent , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ privilege other people ’ s feelings and desires above their own .
Seeking answers to misunderstandings , miscues , and abuses from her past , Prest interviews her parents , female victims of consent violations , and men who admit to having crossed boundaries .
( Prest ’ s father reflects regretfully on a transgression from his adolescence . )
Whenever possible , she uses real tape .
In one episode , she plays a recording from a sexual encounter with a male friend called Raoul , an ex-partner she was interviewing on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he asks if she wants a massage .
She agrees , and clearly delimits where she wants to be touched and where not .
In spite of that , Raoul keeps pushing the encounter toward greater intimacy .
She analyzes beat by beat how and why her “ no ” was heard as “ yes , ” and why she ultimately permitted the sex that she had set out saying she did not want to have .
It is stop-in-the-middle-of-the-crosswalk tape , utterly arresting , disturbing , voyeuristic , raw .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , released just six months before the Harvey Weinstein allegations and the ensuing # MeToo moment precipitated a broad , mainstream conversation around issues of gender , sex , and power .
In the midst of that renegotiation , Prest has become a voice reporting from the gray zone .
“ Everyone always asks me , ‘ How do I fix it ?
’ ” she said .
“ It ’ s a lifelong journey of ‘ How do I know what I want , and how do I know what I want @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ For women and others in traditional oppressive-power-dynamic things , it ’ s going to take forever.
” She added , “ On the other hand , people can just say sorry.
” Prest pronounces “ sorry ” in the Canadian way .
She grew up outside Montreal , in a tiny town called Winchester Springs .
Her parents are classical musicians who met at McGill University .
There wasn ’ t much for Prest in Winchester Springs .
“ It wasn ’ t cute-upstate-New York rural .
It was Bro-land .
Either @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Prest told me , echoing almost to the word a line from her podcast “ The Shadows , ” a fictional audioplay that she made with the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation in 2018 .
She went with the heavy metal , left for Montreal at nineteen , enrolled at McGill and then switched to Concordia , was broke , made art , and did activist street puppetry .
In 2006 , she fell in with a group of queer feminists and started making a radical anarchist radio show called Audio Smut in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t be a filmmaker , ’ cause cameras are fucking expensive , ” she said .
“ I was making art out of garbage , because I couldn ’ t buy a canvas .
I ’ m , like , Oh , my god , brush , no .
And theatre as well—I can ’ t pay for supplies or space .
With radio , no materials !
The station had a recorder they ’ d lend out , and they had a studio , and all it takes is a brain .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the mind .
Because it was a mass medium , there was a built-in audience.
” Audio Smut featured Prest and her friends talking about S.T.D.s and threesomes and the heightened perceptivity that can accompany arousal .
She told me , “ I wanted to insert people who look like my friends , this community—women !
Queers !
People of color !
I wanted to insert these people into mainstream culture.
” The show , which she turned into a highly produced documentary program , was joyfully confrontational .
“ Audio Smut @ @ @ @ @ @ @ show , ” she told me .
“ We ’ d record ourselves masturbating and put it on the radio , for 6 P.M. drive time.
” Prest turned Audio Smut into a podcast , because her friends didn ’ t own radios , and she wanted them to hear the radical work she was making .
When she arrived in New York , in 2010 , she went straight to the offices of WNYC , to express her admiration , not realizing that in New York you need an appointment and an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ waitressing at Suen Noodle to pay rent , she was told “ No , No , No ” : her stuff was too political , too feminist , too sexual , not commercial .
Nevertheless , she found radio heaven in the city , a pre- “ Serial ” audio boomtown .
When she met Roman Mars , the podcast impresario behind the network Radiotopia , she persuaded him to take her on , changing the name of her show to “ The Heart .
”

Palo santo smudge, vape pen, dead yellow roses on an uneven, wide-plank, wooden floor: welcome to Kaitlin Prest’s Hollywood apartment. When she offers coffee, from a French press, she squeals—Yay!—if you say yes, particularly if you first said no. She wears a white linen blouse and a skirt with pockets, like a farmwife; her hair is curly and dark, and her eyes gleam. Recording her is no problem. She is thirty-three and for more than a decade has been broadcasting the most intimate facets of her sexual, romantic, and emotional life on the radio and on her celebrated Radiotopia podcast, “The Heart.” The Guardian has called “The Heart,” which got more than seven million listens between 2014 and 2017, “poignant, Proustian audio.”
In Prest’s elaborately sound-designed productions, she whispers, self-examines, and confides, blending reënactment with verité excerpts of her real life: we listen as she argues, flirts, makes out. “I wanted to make something that scratches the same itch as a Hollywood movie, but is rife with truth,” she told me. “I asked myself, ‘How do you represent the truth of life?’ Narrative does a pretty good job of reproducing the way it feels. As a storyteller, I’m always asking, How do I tell a story that makes the person listening to it feel the way I felt when that person kissed me? How can I make it feel as exciting? The only answer I’ve come to is to create a narrative structure of tension and release that allows for that kiss in the story to feel like just as much of a surprise as when it happened to you.” She said, “I have a feeling of I have nothing to hide. Literally everything about me is out in the world.”
I first heard Prest on “No,” a startling mini-season of “The Heart” that was presented in the spring of 2017, and later adapted for WNYC’s “Radiolab.” “No” is about consent, and examining the ways women are conditioned to privilege other people’s feelings and desires above their own. Seeking answers to misunderstandings, miscues, and abuses from her past, Prest interviews her parents, female victims of consent violations, and men who admit to having crossed boundaries. (Prest’s father reflects regretfully on a transgression from his adolescence.) Whenever possible, she uses real tape. In one episode, she plays a recording from a sexual encounter with a male friend called Raoul, an ex-partner she was interviewing on another topic. After the formal interview, he asks if she wants a massage. She agrees, and clearly delimits where she wants to be touched and where not. In spite of that, Raoul keeps pushing the encounter toward greater intimacy. She analyzes beat by beat how and why her “no” was heard as “yes,” and why she ultimately permitted the sex that she had set out saying she did not want to have. It is stop-in-the-middle-of-the-crosswalk tape, utterly arresting, disturbing, voyeuristic, raw.
The timing of “No” was prescient, released just six months before the Harvey Weinstein allegations and the ensuing #MeToo moment precipitated a broad, mainstream conversation around issues of gender, sex, and power. In the midst of that renegotiation, Prest has become a voice reporting from the gray zone. “Everyone always asks me, ‘How do I fix it?’ ” she said. “It’s a lifelong journey of ‘How do I know what I want, and how do I know what I want independent of what everyone else wants?’ For women and others in traditional oppressive-power-dynamic things, it’s going to take forever.” She added, “On the other hand, people can just say sorry.”
Prest pronounces “sorry” in the Canadian way. She grew up outside Montreal, in a tiny town called Winchester Springs. Her parents are classical musicians who met at McGill University. There wasn’t much for Prest in Winchester Springs. “It wasn’t cute-upstate-New York rural. It was Bro-land. Either church or hockey or heavy metal,” Prest told me, echoing almost to the word a line from her podcast “The Shadows,” a fictional audioplay that she made with the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation in 2018. She went with the heavy metal, left for Montreal at nineteen, enrolled at McGill and then switched to Concordia, was broke, made art, and did activist street puppetry. In 2006, she fell in with a group of queer feminists and started making a radical anarchist radio show called Audio Smut in a basement radio studio. “Can’t be a filmmaker, ’cause cameras are fucking expensive,” she said. “I was making art out of garbage, because I couldn’t buy a canvas. I’m, like, Oh, my god, brush, no. And theatre as well—I can’t pay for supplies or space. With radio, no materials! The station had a recorder they’d lend out, and they had a studio, and all it takes is a brain. It was so amazing, the theatre of the mind. Because it was a mass medium, there was a built-in audience.”
Audio Smut featured Prest and her friends talking about S.T.D.s and threesomes and the heightened perceptivity that can accompany arousal. She told me, “I wanted to insert people who look like my friends, this community—women! Queers! People of color! I wanted to insert these people into mainstream culture.” The show, which she turned into a highly produced documentary program, was joyfully confrontational. “Audio Smut was a sex-positive, queer, fuck-you show,” she told me. “We’d record ourselves masturbating and put it on the radio, for 6 P.M. drive time.”
Prest turned Audio Smut into a podcast, because her friends didn’t own radios, and she wanted them to hear the radical work she was making. When she arrived in New York, in 2010, she went straight to the offices of WNYC, to express her admiration, not realizing that in New York you need an appointment and an I.D. For four years, while waitressing at Suen Noodle to pay rent, she was told “No, No, No”: her stuff was too political, too feminist, too sexual, not commercial. Nevertheless, she found radio heaven in the city, a pre-“Serial” audio boomtown. When she met Roman Mars, the podcast impresario behind the network Radiotopia, she persuaded him to take her on, changing the name of her show to “The Heart.”


newyorker--2020-02-26--Daily Cartoon: Wednesday, February 26th

Daily Cartoon: Wednesday, February 26th

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The material on this site may not be reproduced , @ @ @ @ @ or otherwise used , except with the prior written permission of Condé Nast .

“My name is Rachel, and it’s been twelve days since I engaged in political discourse online.”


newyorker--2020-02-26--Living with Coronavirus Anxiety in Singapore

How does a virus take over a community ?
Slowly .
Perniciously .
Inconclusively .
The first line of attack is not an aching body or a runny nose but an unease that seeps into every corner of life , and which is impossible to explain away because it is reasonable , even necessary .
You must listen to this fear .
You must calibrate your responses correctly .
Otherwise , you are irresponsible , you are careless ; in the body of the community , you are a failing organ .
Here in Singapore , we are perched awkwardly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ zone .
As of this writing , ninety-two people on the island are known to have contracted the COVID-19 virus .
First , it was travellers who ’ d been to the Chinese city of Wuhan , the epicenter of the outbreak , but gradually the disease seeped into the community and began to spread .
So far , no one in Singapore has died of the disease .
But fear , it turns out , is also a virus .
A low-level fright of this little-understood malady has taken hold in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ days , and in the sprawling condominium complex where we live , along with a mix of Singaporean families and foreigners .
This fear has the uncanny power to force out the uncomfortable questions that usually lurk unspoken in the communities it invades .
You start out talking about the virus and end up picking apart parenting styles or foreign relations .
The virus has become a little-understood variable in a sort of living laboratory experiment in extreme urban and social management .
Singapore is home to a diverse population of 5.7 million @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like our family , have come to live or work here temporarily .
Virtually every aspect of life here , from public-transport routes to political discourse , is carefully controlled by the government .
The normal rhythms of the city are now punctuated by incessant virus-related announcements : emergency e-mails , stern notices on the bulletin board , and urgent WhatsApp messages from the government .
Two more cases confirmed .
School assemblies suspended .
If you ’ ve been to mainland China in the past two weeks , stay home from school @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It ’ s worse than SARS .
Don ’ t panic .
The frustrating truth is that we don ’ t know what we ’ re living through .
Scientists are still scrambling to understand the fundamental facts about coronavirus , such as how it spreads and the length of its incubation period .
In the absence of knowledge , we check constantly to see what everyone else is doing , having conversations that only lead to more uncertainty and judgment .
In social circles that are preoccupied with family and schools , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ parenting itself : a crisis that compresses all the unease and distrust and self-doubt that lurk around the edges of child rearing into a slow-motion emergency that demands we all collaborate and follow orders .
One morning , while my husband walked the kids out to the bus stop , I opened an e-mail from the school .
It was a long message and , as I read , I set down my coffee .
I had the sensation of vertigo , like I was tipping face first into my laptop screen .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chinese-language program was a Wuhan native .
His parents , who had come to visit over the Chinese New Year , had tested positive for the coronavirus .
Happily , they were in stable condition , and the teacher himself did not appear to have the virus , but , then again , the long incubation period made it too soon to know for sure whether he ’ d been infected .
His parents had been staying with him as he went back and forth to school .
He ’ d been in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chinese New Year staff concert .
If you want to overwhelm a communications network , here ’ s a good trick : compose an e-mail to thousands of Type A parents announcing that the deadly virus splashed all over the headlines has perhaps infiltrated their children ’ s school .
Press Send just as school buses are heading off into morning traffic .
“ Good morning.
” That was the first text from one of the second-grade moms : an opening line so barren of exclamation marks and emojis that , on a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ grave misdeed on the part of my child .
“ Saw the email ?
” she continued .
We texted back and forth , and meanwhile I was texting with other parents and with two friends who are doctors in the United States .
“ It ’ s not very deadly , ” my friend , who is a research doctor , wrote .
“ Though it does seem to be serious.
” “ Honestly , it ’ s less severe than influenza , ” my emergency-room-doctor friend wrote .
“ Even if @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be fine.
” Here in Singapore , one mom was wondering whether the cafeteria food might be contaminated ; another was taking pictures of the classroom where the teaching assistant had worked with the children .
These calm assessments from America rendered all of that , somehow , ridiculous .
I informed the first mom who ’ d texted that I knew a doctor who said we shouldn ’ t worry .
She replied that she ’ d also spoken with a doctor and had been told not to worry .
At that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reached a consensus .
But just then she abruptly announced that her husband was headed to school to pick up their kid .
“ We ’ re not comfortable , ” she wrote .
“ I understand , ” I replied .
Our fragile alliance had fractured , somehow , along lines that had to do with our tolerance for risk .
We would not text each other for the rest of the week , while she kept her son at home and I sent mine to school .
If the virus is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s also poking at the sensitive spots of nations .
In Hong Kong , where pro-democracy demonstrations have raged for most of the past year , the local government ’ s refusal to seal off crossings to the mainland was decried as yet another failure to protect the territory from the menace of Beijing .
Here in Singapore , too , the virus dredged up some of the tensions lurking under the veneer of communal harmony .
Three-quarters of the city is ethnically Chinese , and there are significant minorities of Indians @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also home to tens of thousands of residents from mainland China .
Relations among these groups have been carefully smoothed by the government , which recognizes four official languages , enforces ethnic quotas on public-housing blocks , and criminalizes any action , including speech , that could undermine racial or religious harmony .
Now , though , coronavirus has become an excuse for some landlords , who have tried to seize on travel and quarantine guidelines to evict mainland tenants from their buildings .
“ Such actions are not helpful and they have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lawrence Wong , the national-development minister , scolded in a speech to parliament .
“ I hope that every Singaporean will stand together and we will all do our part to confront and condemn such prejudice and discrimination.
” In the middle of all this , some friends from Hong Kong came to town ; my husband and I planned to meet them for dinner .
The night before , one of them texted to warn us that she ’ d been in mainland China .
Unprompted , she offered up the exact @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and airlines flown .
Both she and her husband felt fine but , if we wanted to cancel , they ’ d understand .

How does a virus take over a community? Slowly. Perniciously. Inconclusively. The first line of attack is not an aching body or a runny nose but an unease that seeps into every corner of life, and which is impossible to explain away because it is reasonable, even necessary. You must listen to this fear. You must calibrate your responses correctly. Otherwise, you are irresponsible, you are careless; in the body of the community, you are a failing organ.
Here in Singapore, we are perched awkwardly on the edge of the coronavirus crisis zone. As of this writing, ninety-two people on the island are known to have contracted the COVID-19 virus. First, it was travellers who’d been to the Chinese city of Wuhan, the epicenter of the outbreak, but gradually the disease seeped into the community and began to spread. So far, no one in Singapore has died of the disease.
But fear, it turns out, is also a virus. A low-level fright of this little-understood malady has taken hold in the international school where my children spend their days, and in the sprawling condominium complex where we live, along with a mix of Singaporean families and foreigners. This fear has the uncanny power to force out the uncomfortable questions that usually lurk unspoken in the communities it invades. You start out talking about the virus and end up picking apart parenting styles or foreign relations.
The virus has become a little-understood variable in a sort of living laboratory experiment in extreme urban and social management. Singapore is home to a diverse population of 5.7 million, of whom nearly two million, like our family, have come to live or work here temporarily. Virtually every aspect of life here, from public-transport routes to political discourse, is carefully controlled by the government.
The normal rhythms of the city are now punctuated by incessant virus-related announcements: emergency e-mails, stern notices on the bulletin board, and urgent WhatsApp messages from the government. Two more cases confirmed. School assemblies suspended. If you’ve been to mainland China in the past two weeks, stay home from school, church, and everything else. It’s worse than SARS. Don’t panic.
The frustrating truth is that we don’t know what we’re living through. Scientists are still scrambling to understand the fundamental facts about coronavirus, such as how it spreads and the length of its incubation period. In the absence of knowledge, we check constantly to see what everyone else is doing, having conversations that only lead to more uncertainty and judgment. In social circles that are preoccupied with family and schools, the coronavirus has become a microcosm of parenting itself: a crisis that compresses all the unease and distrust and self-doubt that lurk around the edges of child rearing into a slow-motion emergency that demands we all collaborate and follow orders.
One morning, while my husband walked the kids out to the bus stop, I opened an e-mail from the school. It was a long message and, as I read, I set down my coffee. I had the sensation of vertigo, like I was tipping face first into my laptop screen.
One of the teaching assistants in the Chinese-language program was a Wuhan native. His parents, who had come to visit over the Chinese New Year, had tested positive for the coronavirus. Happily, they were in stable condition, and the teacher himself did not appear to have the virus, but, then again, the long incubation period made it too soon to know for sure whether he’d been infected. His parents had been staying with him as he went back and forth to school. He’d been in the classroom and had performed in the Chinese New Year staff concert.
If you want to overwhelm a communications network, here’s a good trick: compose an e-mail to thousands of Type A parents announcing that the deadly virus splashed all over the headlines has perhaps infiltrated their children’s school. Press Send just as school buses are heading off into morning traffic.
“Good morning.” That was the first text from one of the second-grade moms: an opening line so barren of exclamation marks and emojis that, on a normal morning, it would imply a grave misdeed on the part of my child. “Saw the email?” she continued. We texted back and forth, and meanwhile I was texting with other parents and with two friends who are doctors in the United States.
“It’s not very deadly,” my friend, who is a research doctor, wrote. “Though it does seem to be serious.”
“Honestly, it’s less severe than influenza,” my emergency-room-doctor friend wrote. “Even if your kids get it they’ll be fine.”
Here in Singapore, one mom was wondering whether the cafeteria food might be contaminated; another was taking pictures of the classroom where the teaching assistant had worked with the children. These calm assessments from America rendered all of that, somehow, ridiculous. I informed the first mom who’d texted that I knew a doctor who said we shouldn’t worry. She replied that she’d also spoken with a doctor and had been told not to worry.
At that point, I assumed we’d reached a consensus. But just then she abruptly announced that her husband was headed to school to pick up their kid. “We’re not comfortable,” she wrote. “I understand,” I replied. Our fragile alliance had fractured, somehow, along lines that had to do with our tolerance for risk. We would not text each other for the rest of the week, while she kept her son at home and I sent mine to school.
If the virus is toying with our parental neuroses, it’s also poking at the sensitive spots of nations. In Hong Kong, where pro-democracy demonstrations have raged for most of the past year, the local government’s refusal to seal off crossings to the mainland was decried as yet another failure to protect the territory from the menace of Beijing.
Here in Singapore, too, the virus dredged up some of the tensions lurking under the veneer of communal harmony. Three-quarters of the city is ethnically Chinese, and there are significant minorities of Indians and indigenous Malays. The city is also home to tens of thousands of residents from mainland China. Relations among these groups have been carefully smoothed by the government, which recognizes four official languages, enforces ethnic quotas on public-housing blocks, and criminalizes any action, including speech, that could undermine racial or religious harmony. Now, though, coronavirus has become an excuse for some landlords, who have tried to seize on travel and quarantine guidelines to evict mainland tenants from their buildings.
“Such actions are not helpful and they have no place in our society,” Lawrence Wong, the national-development minister, scolded in a speech to parliament. “I hope that every Singaporean will stand together and we will all do our part to confront and condemn such prejudice and discrimination.”
In the middle of all this, some friends from Hong Kong came to town; my husband and I planned to meet them for dinner. The night before, one of them texted to warn us that she’d been in mainland China. Unprompted, she offered up the exact dates of her travel, cities visited, and airlines flown. Both she and her husband felt fine but, if we wanted to cancel, they’d understand.
Should we treat our old friends like lepers, or should we risk bringing the virus home to our kids? In the end, we tried to compromise.
“Will you think we’re total nuts if we suggest meeting at the restaurant, not hugging and not sharing dishes?” I wrote. “I feel awful even typing that.”
“That totally makes sense to us,” she replied.
It made less sense the following morning, when our eldest son told me, as we walked to the bus stop, that the kid he’d played with the previous two days was staying home from school for two weeks.
“Uh,” I said. “He is? Why?”
“Because he was in China.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned and started mumbling, more to myself than to him. So all our precautions were flimsy, I thought, like trying to use twigs and string to dam the flow of human interaction. We couldn’t know who’d been where or who might be ill, nor could we live in a state of sterility. We couldn’t build a wall against germs, and the pressure to keep trying to do so was exhausting.
That afternoon, as we walked back from the bus stop, along came the kid. He was gliding down the path on his scooter, a big grin on his face, wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a pair of goggles around his neck. “Hey,” he said to my son. “Want to go to the pool?”
“My mom says I can’t play with you, because you went to China,” my son said.


newyorker--2020-02-26--Trump Plans to Destroy Coronavirus with an Incredibly Mean Tweet

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —Donald Trump said on Wednesday that he was planning to destroy the coronavirus by sending an “ incredibly mean tweet ” in its direction .
Speaking to reporters at the White House , Trump said that he was already in the process of crafting insults about the virus that would obliterate it once and for all .
In a preview of the mean tweet he is devising , Trump said , “ The thing about the virus is it ’ s incredibly small .
It ’ s smaller than Mike Bloomberg .
Once I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t know what hit it.
” He added that he was also in the process of coming up with an insulting nickname for the virus .
“ It ’ s going to be something about how small it is , ” Trump said .
“ Something like Lil ’ Micro Mini Virus .
I ’ m still working on it , but it ’ s going to be so mean .
You won ’ t believe how mean it ’ s going to be.
” Trump was dismissive of the scientists who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in recent days .
“ These so-called experts are the same people who said I needed sunglasses to stare at the eclipse , ” he said .

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Donald Trump said on Wednesday that he was planning to destroy the coronavirus by sending an “incredibly mean tweet” in its direction.
Speaking to reporters at the White House, Trump said that he was already in the process of crafting insults about the virus that would obliterate it once and for all.
In a preview of the mean tweet he is devising, Trump said, “The thing about the virus is it’s incredibly small. It’s smaller than Mike Bloomberg. Once I point that out, the coronavirus won’t know what hit it.”
He added that he was also in the process of coming up with an insulting nickname for the virus.
“It’s going to be something about how small it is,” Trump said. “Something like Lil’ Micro Mini Virus. I’m still working on it, but it’s going to be so mean. You won’t believe how mean it’s going to be.”
Trump was dismissive of the scientists who have raised dire concerns about the virus in recent days. “These so-called experts are the same people who said I needed sunglasses to stare at the eclipse,” he said.


newyorker--2020-02-26--What Elizabeth Tallent Learned from Twenty-Two Years of Writer’s Block

“ Perfect ” is a defensive word .
Other terms of praise home in on desirable attributes—this view is glorious—or describe an effect on the viewer : look at those ravishing mountains .
But “ perfect ” ruminates on the possibility of flaws in order to deny their existence .
Because it depends on the absence of error , it exalts not creation but excision , deletion , its logical endpoint a beautifully intact nothing .
A new book , “ Scratched , ” by Elizabeth Tallent , is the tale of a life lived in search of that nothing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s short stories appeared frequently in The New Yorker ; she published four works of literary fiction with Knopf .
Then , for twenty-two years , she published almost nothing at all .
“ Scratched , ” which is subtitled “ A Memoir of Perfectionism , ” attempts to explain her long silence .
It is a fascinating , busy document .
The sentences are worked and reworked , twisted into wires and drawn through multiple clauses .
Straightforward memories alternate with meditations on family dynamics and quotes from psychologists and social scientists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pass at her elusive subject , evokes a fisherman in a fairy tale , repeatedly casting his rod .
There is something compulsive at work here , and a pathos that rises from the simultaneous breadth and modesty of the author ’ s yearning .
Tallent wants nothing less than perfection , because nothing less will make her safe .
Tallent does not disguise that she ’ s gone through extensive therapy .
( She married one of her therapists before leaving him for the woman who is now her wife , an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ understands her affliction in a way that at first reads as pat : as the response to a hypercritical , narcissistic mother , who made love contingent on achievement .
“ Scratched ” dutifully cites Freud and Donald Winnicott but skims over most clinical research in order to dwell inside Tallent ’ s lived experience : “ ego-wrecking fugues ” at her desk ; a constant “ aura of emergency.
” The anecdotes , their selection informed by the maternal hypothesis , are gripping .
The book ’ s primal scene is the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ refused to hold her daughter , Elizabeth , because the baby had scratches on her legs .
( Hence the title . )
This foundational rejection reverberates through the memoir .
“ Perfectionism , ” Tallent writes , “ is a form of being terrified of , and what follows that of is a blank every perfectionist would probably fill in differently , but whose large , generalizing term may be loss.
” Reading about the cruelty that Tallent endured as a child , I at times wondered whether “ perfectionism ” buried @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tallent breaks her arm ; her parents bundle her into the trunk of their car and don ’ t seek medical treatment .
( Several days later , another family member insists on taking her to a hospital . )
In a second flashback , Tallent waits by the road , in the snow , after her parents fail to pick her up from a violin lesson ; when a car that she thinks is driven by her father stops , she scrambles inside , frantic with relief .
But it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother pulls up to the corner to see her daughter hastily leaving a stranger ’ s car .
She ’ s furious : Tallent has lost her violin .
These episodes whip Tallent into an exquisite , pointless industry .
A few weeks after the station-wagon fiasco , she recounts , “ something woke me ” : “ instructions for returning to the rightness of the time before you were a recognizable self , the time when you could not be blamed.
” These instructions , “ sourceless ” and “ detailed , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ down the stairs , in silence , while her family sleeps .
The climbing hardens into a nightly ritual .
As Tallent grows older , her perfectionism—an authority she can ’ t place making demands she can ’ t understand—devises new torments .
She becomes a champion procrastinator .
( “ In perfectionism a task can be done two ways : flawlessly , or not at all.
” ) She marries her college boyfriend , a gentle and easygoing roofer , and moves to New Mexico , where she drops out of her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The couple has a son , Gabriel ( now a fiction writer , the author of “ My Absolute Darling , ” from 2017 ) , whom Tallent struggles not to wound with unreasonable expectations .
Gabriel ’ s quiet , observational presence helps crystallize the book ’ s stakes : Will the author do to her son what her mother did to her ?
Meanwhile , Tallent gets into erotic entanglements with poets and artists , and meditates with Zen masters .
For much of this time , she writes , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ typing along in hidden entrancement.
” Then , suddenly , she stops .
The passages in “ Scratched ” that deal with writer ’ s block will have the effect of quicksand on anyone who ’ s struggled to express herself on paper .
You sink under , horrified and enthralled .
“ For the sake of perfection I took a voice , my own , and twisted until mischance and error and experiment were wrung from it , ” Tallent writes .
“ My prose broadcast the deadness instilled by infinite tiny @ @ @ @ @ @ @ account more or less conforms to the original theory of writer ’ s block , which was put forward by the Viennese psychoanalyst Edmund Bergler , who suggested , as Joan Acocella wrote , in 2004 , that creative paralysis begins “ in rage over the milk-denying pre-Oedipal mother.
” ( “ Starved before , the writer chose to become starved again—that is , blocked , ” Acocella continues . )
But the memoir itself proceeds on strong sentences , sleek with a hard , dark lacquer .
A woman impresses Tallent because @ @ @ @ @ @ @ notice male disapproval.
” The same woman favors cardigans , “ just one or two buttons buttoned , never the correct button in the correct buttonhole , and worn thus the droopy beige or camel vapidity of the sweaters took on an air of witty dereliction.
” Tallent ’ s writing can have a pleasingly labored quality , as if she were a metaphysical poet comparing sex to a flea .
Tallent , who concedes that the label “ perfectionist ” can be a flattering one , also refuses to obscure “ how @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the beautiful beginning of this book.
” “ Scratched ” digs up a subtext in every creative endeavor : that art preys on artists .
According to ancient laws of conservation and conversion , you don ’ t produce loveliness out of nothing ; you produce it out of you .
There is a sadomasochism , then , to the reading and writing of “ Scratched , ” and Tallent is never so alluring as when she ’ s parsing her own prison .
Perfectionism , she writes , “ hits a perceived @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d with eloquence , and it moves fast , faster than conscious thought.
” The instant of consenting to its judgments “ is a radiant alliance with grace.
” Tallent makes her condition sound irresistible , or maybe she is simply demonstrating her inability to resist it— “ I ’ m like a person whose house is on fire writing a book about fire , ” she jokes—and the point of “ Scratched ” is that those two things become indistinguishable : perfectionism proves so totalizing a structure that there is no getting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on words that , inscribed with their author ’ s desire to express the inexpressible , become almost tragic .
Each adjective— “ radiant , ” “ numinous ” —gestures toward a splendor it can ’ t reach .
Histories of mental illness or fixation tend to get written from the coast of stabilization , if not the far shore of recovery .
Tallent , who remains in the perfectionism business , has at least acquired enough distance to create—and publish— “ Scratched.
” For this , she credits her son ; her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wife , who , before they are married , sells Tallent five “ as is ” wedding dresses .
( “ Tattered beauty after tattered beauty slides down my uplifted arms , ” she recalls , leaning into the symbolism . )
This finale suggests a mawkish yet useful fact : that the cure for perfectionism is love .
What Tallent calls her condition ’ s “ mortal loneliness ” begins in “ blindness to what is right before one ’ s eyes.
” The perfectionist rejects living people , living work , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a radiant , ultra-real changeling.
” The lover , by contrast , can not imagine a reality without her actual beloved , whose scratches become precious to her .
The sacrifices involved in committing to perfection—namely , the renunciation of the imperfect , which is to say , of everything that exists—are too great .
Tallent ’ s thesis is that perfectionists are terrified of loss .
Maybe they aren ’ t terrified enough .

“Perfect” is a defensive word. Other terms of praise home in on desirable attributes—this view is glorious—or describe an effect on the viewer: look at those ravishing mountains. But “perfect” ruminates on the possibility of flaws in order to deny their existence. Because it depends on the absence of error, it exalts not creation but excision, deletion, its logical endpoint a beautifully intact nothing.
A new book, “Scratched,” by Elizabeth Tallent, is the tale of a life lived in search of that nothing. In the nineteen-eighties, Tallent’s short stories appeared frequently in The New Yorker; she published four works of literary fiction with Knopf. Then, for twenty-two years, she published almost nothing at all. “Scratched,” which is subtitled “A Memoir of Perfectionism,” attempts to explain her long silence. It is a fascinating, busy document. The sentences are worked and reworked, twisted into wires and drawn through multiple clauses. Straightforward memories alternate with meditations on family dynamics and quotes from psychologists and social scientists. Tallent, who takes pass after pass at her elusive subject, evokes a fisherman in a fairy tale, repeatedly casting his rod. There is something compulsive at work here, and a pathos that rises from the simultaneous breadth and modesty of the author’s yearning. Tallent wants nothing less than perfection, because nothing less will make her safe.
Tallent does not disguise that she’s gone through extensive therapy. (She married one of her therapists before leaving him for the woman who is now her wife, an antiques dealer in Mendocino.) She understands her affliction in a way that at first reads as pat: as the response to a hypercritical, narcissistic mother, who made love contingent on achievement. “Scratched” dutifully cites Freud and Donald Winnicott but skims over most clinical research in order to dwell inside Tallent’s lived experience: “ego-wrecking fugues” at her desk; a constant “aura of emergency.” The anecdotes, their selection informed by the maternal hypothesis, are gripping. The book’s primal scene is the day Tallent was born: her mother refused to hold her daughter, Elizabeth, because the baby had scratches on her legs. (Hence the title.) This foundational rejection reverberates through the memoir. “Perfectionism,” Tallent writes, “is a form of being terrified of, and what follows that of is a blank every perfectionist would probably fill in differently, but whose large, generalizing term may be loss.”
Reading about the cruelty that Tallent endured as a child, I at times wondered whether “perfectionism” buried the lede. At one point, Tallent breaks her arm; her parents bundle her into the trunk of their car and don’t seek medical treatment. (Several days later, another family member insists on taking her to a hospital.) In a second flashback, Tallent waits by the road, in the snow, after her parents fail to pick her up from a violin lesson; when a car that she thinks is driven by her father stops, she scrambles inside, frantic with relief. But it’s not her father. Tallent’s mother pulls up to the corner to see her daughter hastily leaving a stranger’s car. She’s furious: Tallent has lost her violin. These episodes whip Tallent into an exquisite, pointless industry. A few weeks after the station-wagon fiasco, she recounts, “something woke me”: “instructions for returning to the rightness of the time before you were a recognizable self, the time when you could not be blamed.” These instructions, “sourceless” and “detailed,” tell Tallent to run up and down the stairs, in silence, while her family sleeps. The climbing hardens into a nightly ritual.
As Tallent grows older, her perfectionism—an authority she can’t place making demands she can’t understand—devises new torments. She becomes a champion procrastinator. (“In perfectionism a task can be done two ways: flawlessly, or not at all.”) She marries her college boyfriend, a gentle and easygoing roofer, and moves to New Mexico, where she drops out of her archeology graduate program and becomes a bookseller. The couple has a son, Gabriel (now a fiction writer, the author of “My Absolute Darling,” from 2017), whom Tallent struggles not to wound with unreasonable expectations. Gabriel’s quiet, observational presence helps crystallize the book’s stakes: Will the author do to her son what her mother did to her? Meanwhile, Tallent gets into erotic entanglements with poets and artists, and meditates with Zen masters. For much of this time, she writes, she is also crafting fiction, “typing along in hidden entrancement.” Then, suddenly, she stops.
The passages in “Scratched” that deal with writer’s block will have the effect of quicksand on anyone who’s struggled to express herself on paper. You sink under, horrified and enthralled. “For the sake of perfection I took a voice, my own, and twisted until mischance and error and experiment were wrung from it,” Tallent writes. “My prose broadcast the deadness instilled by infinite tiny acts of killing-off.” Tallent’s account more or less conforms to the original theory of writer’s block, which was put forward by the Viennese psychoanalyst Edmund Bergler, who suggested, as Joan Acocella wrote, in 2004, that creative paralysis begins “in rage over the milk-denying pre-Oedipal mother.” (“Starved before, the writer chose to become starved again—that is, blocked,” Acocella continues.) But the memoir itself proceeds on strong sentences, sleek with a hard, dark lacquer. A woman impresses Tallent because she is “capable of failing to notice male disapproval.” The same woman favors cardigans, “just one or two buttons buttoned, never the correct button in the correct buttonhole, and worn thus the droopy beige or camel vapidity of the sweaters took on an air of witty dereliction.” Tallent’s writing can have a pleasingly labored quality, as if she were a metaphysical poet comparing sex to a flea.
Tallent, who concedes that the label “perfectionist” can be a flattering one, also refuses to obscure “how much time I lost in pursuit of the beautiful beginning of this book.” “Scratched” digs up a subtext in every creative endeavor: that art preys on artists. According to ancient laws of conservation and conversion, you don’t produce loveliness out of nothing; you produce it out of you. There is a sadomasochism, then, to the reading and writing of “Scratched,” and Tallent is never so alluring as when she’s parsing her own prison. Perfectionism, she writes, “hits a perceived error hard, its scorn aura’d with eloquence, and it moves fast, faster than conscious thought.” The instant of consenting to its judgments “is a radiant alliance with grace.” Tallent makes her condition sound irresistible, or maybe she is simply demonstrating her inability to resist it—“I’m like a person whose house is on fire writing a book about fire,” she jokes—and the point of “Scratched” is that those two things become indistinguishable: perfectionism proves so totalizing a structure that there is no getting outside of it. The memoir relies on words that, inscribed with their author’s desire to express the inexpressible, become almost tragic. Each adjective—“radiant,” “numinous”—gestures toward a splendor it can’t reach.
Histories of mental illness or fixation tend to get written from the coast of stabilization, if not the far shore of recovery. Tallent, who remains in the perfectionism business, has at least acquired enough distance to create—and publish—“Scratched.” For this, she credits her son; her ex-husband, the therapist; and her wife, who, before they are married, sells Tallent five “as is” wedding dresses. (“Tattered beauty after tattered beauty slides down my uplifted arms,” she recalls, leaning into the symbolism.) This finale suggests a mawkish yet useful fact: that the cure for perfectionism is love. What Tallent calls her condition’s “mortal loneliness” begins in “blindness to what is right before one’s eyes.” The perfectionist rejects living people, living work, in favor of an idea: “a radiant, ultra-real changeling.” The lover, by contrast, cannot imagine a reality without her actual beloved, whose scratches become precious to her. The sacrifices involved in committing to perfection—namely, the renunciation of the imperfect, which is to say, of everything that exists—are too great. Tallent’s thesis is that perfectionists are terrified of loss. Maybe they aren’t terrified enough.


newyorker--2020-02-26--How You Know You’ve Made It, by City

How You Know You’ve Made It, by City

You live inside the Hollywood sign with six rescue Chihuahuas , who only drink Essentia ionized water and eat Beyond Meat .
Everything in your home is minimalist but littered with award statues .
You ’ re a walking , talking , Pilates-doing Instagram goal .
But you quit the app for good , to focus on “ humanness , ” whatever that means .
You had a cameo in “ Portlandia ” and own a bicycle , a unicycle , and another bicycle .
You maintain a well-oiled beard and know exactly which doughnut shop to go to ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a vegan breakfast burrito that ’ s so delicious and full of highly enriched riboflavin that one can hardly taste the shame you feel for working in advertising .
You ’ re tanned but , like , in the most impossibly even way , and you still somehow look young enough to be carded at Enterprise Rent-A-Car .
You take trips to the Bahamas just for the ’ gram and then fly back the same day to party at a night club where the bouncer ’ s name is Rocco .
You drive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plane is on loan to DJ Khaled ) .
You live in Cleveland .
You haven ’ t made it .
You just closed a five-hundred-and-ten-billion-dollar Series K round of venture-capital funding for your cryptocurrency startup , DoucheCoin .
The influx of cash has allowed you to become the proud new owner of a two-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot studio apartment in Nob Hill , which only set you back three billion dollars .
You drive a 2007 Toyota Prius .
( It ’ s part of your self-made mythos . )
Your alternative-folk-country-fusion band has performed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ People know you as the singer-songwriter to shoot whiskey with , before ending up at a hot-chicken joint .
Your cowboy hat is as big and white as the moon , which is why you need to transport it in the flatbed of your pickup truck .
You own a country ham signed by Kings of Leon .
You ’ re a star member of three main-stage improv teams at Second City and the iO Theater , and you serve as the on-call entertainment for the best deep-dish establishment in town ( not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Your main source of income is laughter and your biggest expense is sausages , but , if you ever need some extra cash , you know you can always become a placekicker for “ da Bears.
” You ’ re Chicago through and through , even though you technically grew up in Evanston .
You ’ re the most convincing Elvis in town and feel totally happy with your life , despite being on your fourth marriage .
David Copperfield and Criss Angel are competing to be your best friend .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” in Austin looks like , since it ’ s still being gentrified by Silicon Valley burnouts and assholes .
After spending just enough time making short films backed by your friends and family from Cleveland , while living in a rent-controlled apartment directly above a slice shop where everyone knows your name but calls you “ boss ” anyway , you have no choice but to move to Los Angeles and become rich , famous , and Instagram goals , whatever that means .

Los Angeles
You live inside the Hollywood sign with six rescue Chihuahuas, who only drink Essentia ionized water and eat Beyond Meat. Everything in your home is minimalist but littered with award statues. You’re a walking, talking, Pilates-doing Instagram goal. But you quit the app for good, to focus on “humanness,” whatever that means.
Portland
You had a cameo in “Portlandia” and own a bicycle, a unicycle, and another bicycle. You maintain a well-oiled beard and know exactly which doughnut shop to go to (not that one). You make a vegan breakfast burrito that’s so delicious and full of highly enriched riboflavin that one can hardly taste the shame you feel for working in advertising.
Miami
You’re tanned but, like, in the most impossibly even way, and you still somehow look young enough to be carded at Enterprise Rent-A-Car. You take trips to the Bahamas just for the ’gram and then fly back the same day to party at a night club where the bouncer’s name is Rocco. You drive a speedboat everywhere (when your private plane is on loan to DJ Khaled).
Cleveland
You live in Cleveland. You haven’t made it.
San Francisco
You just closed a five-hundred-and-ten-billion-dollar Series K round of venture-capital funding for your cryptocurrency startup, DoucheCoin. The influx of cash has allowed you to become the proud new owner of a two-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot studio apartment in Nob Hill, which only set you back three billion dollars. You drive a 2007 Toyota Prius. (It’s part of your self-made mythos.)
Nashville
Your alternative-folk-country-fusion band has performed at every music venue in town. People know you as the singer-songwriter to shoot whiskey with, before ending up at a hot-chicken joint. Your cowboy hat is as big and white as the moon, which is why you need to transport it in the flatbed of your pickup truck. You own a country ham signed by Kings of Leon.
Chicago
You’re a star member of three main-stage improv teams at Second City and the iO Theater, and you serve as the on-call entertainment for the best deep-dish establishment in town (not that one or the other one). Your main source of income is laughter and your biggest expense is sausages, but, if you ever need some extra cash, you know you can always become a placekicker for “da Bears.” You’re Chicago through and through, even though you technically grew up in Evanston.
Las Vegas
You’re the most convincing Elvis in town and feel totally happy with your life, despite being on your fourth marriage. David Copperfield and Criss Angel are competing to be your best friend.
Austin
It’s unclear what “making it” in Austin looks like, since it’s still being gentrified by Silicon Valley burnouts and assholes.
New York
After spending just enough time making short films backed by your friends and family from Cleveland, while living in a rent-controlled apartment directly above a slice shop where everyone knows your name but calls you “boss” anyway, you have no choice but to move to Los Angeles and become rich, famous, and Instagram goals, whatever that means.


newyorker--2020-02-26--What the Wind Can Teach Us

What the Wind Can Teach Us

Near the beginning of the tradition that we now think of as “ nature writing , ” Henry David Thoreau went out to look at his soon-to-be-famous pond : Taking this stroll , Thoreau feels a “ sympathy ” for the rustling leaves—something almost human seems to live in their movement .
Powerful emotions are stirred , too , by the wind , which “ blows and roars ” to meet the mind ’ s signals .
Although there are many Thoreaus in “ Walden , ” the popular image is that of a solitary man rediscovering nature by finding @ @ @ @ @ @ @ look at nature , it ’ s difficult to stop seeing ourselves .
Thoreau wrote as much in his journal , remarking that “ nature must be viewed humanly to be viewed at all.
” What would it mean to think of the natural world in terms outside ourselves ?
“ Heaven ’ s Breath : A Natural History of the Wind , ” which was published , in 1985 , by the scientist and author Lyall Watson , and recently reissued by New York Review Books , provides a curious model for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people and nature .
Watson , a biologist by training but perhaps a mystic at heart , writes that his book “ began as an essay on experience of the ineffable , but grew , as wind will , to have a life of its own .
.
.
.
[ Wind ] is the most vital of metaphors.
” From that near-human rustling comes a work that ’ s less a history than a litany of oddities , a network of facts spanning divergent scales of time and space .
“ Heaven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ simplest of definitions— “ Wind is defined as air in motion ” —before spinning out into a dizzying series of explanations , factoids , mini-histories , and cosmic contemplations .
Within a few pages , an explanation of wind chill segues into a description of shivering , then moves on to a citation of Darwin ’ s Beagle voyage , the unit of the Clo ( “ the degree of warmth represented by that old fashioned western suit and its underwear ” ) , the fashions of ancient Crete , rooftop ventilation techniques @ @ @ @ @ @ @ heat islands in cities .
There is a surprisingly useful taxonomy of clouds and a discussion of whether viruses are dropped into the earth ’ s atmosphere by comet dust .
A “ Dictionary of Wind ” closes the book , listing several hundred names for specific winds , from “ Aajej ” all the way to “ Zonda.
” The result , both perplexing and delightful , is appealing precisely because of how unclassifiable it is .
Watson himself was difficult to pin down .
Born in South Africa , in 1939 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ geology , and chemistry , served as the director of the Johannesburg Zoo , produced nature documentaries for the BBC , and was involved in the global anti-whaling movement .
His prolific writings include books about pigs , elephants , dragons , the sense of smell , and sumo wrestling .
He was also well known for his interest in the paranormal , chafing against what he believed to be unexamined scientific consensus .
When he died , in 2008 , an obituary supplied a memorable taste of his eccentricity : “ For @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shrimp trawler in the Amazon .
Often he traveled with Fred , a tapeworm he introduced into his body in the belief that it warded off stomach ailments.
” In “ Heaven ’ s Breath , ” that eccentricity is most evident in the book ’ s affinity for the Gaia hypothesis , a controversial theory , introduced by the scientist James Lovelock , which claims that the earth functions as one self-regulating organism , controlling the conditions to preserve and foster life .
This is the pathetic fallacy of pathetic fallacies , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by ongoing mass extinctions .
But insofar as it posits the connectedness of all things—a commonplace of both environmental and New Age thinking—the idea is taken more seriously by Watson than one might expect .
His book ’ s energy comes from its breadth and movement ; it roams freely , eddying around whatever strikes Watson ’ s interest and then moving on when the energy is spent .
In this sense , the book owes less to Thoreau than to a lineage of exploratory writing about nature and its systems—Rachel Carson classics @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” or , more recently , Robert MacFarlane ’ s poetic appreciation of landscape in “ Underland.
” These writers are perhaps superior stylists compared to Watson , but he makes up for it with disorienting speed and an odd sense of surprise .
At times , that oddness also strains credulity .
Do “ ill winds ” really cause poor health ?
Do frogs really rain down en masse because of a feedback mechanism in Gaia ?
Watson ’ s end-page citations are copious , but one should probably take his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ might say that Watson is playing devil ’ s advocate—testing received truths , staying alert to those that science can ’ t capture .
Occasionally , Watson ’ s curiosity drove him too far : in his book “ Supernature , ” a best-seller , acceptance of uncertainty led him past the humorous ( “ There is no shortage of good evidence for poltergeist activity .
.
.
” ) and into a suspect zone of fabulation .
This quality might make him seem like a wacky fringe figure—and he is , to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ example of his seeking mind .
Watson ’ s argument , implicit throughout the book , is that we should always remain open to possibilities , and that clearing space for the inconceivable is what preserves our sense of the world ’ s vibrancy .
When that sense is diminished , Watson might say , we have ceased to become active , observant inhabitants of our surroundings .
“ Heaven ’ s Breath ” appeared in the middle of the decade during which global warming became widely known to the public , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ particularly interesting as a document written when it became urgent to build a consensus about an international threat .
Watson is eloquent about localized forms of pollution , such as acid rain and smog , but he sees climate change as speculative : he notes that an earth hotter than it has been for over a hundred and twenty-five thousand years “ is bound to affect economic and political stability and to change our coastlines and our lives , but it could also be the making of a new world—one worth getting excited @ @ @ @ @ @ @ warming is framed as a science-fiction scenario , replete with possibility .
And yet , at other moments , Watson is oddly prescient about the costs of climate change .
His description of sailboats as one of “ the only ethically satisfying machines we have ever devised ” feels resonant in the wake of activist Greta Thunberg ’ s voyage to America , in which the harnessing of wind power helped expand our conception of what moral behavior could be .

Near the beginning of the tradition that we now think of as “nature writing,” Henry David Thoreau went out to look at his soon-to-be-famous pond:
As I walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy . . . Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled. These small waves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting surface. Though it is now dark, the wind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is never complete.
Taking this stroll, Thoreau feels a “sympathy” for the rustling leaves—something almost human seems to live in their movement. Powerful emotions are stirred, too, by the wind, which “blows and roars” to meet the mind’s signals. Although there are many Thoreaus in “Walden,” the popular image is that of a solitary man rediscovering nature by finding himself “within it.” Whenever we look at nature, it’s difficult to stop seeing ourselves. Thoreau wrote as much in his journal, remarking that “nature must be viewed humanly to be viewed at all.”
What would it mean to think of the natural world in terms outside ourselves? “Heaven’s Breath: A Natural History of the Wind,” which was published, in 1985, by the scientist and author Lyall Watson, and recently reissued by New York Review Books, provides a curious model for how we might reimagine the relationship between people and nature. Watson, a biologist by training but perhaps a mystic at heart, writes that his book “began as an essay on experience of the ineffable, but grew, as wind will, to have a life of its own. . . . [Wind] is the most vital of metaphors.” From that near-human rustling comes a work that’s less a history than a litany of oddities, a network of facts spanning divergent scales of time and space.
“Heaven’s Breath” begins with the simplest of definitions—“Wind is defined as air in motion”—before spinning out into a dizzying series of explanations, factoids, mini-histories, and cosmic contemplations. Within a few pages, an explanation of wind chill segues into a description of shivering, then moves on to a citation of Darwin’s Beagle voyage, the unit of the Clo (“the degree of warmth represented by that old fashioned western suit and its underwear”), the fashions of ancient Crete, rooftop ventilation techniques in Pakistan, and the formation of heat islands in cities. There is a surprisingly useful taxonomy of clouds and a discussion of whether viruses are dropped into the earth’s atmosphere by comet dust. A “Dictionary of Wind” closes the book, listing several hundred names for specific winds, from “Aajej” all the way to “Zonda.” The result, both perplexing and delightful, is appealing precisely because of how unclassifiable it is.
Watson himself was difficult to pin down. Born in South Africa, in 1939, he earned degrees in botany, geology, and chemistry, served as the director of the Johannesburg Zoo, produced nature documentaries for the BBC, and was involved in the global anti-whaling movement. His prolific writings include books about pigs, elephants, dragons, the sense of smell, and sumo wrestling. He was also well known for his interest in the paranormal, chafing against what he believed to be unexamined scientific consensus. When he died, in 2008, an obituary supplied a memorable taste of his eccentricity: “For 12 years he lived on a converted shrimp trawler in the Amazon. Often he traveled with Fred, a tapeworm he introduced into his body in the belief that it warded off stomach ailments.”
In “Heaven’s Breath,” that eccentricity is most evident in the book’s affinity for the Gaia hypothesis, a controversial theory, introduced by the scientist James Lovelock, which claims that the earth functions as one self-regulating organism, controlling the conditions to preserve and foster life. This is the pathetic fallacy of pathetic fallacies, and its premise is being tested rigorously by ongoing mass extinctions. But insofar as it posits the connectedness of all things—a commonplace of both environmental and New Age thinking—the idea is taken more seriously by Watson than one might expect. His book’s energy comes from its breadth and movement; it roams freely, eddying around whatever strikes Watson’s interest and then moving on when the energy is spent. In this sense, the book owes less to Thoreau than to a lineage of exploratory writing about nature and its systems—Rachel Carson classics, like “The Sea Around Us,” or, more recently, Robert MacFarlane’s poetic appreciation of landscape in “Underland.” These writers are perhaps superior stylists compared to Watson, but he makes up for it with disorienting speed and an odd sense of surprise.
At times, that oddness also strains credulity. Do “ill winds” really cause poor health? Do frogs really rain down en masse because of a feedback mechanism in Gaia? Watson’s end-page citations are copious, but one should probably take his stranger findings lightly. A generous reader might say that Watson is playing devil’s advocate—testing received truths, staying alert to those that science can’t capture. Occasionally, Watson’s curiosity drove him too far: in his book “Supernature,” a best-seller, acceptance of uncertainty led him past the humorous (“There is no shortage of good evidence for poltergeist activity . . .”) and into a suspect zone of fabulation. This quality might make him seem like a wacky fringe figure—and he is, to some extent—but something valuable remains in the example of his seeking mind. Watson’s argument, implicit throughout the book, is that we should always remain open to possibilities, and that clearing space for the inconceivable is what preserves our sense of the world’s vibrancy. When that sense is diminished, Watson might say, we have ceased to become active, observant inhabitants of our surroundings.
“Heaven’s Breath” appeared in the middle of the decade during which global warming became widely known to the public, and Watson’s call for exploration is particularly interesting as a document written when it became urgent to build a consensus about an international threat. Watson is eloquent about localized forms of pollution, such as acid rain and smog, but he sees climate change as speculative: he notes that an earth hotter than it has been for over a hundred and twenty-five thousand years “is bound to affect economic and political stability and to change our coastlines and our lives, but it could also be the making of a new world—one worth getting excited about all over again.” Here, warming is framed as a science-fiction scenario, replete with possibility. And yet, at other moments, Watson is oddly prescient about the costs of climate change. His description of sailboats as one of “the only ethically satisfying machines we have ever devised” feels resonant in the wake of activist Greta Thunberg’s voyage to America, in which the harnessing of wind power helped expand our conception of what moral behavior could be.
It’s tempting to think of nature writing as falling into two tendencies. On the one hand, there is a mode, going back to Thoreau and earlier, that records subjective impressions of a landscape, and that sees the reader try to inhabit a place with the writer. On the other hand, there’s a tradition of natural history, which seeks to explain and classify phenomena in a broadly understandable way. In the case of climate change, neither mode can seem commensurate to the subject; natural history, especially, tends to entail lists of projections and statistics that immobilize us with their authority. Caught between a feeling of subjectivity that’s atomized and an objectivity that fails to rouse us, Watson’s book proposes a hybrid form, one that moves freely between human and non-human, and which suggests that the distance between the two is always less than we suppose.
Indeed, a crucial feature of “Heaven’s Breath” is that humans are not at the center of it. People do play a part in Watson’s investigations, but they take their place alongside planets, plants, and animals. Despite Watson’s highly idiosyncratic vision, there’s scarcely an “I” in the entire book. And there are moments of remarkable poetic imagination, in which Watson thinks from a non-human perspective. At one point, he notes that if people were like pit-vipers, which use infrared waves to detect motion, “there would be no shadows on the ground, because Earth itself would always be a source of light.”


newyorker--2020-02-26--Kwame Dawes Reads Derek Walcott

Kwame Dawes Reads Derek Walcott

Kevin : Well , and I think there ’ s a way in which you put it so well that in the poem it says “ the machinations / of emperors and pontificates.
” These figures that are impacting the body and the self who don ’ t know from the daily embodied struggle of just waking and walking and working , you know ?
I mean , and there ’ s something in that that I think is really powerful and it ’ s political in its dismissal .
Kwame : Yeah .
And it ’ s something I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which the world is run by these people , these leaders , and their impact is brutal in shifting and changing the way that we see things .
And yet one is still having to live through that .
And yeah , it is a dismissal of it .
But as you say , it is a recognition of it .
I think this form—and you can see that what I ’ m doing with these poems and this particular poem is the long line .
The syntax is where the formal technique @ @ @ @ @ @ @ take these long breaths with all of these parenthetical sort of asides and then yet keep myself on the tightrope ?
That ’ s the challenge , the poetic challenge .
And in a sense , it ’ s been the form that has spoken to the copiousness of thought .
And yet trying to contain it in the line .
That is where I am sort of thinking now , rather than this sort of trimmed line that almost has a kind of a determinism that says , I ’ ve got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to that .
This is the sense that there is so much to consider .
And yet I have to maintain that I ’ m still on this same track .
That to me is the technical challenge of this particular poem .
And I think it ’ s in the syntax .
Kevin : Well , I think that ’ s really well said .
I mean , the long line , here for you , it feels thoughtful .
But it also feels like physical .
It feels like it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re showing us the thoughts of this “ I.
” But also , as you said , there ’ s a sense of discovery .
We don ’ t start off the poem with someone who ’ s like , “ I totally know where we 're going.
” It ’ s not a rambunctious I , but it is a reckoning and reflective , and then , by the end , also , I think , a redemptive “ I.
” Kwame : It is redemptive , yeah .
And because of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it , that ’ s why I ’ m really grateful for The New Yorker for publishing the poem .
The response has been very interesting .
Most of what is said is , Oh , it ’ s so good not to be alone .
You know what I mean ?
I woke up and I read this and I realized I ’ m not alone .
And I appreciate that sense that that I ’ m joining with .
Kwame : There ’ s a chorus , yeah .
And I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the poem that it ’ s worth talking about .
That it ’ s the recognition of self that is .
.
.
It ’ s hope .
Right ?
It ’ s not necessarily that the poem is hopeful , but that it ’ s recognized and that the poet who is able to be true to that and somebody else can use their own imaginative powers in their reading to find that place and to find some affinity in that place .
I think that 's one of the beautiful joys @ @ @ @ @ @ @ poetry .
Kevin : Well , it ends “ I will stretch out and breathe.
” In a way , and I think the long lines accomplish this , there ’ s all this breath , you know , but , you realize by the end , this person ’ s almost holding their breath the whole time .
And there ’ s something about it : “ I will stretch out ” —I ’ m going to take all that space up .
And that ’ s O.K .
Kwame : And @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sense of time—there ’ s that line that I , you know , I come back and I think , well , that ’ s not bad , but it takes “ ten breaths.
” The use of breath as a kind of marker of time .
And for me , it was going back to the most basic markers of time .
It ’ s the persistence of living .
Kwame : It ’ s an organic thing .
It ’ s part of that .
So it 's bodily .
And @ @ @ @ @ @ @ started off sort of joking about the poems , but I feel more vulnerable about a poem like this than many other poems that I ’ ve written .
Not in a terrible way , but it does feel a little naked .
Kevin : I think that 's one of the reasons why it ’ s so powerful .
“ I am helpless to this soft / disappearing that some call sleep.
” I mean , that ’ s not simple and you ’ ve earned it so well by the end @ @ @ @ @ @ @ broader way about “ Nebraska , ” the book you ’ ve written that is set there .
How would you describe it ?
How do you think of it ?
Kwame : It ’ s poems I ’ ve written in that space and , you know , I write a lot .
And so one of the things of putting them together , I didn ’ t realize how much I ’ d written about the space and being in this space .
And when I started to put the collection @ @ @ @ @ @ @ statement and I started to move .
It goes through seasons .
And the motif that runs through it is light .
And in fact , one of the great blessings of Nebraska , for me anyway , is light .
The persistence of light .
Even in the deepest winter , there is light .
And I feed on light .
I think it 's one of the things that has sustained me in that space and that motif runs through it .
But there is also a sense in which I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to be in an alien space .
Learning landscape ; learning the birds , the trees ; learning the sky .
What does it mean ?
When is weather coming ?
When is weather not coming ?
Not being able to do cardinal points like Nebraskans do .
You know , it ’ s like left and right—that ’ s the best I can do .
But learning all of that and trying to be true to that .
But also , I ’ m not just learning about me and Nebraska , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at a certain stage in life .
My children are grown .
They ’ re moving out .
My wife and I are reaching a stage where we ’ re sort of working through who we are in this time .
And Nebraska ’ s found us in that space .
So it is true to be a Nebraska collection .
And it ’ s about Nebraska in that sense .
But it ’ s also about being , again , another stage of an immigrant ’ s existence and an American ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kevin : One of the questions that came up for me , then : is this a book of exile ?
Kwame : I think it ’ s a book of exile , but I think exile has evolved these days because I think when my father used “ exile , ” he , you know , it cost a lot of money and took weeks to take a ship from England .
You know , you kind of were in prison where you were .
And also exile is a statement not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but about where you left .
And , in fairness , I don ’ t feel exiled from the Caribbean .
Caribbean is still my home .
Jamaica is still home .
Ghana is still home .
But the elements of being away , the elements of redefining home , all of those things are , I think , the contemporary idea of exile for many .
I mean , for other people , they are leaving , they are fleeing .
And that exile is a different kind of exile .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of absence that I think is one that most people who have left one place and are in another place share .
And I think these poems sort of speak to that , too .
Kevin : Well , it ’ s a beautiful book .
And thank you so much for coming and talking about it with us .
“ Before Winter , ” by Kwame Dawes , as well as Derek Walcott 's “ The Season of Phantasmal Peace ” can be found on newyorker.com .
Kwame Dawes ’ s latest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : You may subscribe to this podcast , the Fiction Podcast , the Writer ’ s Voice Podcast and the Politics and More Podcast by searching for The New Yorker in your podcast app .
You can hear more poetry read by the authors on newyorker.com and the New Yorker app , available from the App Store or from Google Play .
The theme music is “ The Corner ” by Christian Scott Atunde Adjuah , courtesy of Stretch Music and Rope a Dope .
The New Yorker Poetry Podcast is produced by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .

Kwame: Right. And I think that’s the one hope. “Seasonless” means that I think it’s not constrained by the seasons. It’s almost the same as saying timeless, but he couldn’t get away with that.
Kevin: No, right.
Kwame: So I think he’s saying love as this timeless moment. And there is hope in that last instance where he says, But in this moment, which seems short, but it is grand, there’s this ecumenical sense that love as this seeming fleeting thing yet multiplies itself in that sense. So even though I describe it as sort of pessimistic or depressing, it’s not that. It’s that you can get love. You can get hope.
Kevin: It’s not permanent.
Kwame: It’s not permanent. Yeah. And but it’s a moment and we should grab that moment.
Kevin: Yeah. And what’s interesting, he says, “and this season lasted,” as you said, “one moment, like the pause / between dusk and darkness, between fury and peace.” I mean, you know, I don’t think of the opposite of peace as fury, but here it is. Here he’s made us know that. “But, for such as our earth is now, it lasted long.” What’s he saying about that earth and that now, which I think feels super urgent now even?
Kwame: Yeah. And this is the thing which we’re getting at, which is that fury and peace. . . And there’s other language that is straight out of the newspaper: the language of diplomats, of politicians, of wars and rumors of wars and so on. And he’s saying that there is a moment in between there, which is a moment that transcends that is bigger than any of these two extremes. But it’s a fleeting moment. It’s a moment that we hold on to. The fury is all the chaos in life and so on, so forth. And peace is an absolute. So this is a moment in between. And therefore, it’s illusory. But as a poet, he’s saying illusion is a good thing. Illusion is not necessarily something to just dismiss as a lie, but something that feeds us, that I think gives us some kind of hope.
Kevin: I love, too, the second stanza where he says “it was the light,” before, but right before that he says “they could not hear / battalions of starlings”—great phrase—“bearing the net higher, covering this world / like the vines of an orchard, or a mother drawing / the trembling gauze over the trembling eyes / of a child. . .”
Kwame: And the dude repeats “trembling!”
Kevin: He gets away with it! How dare you? But, yeah, what works is exactly that.
Kwame: It’s that double and he’s doing this layering thing and it’s a bold gesture to do it.
Kevin: Well, I think he gives us the metaphor within the simile. He gives us “the trembling gauze,” which I don't take to be literal gauze.
Kwame: Right.
Kevin: But drawing a child to sleep.
Kwame: The veil over, the curtain over. That’s the metaphorical. And then the trembling eyes of a child fluttering so that it trembles and flutters, which is a little redundant.
Kevin: Slightly different.
Kwame: It’s slightly different.
Kevin: There’s an ominousness to the trembling gauze at first. And yet at the same time, it has—where my family’s from, in Louisiana, it evokes a kind of caul. Like if someone was born with a caul, it’s their second sight.
Kwame: Yeah. That’s a very Caribbean thing, too. And then it's to sleep. And we’re thinking death. But then, you know, the second sleep, you know, so he’s playing with that idea. But it’s a tender moment of a mother, which is the same as this orchard—sort of this sense of this covering of the world, the vines of an orchard covering the world.
Kevin: And an orchard, too, is different than a forest or a wood.
Kwame: It’s cultivated.
Kevin: He is really wrestling in ways that I appreciate you saying are very Caribbean. But also he’s wrestling with this kind of pastoral tradition that also thinks about the city. That’s really interesting.
Kwame: We should not leave this without realizing that his big metaphor is the weaving of a net. The birds. And what the birds leave behind. That is the nest and a shelter. And he keeps that all the way: the gauze, all of these elements of vines. He’s just constantly working that same image in ways that we kind of, you know, we go, “Oh, ohhhh, O.K.!” So he keeps that up. He keeps that up all the way through.
Kevin: How do you feel he’s able to do that? You know, he takes a thing and turns it—which is what poetry does—turns it into another thing.
Kwame: Yeah. This is one of the great lessons I learned, not from Walcott first, but from Shakespeare’s speeches. You know, I discovered this thing when I was reading Shakespeare. And I had an old professor, a man called Dr. Engeldew. And he said that Shakespeare sort of does these conceits through whole plays. So cloth, clothing, is a big motif that runs through, you know, “The Merchant of Venice” and so on. But then when you start looking at what Shakespeare does from the beginning of a speech to the end of a speech, you’ll begin with a shoe and it ends with a sword. It's all metaphorical, though. And he keeps switching that metaphor. So the shoe becomes a piece of leather, then becomes a wallet. And he’s just shifting it. He’s essentially mixing metaphors, but doing it with such slow, careful slippage between one to the other that by the time you’re done, you get this netting of a single kind of image. It’s part of the bombast of Shakespeare, which he can do because he’s a playwright, right? He’s writing for the stage. Walcott sort of masters that. And I think it's one of the criticisms that sometimes people had of Walcott, which is the flamboyance of his metaphor and his image and so on. But I kind of like it. You know, you kind of have to admire the skill of it. And he’s very, very good at that thing of following that image and staying consistent with that image. A lot of work goes into that kind of thinking.


newyorker--2020-02-26--Bernie Sanders Runs Out the Clock at a Chaotic Democratic Debate

Bernie Sanders went into Tuesday night ’ s debate in South Carolina as the undisputed front-runner for the Democratic nomination .
And , from the jump , he got treated that way by his opponents : the other candidates kept trying to score points at his expense , box him into rhetorical corners , or contrast themselves against him or his record .
But there were six of them , and one of him , and the dynamic that has defined the past few weeks of the race—all of the non-Sanders candidates being unable to claim the mantle of strongest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ simply too many voices , and not enough time , which led to long stretches of muddy argument and several episodes of unintelligible shouting .
The moderators kept cutting the candidates off , begging them to wrap up and cede the floor .
The debate began with a question for Sanders , about how he would make the case for his progressive economic proposals in the context of a growing American economy .
“ The economy is doing really great for people like Mr. Bloomberg and other billionaires , ” Sanders said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been assigned one of the outermost podia .
“ Half of our people are living paycheck to paycheck.
” For a moment , it seemed that we were in for a reprise of the debate that took place a week ago , in Nevada , when the candidates all seemed to visibly delight in pillorying Bloomberg , who has been spending unprecedented amounts of his own money to fuel a late entry into the race .
But attention soon moved off the billionaire ex-mayor .
Notably , it was Elizabeth Warren who refocussed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I agree on a lot of things , but I think I would make a better President than Bernie , ” she said .
“ Bernie and I both want to see universal health care , but Bernie ’ s plan doesn ’ t explain how to get there.
” Other candidates appeared eager to get their shots in on Sanders— “ Imagine spending the better part of 2020 with Bernie Sanders versus Donald Trump , ” Pete Buttigieg declared a few moments later—but Warren ’ s heart didn ’ t seem to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , she has struggled to find words to make the case for why the progressive base of the party should go with her instead of Sanders , and she didn ’ t find better words for her case on Tuesday night .
Everyone else got his or her moment against the Vermont senator .
Joe Biden questioned Sanders ’ s record on guns .
Amy Klobuchar criticized him for offering policy proposals that “ sound good on bumper stickers.
” Buttigieg attacked him for not being willing to get rid of the filibuster @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are we going to deliver a revolution if you won ’ t even support a rule change ?
” he said . )
Even Tom Steyer , who at times in this campaign has seemed like something of a Sanders fanboy , declared , “ Bernie Sanders ’ s analysis is right .
The difference is I don ’ t like his solutions.
” For the most part , Sanders seemed untroubled by the criticism .
He yelled plenty , but yelling is his default register at debates .
And time worked to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when he didn ’ t offer his best retort—when the rest of the stage interrogated him on the cost of his Medicare for All plan , or when he was challenged for his remarks that Fidel Castro ’ s regime in Cuba delivered some positive social services—the moderators were never far off from declaring a new topic .
The next debate is scheduled for March 15th , in Phoenix , Arizona .
Twenty-six states and territories will have voted by then .
It is a safe bet that Sanders will be in Phoenix @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seems much harder to say .
It won ’ t be all seven of the candidates who appeared on Tuesday .
The Democrats ’ wide-open 2020 primary is finally ending .
Someone may yet emerge as the anti-Sanders candidate , but it hasn ’ t happened yet .
And time is running out .

Bernie Sanders went into Tuesday night’s debate in South Carolina as the undisputed front-runner for the Democratic nomination. And, from the jump, he got treated that way by his opponents: the other candidates kept trying to score points at his expense, box him into rhetorical corners, or contrast themselves against him or his record. But there were six of them, and one of him, and the dynamic that has defined the past few weeks of the race—all of the non-Sanders candidates being unable to claim the mantle of strongest non-Sanders candidate—played out onstage. There were simply too many voices, and not enough time, which led to long stretches of muddy argument and several episodes of unintelligible shouting. The moderators kept cutting the candidates off, begging them to wrap up and cede the floor.
The debate began with a question for Sanders, about how he would make the case for his progressive economic proposals in the context of a growing American economy. “The economy is doing really great for people like Mr. Bloomberg and other billionaires,” Sanders said, glancing toward Michael Bloomberg, who had been assigned one of the outermost podia. “Half of our people are living paycheck to paycheck.” For a moment, it seemed that we were in for a reprise of the debate that took place a week ago, in Nevada, when the candidates all seemed to visibly delight in pillorying Bloomberg, who has been spending unprecedented amounts of his own money to fuel a late entry into the race. But attention soon moved off the billionaire ex-mayor.
Notably, it was Elizabeth Warren who refocussed attention on Sanders. “Bernie and I agree on a lot of things, but I think I would make a better President than Bernie,” she said. “Bernie and I both want to see universal health care, but Bernie’s plan doesn’t explain how to get there.” Other candidates appeared eager to get their shots in on Sanders—“Imagine spending the better part of 2020 with Bernie Sanders versus Donald Trump,” Pete Buttigieg declared a few moments later—but Warren’s heart didn’t seem to be in it. Since the summer, she has struggled to find words to make the case for why the progressive base of the party should go with her instead of Sanders, and she didn’t find better words for her case on Tuesday night.
Everyone else got his or her moment against the Vermont senator. Joe Biden questioned Sanders’s record on guns. Amy Klobuchar criticized him for offering policy proposals that “sound good on bumper stickers.” Buttigieg attacked him for not being willing to get rid of the filibuster in the Senate. (“How are we going to deliver a revolution if you won’t even support a rule change?” he said.) Even Tom Steyer, who at times in this campaign has seemed like something of a Sanders fanboy, declared, “Bernie Sanders’s analysis is right. The difference is I don’t like his solutions.” For the most part, Sanders seemed untroubled by the criticism. He yelled plenty, but yelling is his default register at debates. And time worked to his benefit again and again. Even when he didn’t offer his best retort—when the rest of the stage interrogated him on the cost of his Medicare for All plan, or when he was challenged for his remarks that Fidel Castro’s regime in Cuba delivered some positive social services—the moderators were never far off from declaring a new topic.
The next debate is scheduled for March 15th, in Phoenix, Arizona. Twenty-six states and territories will have voted by then. It is a safe bet that Sanders will be in Phoenix. Who else will join him there seems much harder to say. It won’t be all seven of the candidates who appeared on Tuesday. The Democrats’ wide-open 2020 primary is finally ending. Someone may yet emerge as the anti-Sanders candidate, but it hasn’t happened yet. And time is running out.