newyorker--2020-11-21--When “Creatives” Turn Destructive: Image-Makers and the Climate Crisis

The most urgent practical question currently facing the species is almost certainly whether we can rapidly transform our energy systems and stop pouring greenhouse gases into the atmosphere .
Chief executives of oil companies keep the conflagration going , but the industry doesn ’ t work alone .
Last year—before the final fully intact ice shelf in Canada collapsed into the Arctic Ocean ; before record fires killed or displaced nearly three billion animals across Australia ; before the world measured its first reliable hundred-and-thirty-degree-Fahrenheit temperature , in Death Valley , California ; before that state faced the largest fires @ @ @ @ @ @ @ five tropical cyclones spun at once through the Atlantic—I wrote about the role that banks , asset managers , and insurance companies have played in supplying the capital required to keep the fossil-fuel industry humming .
In the months since , those industries , pressed hard by activists , have begun to shift ; giants such as BlackRock have announced sweeping new policies , even if they ’ re still far from matching their rhetoric with action .
Now I want to focus on another industry that buttresses the status quo : the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that help provide the rationalizations and the justifications that slow the pace of change .
Although these agencies are less significant monetarily than the banks , they are more so intellectually ; if money is the oxygen on which the fire of global warming burns , then P.R .
campaigns and snappy catchphrases are the kindling .
Climate change is sometimes compared to the Holocaust or to slavery , because all three have killed and degraded human lives on an almost unimaginable scale .
But the comparisons are , at their root , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ many other things , for most of the more than three centuries that people have been burning fossil fuels , they had no idea that they were damaging the future .
Coal and oil and gas were seen as—and , at one time , probably were—more liberating than oppressing for the societies that burned them , despite the pollution they produced .
It was just around three decades ago that the heat-trapping molecular structure of carbon dioxide , and hence the “ greenhouse effect , ” became a pressing public issue , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was one of the world ’ s largest industrial enterprises .
The burning of fossil fuel wasn ’ t evil in its origins , in other words—no one need feel guilty for having been a part of it , which is good , because all of us in the rich world are , even if we have solar panels on the roof and a Tesla in the garage .
By this point , however , we know precisely how dangerous the continued combustion of hydrocarbons is .
And we have seen that there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , solar and wind power can now be produced more cheaply than fossil-fuel energy .
And we ’ ve seen great investigative reporting lay out the fact that the big oil companies have known of the causes of climate change since at least the nineteen-eighties , and worked actively to deny them or cover them up .
Clearly , that was immoral .
So what do we say in 2020 about the people who are still helping the oil majors and the gas utilities in their efforts to slow a transition to clean @ @ @ @ @ @ @ here about coal miners or natural-gas pipeliners or people who work at filling stations , much less people who drive cars or heat their homes—they participate in a world that they didn ’ t create .
But lobbyists and P.R .
firms develop promotional campaigns for the industry , and people are starting to hold them accountable for it .
In August , Storebrand , a ninety-one-billion-dollar asset manager based in Norway , divested from companies including ExxonMobil and Chevron precisely because of their lobbying activities .
“ Climate change is one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lobbying activities which undermine action to solve this crisis are simply unacceptable .
The Exxons and Chevrons of the world are holding us back , ” Jan Erik Saugestad , Storebrand ’ s chief executive , said .
What ’ s interesting about many of the current P.R .
campaigns is that they don ’ t involve classic climate denial .
Outside of the Trump Administration and the right wing of the Republican Party , that ’ s now a dead letter .
You could no more persuade a Madison Avenue agency to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you could persuade it to argue that Black lives don ’ t matter .
Instead , these campaigns often look for ways to leverage people ’ s environmental concern in service of precisely the companies that are causing the trouble .
Let ’ s start with a completely charming series of online ads that B.B.D.O .
put together , in 2019 , for Exxon .
B.B.D.O .
is one of the iconic ad agencies ( it was frequently mentioned on “ Mad Men ” ) , responsible for everything from “ Better Things @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chemistry ” ( DuPont ) to “ Ring Around the Collar ” ( Wisk detergent ) .
Building on a YouTube craze for videos showing cooks preparing tiny cakes and hamburgers , a creative team put together a series of four Web ads called “ Miniature Science.
” In the second ad , algae is grown in little dishes , cultivated in a tiny seawater pond , and kept circulating by a minuscule paddle wheel .
After a few days , the algae is drained from the pond , and a pocket-size pestle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ oil .
Once the paste has been mixed with traces of hexane , sodium hydroxide , and methanol , it produces “ a low-emission biofuel.
” In the next installment , the mixture is used to propel a boat around a bowl .
This algae biofuel , a sprightly narrator notes , could power “ entire fleets of ships tomorrow.
” In fact , the ad contends , algae could fuel “ the trucks , ships and planes of tomorrow.
” It concludes , “ This is big.
” But it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back more than a decade , when a number of oil companies invested relatively small sums in the project .
In 2009 , Exxon partnered with a company called Synthetic Genomics to conduct research and figure out how to scale production ; the oil giant estimates that , between 2008 and 2018 , it invested about two hundred and fifty million dollars into biofuel technology .
Some five years after that partnership began , Exxon was spending about a hundred million dollars a day trying to find and develop new sources of oil @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Considering this , the algae money represents a rounding error : a few days ’ worth worth of capital expenditures from a company still fully committed to its legacy products .
And , in any event , by the time B.B.D.O .
was producing Exxon ’ s ads , most other companies had ceased work on algae biofuel , because it had become obvious that it would never make economic sense .
As the industry newsletter Oilprice.com put it , you ’ d need oil to trade at five hundred dollars a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ algae to ever compete with it .
As a result , Exxon itself has essentially conceded that this technology won ’ t amount to much .
The company ’ s latest forecast put off until as late as 2025 the date for actually producing algae fuel , and even then it will be producing just an estimated ten thousand barrels a day , or roughly 0.2 per cent of its refinery capacity .
Meanwhile , a trial at Swansea University , in Wales , showed that , if you wanted to supply , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s transport-fuel needs with algae , you ’ d need growing ponds three times the size of Belgium .
According to one blog , you ’ d need ponds covering eighteen per cent of the agricultural land in the United Kingdom just to cover Britain ’ s transportation habits .
But , if algae has underachieved scientifically , it has dramatically overachieved as a greenwashing tool .
The B.B.D.O .
Web ads were the least of it ; there were also TV campaigns and print ads from agencies such as Universal McCann @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Facebook or Instagram , you ’ d think that algae is all they ’ re thinking about all the time , ” Zoya Teirstein , a reporter for Grist , told the Harvard Political Review .
According to Kert Davies , the director of the nonprofit Climate Investigations Center , Exxon began running algae ads during the 2016 Olympics , and has spent more than fifty million dollars buying TV time to tout the biofuel ’ s wonders .
Another example : a long “ paid post ” prepared with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ editorial and news staffs were not involved ) which aims to explain “ how scientists are tapping algae and plant waste to fuel a sustainable energy future.
” As a researcher explains , “ Eventually , we want to power something the size of UPS or FedEx ’ s global fleet with renewable diesel .
That would be pretty aspirational .
It ’ d be a real ‘ We did it ’ moment.
” In fact , both UPS and FedEx are busily electrifying their delivery-truck fleets .
( Amazon and Ikea , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ saying for years , a working climate future depends on the rapid electrification of almost everything—because , if something runs on electricity , it can be powered by the sun and the wind .
A decade ago , that was still a hopeful idea , but , in recent years , as the price of solar and wind power has plummeted , it ’ s become an eminently practical one .
It ’ s already true for domestic consumption , and increasingly it ’ s even the case for heavy industry , including @ @ @ @ @ @ @ expert Saul Griffith speaking to Ezra Klein , of Vox : “ We don ’ t really have a vision for how to create the same amount of liquid fuels as we do today to drive our cars .
So really the only answer if we ’ re going to continue to have a lot of cars is to electrify them .
Similarly , we don ’ t really have an answer to providing heat to our homes that ’ s zero carbon unless we electrify .
It ’ s really the only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to zero carbon.
” Again , a decade ago , this could have seemed a dream .
But , as lithium-ion batteries have got more efficient , and electric vehicles have got cheaper , it ’ s now clearly the only way forward .
And it has to happen fast : as the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change pointed out two years ago , if we don ’ t make “ fundamental transformations ” in our energy systems by 2030—which the group defined as cutting emissions by nearly half—we have no chance of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the world ’ s nations in Paris five years ago .
There is no time to waste .

Past sins are past no more: an overdue historical recalibration is under way, with monuments being pulled down, dorms renamed, restitution offered. People did things, bad things; even across the span of centuries, they’re being held to account, and there’s something noble about that. The Reverend Robert W. Lee IV, for instance, recently backed the removal of his famous ancestor’s statue from Richmond, Virginia. The memorial, he wrote, “is a hollow reminder of a painful ideology and acts of oppression against black people. Taking it down will provide new opportunities for conversations, relationships and policy change.” Such a response raises an uncomfortable question: What are we doing now that our descendants will need to apologize for? Might we be able to get ahead of the sin this time?
The most urgent practical question currently facing the species is almost certainly whether we can rapidly transform our energy systems and stop pouring greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. Chief executives of oil companies keep the conflagration going, but the industry doesn’t work alone. Last year—before the final fully intact ice shelf in Canada collapsed into the Arctic Ocean; before record fires killed or displaced nearly three billion animals across Australia; before the world measured its first reliable hundred-and-thirty-degree-Fahrenheit temperature, in Death Valley, California; before that state faced the largest fires in its history; before at least five tropical cyclones spun at once through the Atlantic—I wrote about the role that banks, asset managers, and insurance companies have played in supplying the capital required to keep the fossil-fuel industry humming. In the months since, those industries, pressed hard by activists, have begun to shift; giants such as BlackRock have announced sweeping new policies, even if they’re still far from matching their rhetoric with action.
Now I want to focus on another industry that buttresses the status quo: the advertising, lobbying, and public-relations firms that help provide the rationalizations and the justifications that slow the pace of change. Although these agencies are less significant monetarily than the banks, they are more so intellectually; if money is the oxygen on which the fire of global warming burns, then P.R. campaigns and snappy catchphrases are the kindling.
Climate change is sometimes compared to the Holocaust or to slavery, because all three have killed and degraded human lives on an almost unimaginable scale. But the comparisons are, at their root, wrong, at least on moral terms—among many other things, for most of the more than three centuries that people have been burning fossil fuels, they had no idea that they were damaging the future. Coal and oil and gas were seen as—and, at one time, probably were—more liberating than oppressing for the societies that burned them, despite the pollution they produced. It was just around three decades ago that the heat-trapping molecular structure of carbon dioxide, and hence the “greenhouse effect,” became a pressing public issue, and, by that time, fossil fuel was one of the world’s largest industrial enterprises. The burning of fossil fuel wasn’t evil in its origins, in other words—no one need feel guilty for having been a part of it, which is good, because all of us in the rich world are, even if we have solar panels on the roof and a Tesla in the garage.
By this point, however, we know precisely how dangerous the continued combustion of hydrocarbons is. And we have seen that there are affordable alternatives to them. Indeed, solar and wind power can now be produced more cheaply than fossil-fuel energy. And we’ve seen great investigative reporting lay out the fact that the big oil companies have known of the causes of climate change since at least the nineteen-eighties, and worked actively to deny them or cover them up. Clearly, that was immoral. So what do we say in 2020 about the people who are still helping the oil majors and the gas utilities in their efforts to slow a transition to clean energy?
I’m not talking here about coal miners or natural-gas pipeliners or people who work at filling stations, much less people who drive cars or heat their homes—they participate in a world that they didn’t create. But lobbyists and P.R. firms develop promotional campaigns for the industry, and people are starting to hold them accountable for it. In August, Storebrand, a ninety-one-billion-dollar asset manager based in Norway, divested from companies including ExxonMobil and Chevron precisely because of their lobbying activities. “Climate change is one of the greatest risks facing humanity, and lobbying activities which undermine action to solve this crisis are simply unacceptable. The Exxons and Chevrons of the world are holding us back,” Jan Erik Saugestad, Storebrand’s chief executive, said.
What’s interesting about many of the current P.R. campaigns is that they don’t involve classic climate denial. Outside of the Trump Administration and the right wing of the Republican Party, that’s now a dead letter. You could no more persuade a Madison Avenue agency to argue that carbon dioxide is harmless than you could persuade it to argue that Black lives don’t matter. Instead, these campaigns often look for ways to leverage people’s environmental concern in service of precisely the companies that are causing the trouble.
Let’s start with a completely charming series of online ads that B.B.D.O. put together, in 2019, for Exxon. B.B.D.O. is one of the iconic ad agencies (it was frequently mentioned on “Mad Men”), responsible for everything from “Better Things for Better Living . . . Through Chemistry” (DuPont) to “Ring Around the Collar” (Wisk detergent). Building on a YouTube craze for videos showing cooks preparing tiny cakes and hamburgers, a creative team put together a series of four Web ads called “Miniature Science.” In the second ad, algae is grown in little dishes, cultivated in a tiny seawater pond, and kept circulating by a minuscule paddle wheel. After a few days, the algae is drained from the pond, and a pocket-size pestle crushes its cell walls to free its oil. Once the paste has been mixed with traces of hexane, sodium hydroxide, and methanol, it produces “a low-emission biofuel.” In the next installment, the mixture is used to propel a boat around a bowl. This algae biofuel, a sprightly narrator notes, could power “entire fleets of ships tomorrow.” In fact, the ad contends, algae could fuel “the trucks, ships and planes of tomorrow.” It concludes, “This is big.”
But it’s not big. The algae tech dates back more than a decade, when a number of oil companies invested relatively small sums in the project. In 2009, Exxon partnered with a company called Synthetic Genomics to conduct research and figure out how to scale production; the oil giant estimates that, between 2008 and 2018, it invested about two hundred and fifty million dollars into biofuel technology. Some five years after that partnership began, Exxon was spending about a hundred million dollars a day trying to find and develop new sources of oil and natural gas and on other costs. Considering this, the algae money represents a rounding error: a few days’ worth worth of capital expenditures from a company still fully committed to its legacy products. And, in any event, by the time B.B.D.O. was producing Exxon’s ads, most other companies had ceased work on algae biofuel, because it had become obvious that it would never make economic sense. As the industry newsletter Oilprice.com put it, you’d need oil to trade at five hundred dollars a barrel—more than ten times its current price—for algae to ever compete with it. As a result, Exxon itself has essentially conceded that this technology won’t amount to much. The company’s latest forecast put off until as late as 2025 the date for actually producing algae fuel, and even then it will be producing just an estimated ten thousand barrels a day, or roughly 0.2 per cent of its refinery capacity. Meanwhile, a trial at Swansea University, in Wales, showed that, if you wanted to supply, say, ten per cent of Europe’s transport-fuel needs with algae, you’d need growing ponds three times the size of Belgium. According to one blog, you’d need ponds covering eighteen per cent of the agricultural land in the United Kingdom just to cover Britain’s transportation habits.


newyorker--2020-11-21--The Motley Crew Leading Trump’s Election Challenges

On November 7th , Trump tweeted that his squad would be unveiled at a press conference “ at Four Seasons , Philadelphia .
11:00 A.M. ” Minutes later , he deleted the post and wrote another , clarifying that the venue was a small business called Four Seasons Total Landscaping .
The blooper proved prescient : the legal eagles drafted to help the President had as much relation to James Baker as Four Seasons Total Landscaping has to the luxury hotel .
At the press conference , there were many familiar faces : not white-shoe veterans of Bush v. Gore @ @ @ @ @ @ @ past .
Trump ’ s personal lawyer , Rudolph Giuliani , was there .
So was Pam Bondi , the former Florida attorney general ( and registered foreign agent for Qatar ) , and a smattering of angry poll watchers , one of whom turned out to be a convicted sex offender .
The campaign announced that the legal effort would be headed up by the conservative activist David Bossie ( not to be confused with David Boies ) , who is neither a lawyer nor a college graduate .
( He is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump , ” a memoir co-written with Corey Lewandowski , another member of the new legal team . )
Within days , Bossie tested positive for COVID-19 and went into quarantine .
Then Lewandowski tested positive .
Two down .
The campaign turned to Giuliani , who agreed to serve as its new general for the reported asking price of twenty thousand dollars a day .
It wasn ’ t the most auspicious start , but , as the campaign initiated a flurry of lawsuits in swing states , it kept up a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Day , a prominent international law firm , were contesting an extended ballot deadline in Pennsylvania , where Trump ’ s lead was shrinking by the day .
The largest firm in Arizona , Snell & Wilmer , was representing the R.N.C .
in a case that it had brought alongside the Trump campaign .
Soon enough , both firms backed out or backtracked .
Jones Day issued a statement claiming that the firm “ is not representing President Trump , his campaign , or any affiliated party in any litigation alleging voter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ known as the architect of the Citizens United case , dropped the election lawsuits he ’ d filed in four states on behalf of his conservative group , True the Vote , without explanation .
This left Trump with a motley crew of helpers .
Scanning the dockets that the campaign has filed around the country , one sees a lot of local lone-ranger types .
There ’ s the St. Louis-based Mark Hearne ( nickname : Thor ) , who filed one of the Trump lawsuits in the wrong court .
Kory @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fined for filing a frivolous medical-marijuana-related lawsuit against the town of Snowflake .
In Georgia , the campaign retained Lin Wood , a former medical-malpractice lawyer whose clients have included Richard Jewell and Kyle Rittenhouse .
( His former colleagues are suing him , claiming that he left them abusive messages , in which he referred to himself as “ Almighty Lin ” and said that he was taking orders from God . )
Two weeks ago , in Pennsylvania , lawyers from Porter Wright Morris & Arthur filed a suit seeking to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s vote count .
Then they withdrew .
Next up was a local divorce lawyer named Linda A. Kerns , working with two Texas attorneys .
Days later , all three quit .
They handed the reins to a new lead lawyer : Marc Scaringi , a Pennsylvania radio host , who was once featured in a GQ article titled “ A Field Guide to Bad Conservative Hair.
” ( Perhaps the campaign missed that Scaringi had discussed Trump ’ s lawsuits on his show , predicting , “ At the end of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ work .
It will not reverse this election.
” ) Then , hours before the hearing , Giuliani announced that he would step in personally .
It would be his first time appearing in a federal court in this century .
The hearing took place last week , in Williamsport .
“ May it please the court , ” Giuliani said , thanking the judge for “ allowing me to be admitted pro hac vice.
” He described a “ nationwide voter fraud ” scheme , insisting that the case “ is exactly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that treatment of Republican poll watchers “ got nasty ” in Philadelphia .
“ This doesn ’ t happen in an honest place , ” he said .
The Trump team has brought in still more lawyers , including Jenna Ellis , who in 2016 called her new client an “ idiot ” and a “ criminal dirtbag.
” At a press conference on Thursday , she referred to the new group of lawyers as “ an élite , strike-force team.
” Giuliani , dark rivulets of hair dye dripping down his cheeks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scene of “ Death in Venice , ” made dozens more unfounded and unhinged-sounding fraud claims .
He even reënacted a scene from the Joe Pesci vehicle “ My Cousin Vinny ” before the networks cut away .
But the effort—to overturn an election that the candidate lost by nearly six million votes—seems foolhardy .
The election-law expert Edward Foley said , “ I don ’ t think even James Baker could be successful with what they have to work with.
” ♦

Jared Kushner and James Baker Illustration by João Fazenda
When it began to look like Joe Biden was winning the Presidential election, Donald Trump’s son-in-law, Jared Kushner, picked up the phone. He feverishly called around, looking for a “James Baker-like” figure to oversee the campaign’s legal challenges to the election results. Baker, a former Secretary of State, led George W. Bush’s recount effort in Florida, in 2000, managing a dream team of lawyers that included the Supreme Court litigator Ted Olson and three future Supreme Court Justices. Kushner hoped to assemble a similar A-team for his father-in-law, who, on entering office, had vowed to surround himself with only “the best” people.
On November 7th, Trump tweeted that his squad would be unveiled at a press conference “at Four Seasons, Philadelphia. 11:00 A.M.” Minutes later, he deleted the post and wrote another, clarifying that the venue was a small business called Four Seasons Total Landscaping. The blooper proved prescient: the legal eagles drafted to help the President had as much relation to James Baker as Four Seasons Total Landscaping has to the luxury hotel. At the press conference, there were many familiar faces: not white-shoe veterans of Bush v. Gore but, rather, ghosts of impeachments past. Trump’s personal lawyer, Rudolph Giuliani, was there. So was Pam Bondi, the former Florida attorney general (and registered foreign agent for Qatar), and a smattering of angry poll watchers, one of whom turned out to be a convicted sex offender.
The campaign announced that the legal effort would be headed up by the conservative activist David Bossie (not to be confused with David Boies), who is neither a lawyer nor a college graduate. (He is an author of “Let Trump Be Trump,” a memoir co-written with Corey Lewandowski, another member of the new legal team.) Within days, Bossie tested positive for COVID-19 and went into quarantine. Then Lewandowski tested positive. Two down. The campaign turned to Giuliani, who agreed to serve as its new general for the reported asking price of twenty thousand dollars a day.
It wasn’t the most auspicious start, but, as the campaign initiated a flurry of lawsuits in swing states, it kept up a modicum of respectability. Lawyers from Jones Day, a prominent international law firm, were contesting an extended ballot deadline in Pennsylvania, where Trump’s lead was shrinking by the day. The largest firm in Arizona, Snell & Wilmer, was representing the R.N.C. in a case that it had brought alongside the Trump campaign. Soon enough, both firms backed out or backtracked. Jones Day issued a statement claiming that the firm “is not representing President Trump, his campaign, or any affiliated party in any litigation alleging voter fraud.” James Bopp, the lawyer known as the architect of the Citizens United case, dropped the election lawsuits he’d filed in four states on behalf of his conservative group, True the Vote, without explanation.
This left Trump with a motley crew of helpers. Scanning the dockets that the campaign has filed around the country, one sees a lot of local lone-ranger types. There’s the St. Louis-based Mark Hearne (nickname: Thor), who filed one of the Trump lawsuits in the wrong court. Kory Langhofer, in Arizona, was once fined for filing a frivolous medical-marijuana-related lawsuit against the town of Snowflake. In Georgia, the campaign retained Lin Wood, a former medical-malpractice lawyer whose clients have included Richard Jewell and Kyle Rittenhouse. (His former colleagues are suing him, claiming that he left them abusive messages, in which he referred to himself as “Almighty Lin” and said that he was taking orders from God.)
Two weeks ago, in Pennsylvania, lawyers from Porter Wright Morris & Arthur filed a suit seeking to stop the certification of the state’s vote count. Then they withdrew. Next up was a local divorce lawyer named Linda A. Kerns, working with two Texas attorneys. Days later, all three quit. They handed the reins to a new lead lawyer: Marc Scaringi, a Pennsylvania radio host, who was once featured in a GQ article titled “A Field Guide to Bad Conservative Hair.” (Perhaps the campaign missed that Scaringi had discussed Trump’s lawsuits on his show, predicting, “At the end of the day, the litigation will not work. It will not reverse this election.”) Then, hours before the hearing, Giuliani announced that he would step in personally. It would be his first time appearing in a federal court in this century.
The hearing took place last week, in Williamsport. “May it please the court,” Giuliani said, thanking the judge for “allowing me to be admitted pro hac vice.” He described a “nationwide voter fraud” scheme, insisting that the case “is exactly Bush v. Gore!” He alleged that treatment of Republican poll watchers “got nasty” in Philadelphia. “This doesn’t happen in an honest place,” he said.
The Trump team has brought in still more lawyers, including Jenna Ellis, who in 2016 called her new client an “idiot” and a “criminal dirtbag.” At a press conference on Thursday, she referred to the new group of lawyers as “an élite, strike-force team.” Giuliani, dark rivulets of hair dye dripping down his cheeks, like Dirk Bogarde in the final scene of “Death in Venice,” made dozens more unfounded and unhinged-sounding fraud claims. He even reënacted a scene from the Joe Pesci vehicle “My Cousin Vinny” before the networks cut away. But the effort—to overturn an election that the candidate lost by nearly six million votes—seems foolhardy. The election-law expert Edward Foley said, “I don’t think even James Baker could be successful with what they have to work with.” ♦
Read More About the 2020 Election


newyorker--2020-11-21--How Close Is Humanity to the Edge?

How Close Is Humanity to the Edge?

In February , the U.S. leg of Ord ’ s book tour , which was scheduled for the spring and was to include stops at Stanford , M.I.T.
, and Princeton , was cancelled .
“ The Precipice ” was published in the United Kingdom on March 5th ; two weeks later , Ord was sheltering in place at home .
His wife , Bernadette Young , an infectious-disease specialist at John Radcliffe Hospital , in Oxford , began working overtime , while he cared for their daughter , Rose , who was then five .
“ I ’ d @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the unthinkable can quickly become the inevitable , ” Ord told me , earlier this year .
“ But , despite having this intellectual knowledge , it was still quite something to see such a thing unfold before my eyes.
” For someone with Ord ’ s interests , living through a pandemic is an opportunity to contemplate alternate histories .
What might have happened in a world in which COVID-19 didn ’ t exist , or was handled differently ?
What if the virus had been more deadly ?
Ord ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a grand scale , considering both the grim futures that await us if existential threats to humanity aren ’ t addressed and the far more promising outcomes that become possible if they are .
Ord has given the name “ the precipice ” to our current phase of history , which , he writes , began at 11:29 A.M. Coördinated Universal Time , on July 16 , 1945—the moment of the Trinity test , when the first nuclear bomb was detonated .
It will end , he suggests , with either a shared @ @ @ @ @ @ @ continued survival or the extinction of our species .
Ord places the risk of our extinction during the twenty-first century at one in six—the odds of an unlucky shot in Russian roulette .
Should we manage to avoid a tumble off the precipice , he thinks , it will be our era ’ s defining achievement .
The book catalogues many possible catastrophes .
There are the natural risks we ’ ve always lived with , such as asteroids , super-volcanic eruptions , and stellar explosions .
“ None of them keep me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Then there are the large-scale threats we have created for ourselves : nuclear war , climate change , pandemics ( which are made more likely by our way of life ) , and other novel methods of man-made destruction still to come .
Ord is most concerned about two possibilities : empowered artificial intelligence unaligned with human values ( he gives it a one-in-ten chance of ending humanity within the next hundred years ) and engineered pandemics ( he thinks they have a one-in-thirty chance of bringing down the curtain ) .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the sort of event that Ord describes as a “ warning shot ” —a smaller-scale catastrophe that , though frightening , tragic , and disruptive , might also spur attempts to prevent disasters of greater magnitude in the future .
A concern for existential risk seemed , to Ord , to be the next logical expansion of a broadening moral circle .
If we can learn to value the lives of people in other places and circumstances equally to our own , then we can do the same for people situated at a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people , whose quality of life and very existence will be intimately affected by our choices today , matter as much as we do ; from the perspective of our species , they are us and we are them .
Ord compares humanity ’ s current situation to adolescence , a treacherous period when strength and desire outpace wisdom and self-control , and when one ’ s future life seems remote and unreal .
According to fossil records , the typical lifetime of a mammalian species is a million years .
“ If @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a single , eighty-year life , ” he writes , then today humanity would be “ sixteen years old ; just coming into our power ; just old enough to get ourselves in serious trouble.
” Teen-agers have parents , or older siblings , who can offer advice .
But we are the first species to accumulate the power to destroy itself through conscious action .
Ideally , we ’ d possess the collective self-restraint to limit our access to deadly technologies until we acquire the maturity to use them safely .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ that might create such restraints by defining collective goals and setting out rules and timetables for achieving them .
( The Montreal Protocol , which led to the phasing out of ozone-depleting chemicals , beginning in 1989 , is one model . )
Looking forward , he proposes a tax on certain high-tech businesses , which could be used to fund initiatives that guard against the dangers of new technologies .
( At the moment , he writes , entrepreneurs profit from technological advancements while society shoulders the existential risk they present ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ year , the world ’ s investment in protective technologies is dwarfed by its spending on ice cream . )
He urges the investors , governments , and universities who support new technologies to prioritize those that protect humanity over those that present new ways to destroy it—a concept that the philosopher Nick Bostrom , the founder and director of the Future of Humanity Institute , calls “ differential technological development.
” It ’ s not that we ’ re powerless against existential risks , Ord argues ; we just have to muster @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Contemplating such well-intentioned ideas , a reader already horrified by our inadequate efforts to address climate change might feel a pit in her stomach .
During the pandemic , Ord has been heartened by the coöperative work of the world ’ s scientists , and by the resilience of individuals and communities : in Oxford , flyers from local Good Samaritans have come through his mail slot , offering assistance to neighbors in need ; a street near his own devised a color-coded system of Post-its , placed in windows—green means all is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ill and self-isolating , and red is a plea for help .
The responses of national governments , on the other hand—the inability of so many individual nations to work effectively on behalf of their own citizens and the global community—has worried him .
The conflict in the United States between the Trump Administration and its own scientific advisers has been a particularly unsettling example of our self-defeating tendencies .
“ In ecological terms , it is not a human that is remarkable , but humanity , ” Ord writes , in his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ easy for humanity ’ s aims to be undermined by the short-term political calculations and selfish desires of individuals .
We are a blip , Ord argues , in a chain of human life that stretches back two hundred thousand years , and that could in theory extend for hundreds of thousands , if not millions , more .
One would have to be ruinously shortsighted or grotesquely narcissistic to risk obliterating all of that .
And yet that is how we often seem to be .
For many people , the idea @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the future , when no one we now know and love is around to see it , isn ’ t as alarming as the prospect of individual human suffering in the present .
A study conducted last year , by three experimental psychologists at Oxford , found that individuals considered total human extinction to be only slightly worse than a catastrophic event that wipes out eighty per cent of the population .
Respondents ’ opposition to extinction rose when they were asked to consider the specific consequences of all of human culture @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that prompt , it was hard to grasp how much worse total obliteration would be compared with merely cataclysmic death .
There is a term for this outlook : “ scope neglect , ” the cognitive bias that makes it harder to understand the full scale of problems the larger those problems get .
It ’ s the struggle , as Ord puts it , to care ten times as much about something that ’ s ten times more important than an alternative .
“ One of the aspects in which I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scale really seriously , and always have , ” Ord told me .
“ You can see that all through the book , really , including taking the scale of the universe seriously.
” As “ Precipice ” closes , Ord zooms out to the cosmos and , against the backdrop of its unfathomable vastness , asks us to grasp the scale of what we risk losing if the human story ends prematurely .
He writes that , just as our early forebears , huddled around some Paleolithic fire , couldn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ available to us today , we , too , are ill-equipped to conceive of what is possible for those who will follow us .
Humanity ’ s potential is worth preserving , he argues , not because we are so great now but because of the possibility , however small , that we are a bridge to something far greater .
“ How strange it would be if this single species of ape , equipped by evolution with this limited set of sensory and cognitive capacities , after only a few thousand years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the maximum possible quality of life , ” he writes .
“ I think that we have barely begun the ascent.
” Like the majority of schools in the U.K. , Rose ’ s has resumed in-person classes .
Once breakfast is done , Ord walks her the few blocks to the entrance , then returns home to answer e-mails , write , and read through the day ’ s news online .
There is no backup generator in the house , no stockpile of canned food ; it is not practical or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ individuals to devote themselves to preparing for grand catastrophes .
High-level risks demand high-level coördination .
As individuals , we can do our part by giving to causes that support humanity ’ s survival , and by having the conversations that coalesce , over time , into collective action .
Much depends on what is imaginable .
Ord points out that the possibility of nuclear apocalypse took time to feel real , growing easier to grasp as the Cold War progressed .
Today , as forests burn and cities flood , the consequences @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
One of Ord ’ s goals is to help us imagine better , sooner .
“ At the moment , it seems that we have to wait about forty years after a threat is scientifically recognized before culture gets to it .
And I think that ’ s too slow , ” he told me , over Skype .
Experience is a powerful teacher—countries that previously battled SARS and MERS have had comparatively better responses to the pandemic—and yet warning shots can only alarm us for so long .
The challenge is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in which distant threats aren ’ t confused with impossible ones .
Ord proposed “ a simple piece of mathematics ” that , for him , “ has helped make it all visceral ” : even a once-in-a-century catastrophe has a five-per-cent chance of happening during any five-year Parliamentary term in the U.K. , and a four-per-cent chance of occurring during any single Presidential term in the U.S .
This risk calculus may seem commonsensical to us now , because we are living through such an event .
Still , he said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” He laughed .
“ We have five years or so where we are really protected from things like this , because we ’ re conscious of it , ” he went on .
“ Beyond that , it relies on us to create institutions.
” It ’ s for this reason , especially , that being consumed with dread serves no purpose .
Fear must be motivating , or it ’ s pointless .
Safeguarding the future requires believing in one .
More on the Coronavirus • To protect American lives and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jared Kushner should listen to Anthony Fauci rather than trash him .
• We should look to students to conceive of appropriate school-reopening plans .
It is not too late to ask what they really want .
• A pregnant pediatrician on what children need during the crisis .
• Trump is helping tycoons who have donated to his reëlection campaign exploit the pandemic to maximize profits .
• Meet the high-finance mogul in charge of our economic recovery .
• The coronavirus is likely to reshape architecture .
What kinds of space @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in now ?

In mid-January, Toby Ord, a philosopher and senior research fellow at Oxford University, was reviewing the final proofs for his first book, “The Precipice: Existential Risk and the Future of Humanity.” Ord works in the university’s Future of Humanity Institute, which specializes in considering our collective fate. He had noticed that a few of his colleagues—those who worked on “bio-risk”—were tracking a new virus in Asia. Occasionally, they e-mailed around projections, which Ord found intriguing, in a hypothetical way. Among other subjects, “The Precipice” deals with the risk posed to our species by pandemics both natural and engineered. He wondered if the coronavirus might make his book more topical.
In February, the U.S. leg of Ord’s book tour, which was scheduled for the spring and was to include stops at Stanford, M.I.T., and Princeton, was cancelled. “The Precipice” was published in the United Kingdom on March 5th; two weeks later, Ord was sheltering in place at home. His wife, Bernadette Young, an infectious-disease specialist at John Radcliffe Hospital, in Oxford, began working overtime, while he cared for their daughter, Rose, who was then five. “I’d already known that, during a crisis, the unthinkable can quickly become the inevitable,” Ord told me, earlier this year. “But, despite having this intellectual knowledge, it was still quite something to see such a thing unfold before my eyes.”
For someone with Ord’s interests, living through a pandemic is an opportunity to contemplate alternate histories. What might have happened in a world in which COVID-19 didn’t exist, or was handled differently? What if the virus had been more deadly? Ord’s book reckons with these divergences on a grand scale, considering both the grim futures that await us if existential threats to humanity aren’t addressed and the far more promising outcomes that become possible if they are. Ord has given the name “the precipice” to our current phase of history, which, he writes, began at 11:29 A.M. Coördinated Universal Time, on July 16, 1945—the moment of the Trinity test, when the first nuclear bomb was detonated. It will end, he suggests, with either a shared global effort to insure humanity’s continued survival or the extinction of our species.
Ord places the risk of our extinction during the twenty-first century at one in six—the odds of an unlucky shot in Russian roulette. Should we manage to avoid a tumble off the precipice, he thinks, it will be our era’s defining achievement. The book catalogues many possible catastrophes. There are the natural risks we’ve always lived with, such as asteroids, super-volcanic eruptions, and stellar explosions. “None of them keep me awake at night,” Ord writes. Then there are the large-scale threats we have created for ourselves: nuclear war, climate change, pandemics (which are made more likely by our way of life), and other novel methods of man-made destruction still to come. Ord is most concerned about two possibilities: empowered artificial intelligence unaligned with human values (he gives it a one-in-ten chance of ending humanity within the next hundred years) and engineered pandemics (he thinks they have a one-in-thirty chance of bringing down the curtain). The pandemic we are currently experiencing is the sort of event that Ord describes as a “warning shot”—a smaller-scale catastrophe that, though frightening, tragic, and disruptive, might also spur attempts to prevent disasters of greater magnitude in the future.
Unlike doomsday preppers who seem, on some level, to relish the idea of social breakdown, Ord believes in humanity’s potential for greatness. Ord was born in Melbourne, in 1979, and his interest in existential risk grew out of an early focus on ethics, health, and poverty. With his Oxford colleague Will MacAskill, he helped create a school of thought known as “effective altruism”: it holds that we should use reason and evidence to determine how, as individuals, we can best use our resources for the greater good. In 2009, Ord founded Giving What We Can, a society whose members pledge to donate at least ten per cent of their incomes, in the course of their careers, to charity. By his own accounting, Ord, who is now forty-one, has given away twenty-seven per cent of his lifetime earnings. He has pledged to donate the proceeds from “The Precipice” to organizations working on the problems that the book outlines.
A concern for existential risk seemed, to Ord, to be the next logical expansion of a broadening moral circle. If we can learn to value the lives of people in other places and circumstances equally to our own, then we can do the same for people situated at a different moment in time. Those future people, whose quality of life and very existence will be intimately affected by our choices today, matter as much as we do; from the perspective of our species, they are us and we are them. Ord compares humanity’s current situation to adolescence, a treacherous period when strength and desire outpace wisdom and self-control, and when one’s future life seems remote and unreal. According to fossil records, the typical lifetime of a mammalian species is a million years. “If we think of one million in terms of a single, eighty-year life,” he writes, then today humanity would be “sixteen years old; just coming into our power; just old enough to get ourselves in serious trouble.”
Teen-agers have parents, or older siblings, who can offer advice. But we are the first species to accumulate the power to destroy itself through conscious action. Ideally, we’d possess the collective self-restraint to limit our access to deadly technologies until we acquire the maturity to use them safely. Ord advocates the establishment of international agreements that might create such restraints by defining collective goals and setting out rules and timetables for achieving them. (The Montreal Protocol, which led to the phasing out of ozone-depleting chemicals, beginning in 1989, is one model.) Looking forward, he proposes a tax on certain high-tech businesses, which could be used to fund initiatives that guard against the dangers of new technologies. (At the moment, he writes, entrepreneurs profit from technological advancements while society shoulders the existential risk they present; by his calculations, in any given year, the world’s investment in protective technologies is dwarfed by its spending on ice cream.) He urges the investors, governments, and universities who support new technologies to prioritize those that protect humanity over those that present new ways to destroy it—a concept that the philosopher Nick Bostrom, the founder and director of the Future of Humanity Institute, calls “differential technological development.” It’s not that we’re powerless against existential risks, Ord argues; we just have to muster the collective will to counter them.
Contemplating such well-intentioned ideas, a reader already horrified by our inadequate efforts to address climate change might feel a pit in her stomach. During the pandemic, Ord has been heartened by the coöperative work of the world’s scientists, and by the resilience of individuals and communities: in Oxford, flyers from local Good Samaritans have come through his mail slot, offering assistance to neighbors in need; a street near his own devised a color-coded system of Post-its, placed in windows—green means all is fine, yellow means someone inside is ill and self-isolating, and red is a plea for help. The responses of national governments, on the other hand—the inability of so many individual nations to work effectively on behalf of their own citizens and the global community—has worried him. The conflict in the United States between the Trump Administration and its own scientific advisers has been a particularly unsettling example of our self-defeating tendencies. “In ecological terms, it is not a human that is remarkable, but humanity,” Ord writes, in his book. And yet it’s easy for humanity’s aims to be undermined by the short-term political calculations and selfish desires of individuals. We are a blip, Ord argues, in a chain of human life that stretches back two hundred thousand years, and that could in theory extend for hundreds of thousands, if not millions, more. One would have to be ruinously shortsighted or grotesquely narcissistic to risk obliterating all of that. And yet that is how we often seem to be.
Ord is not the first philosopher to propose that the end is nigh. In 1951, Bertrand Russell wrote that the twentieth century would end in either human extinction, violent social collapse, or a unified world government. Stephen Hawking warned, in 2014, that artificial intelligence could spell our doom. Not all thinkers are alarmed by what they foresee. In “Notes from an Apocalypse: A Personal Journey to the End of the World and Back,” published this year, the Irish journalist Mark O’Connell recounts wondering whether human extinction would really be so bad: “Why was it so unthinkable that we ourselves—not necessarily tomorrow or the next day, but eventually—follow the same well-beaten trail toward oblivion as the dodo, the black rhinoceros, the passenger pigeon . . . and all the countless other species whom we ourselves had driven from the face of the earth?”
For many people, the idea of all of humanity disappearing one day in the future, when no one we now know and love is around to see it, isn’t as alarming as the prospect of individual human suffering in the present. A study conducted last year, by three experimental psychologists at Oxford, found that individuals considered total human extinction to be only slightly worse than a catastrophic event that wipes out eighty per cent of the population. Respondents’ opposition to extinction rose when they were asked to consider the specific consequences of all of human culture being extinguished forever. Still, without that prompt, it was hard to grasp how much worse total obliteration would be compared with merely cataclysmic death.
There is a term for this outlook: “scope neglect,” the cognitive bias that makes it harder to understand the full scale of problems the larger those problems get. It’s the struggle, as Ord puts it, to care ten times as much about something that’s ten times more important than an alternative. “One of the aspects in which I’m an outlier is that I take scale really seriously, and always have,” Ord told me. “You can see that all through the book, really, including taking the scale of the universe seriously.”
As “Precipice” closes, Ord zooms out to the cosmos and, against the backdrop of its unfathomable vastness, asks us to grasp the scale of what we risk losing if the human story ends prematurely. He writes that, just as our early forebears, huddled around some Paleolithic fire, couldn’t have imagined the creative and sensory experiences available to us today, we, too, are ill-equipped to conceive of what is possible for those who will follow us. Humanity’s potential is worth preserving, he argues, not because we are so great now but because of the possibility, however small, that we are a bridge to something far greater. “How strange it would be if this single species of ape, equipped by evolution with this limited set of sensory and cognitive capacities, after only a few thousand years of civilization, ended up anywhere near the maximum possible quality of life,” he writes. “I think that we have barely begun the ascent.”
These days, Ord contemplates our possible futures from home, a Victorian terrace house, built in 1875, on the eastern side of Oxford. His daughter’s alarm sounds at 7:30 A.M.; he wakes at 7:23, having determined that he needs exactly seven minutes to dress and pull his thoughts together. In the ground-floor kitchen, a bowl of cold-brew coffee steeps on the counter, beneath a cardboard cover. A table is cluttered with the ephemera of family life in lockdown: a fractal that Ord drew for Rose on a scrap of paper, to illustrate an impromptu home lesson on division; a card she made for her mother after a stint of night shifts (“Dear Mum, welcome back to normal”). This summer, Rose celebrated her sixth birthday at a local park. Ord staged an elaborate treasure hunt, involving riddles, maps, chocolates, and the many foreign coins for which he has no use during the pandemic.
Like the majority of schools in the U.K., Rose’s has resumed in-person classes. Once breakfast is done, Ord walks her the few blocks to the entrance, then returns home to answer e-mails, write, and read through the day’s news online. There is no backup generator in the house, no stockpile of canned food; it is not practical or even advisable, Ord believes, for individuals to devote themselves to preparing for grand catastrophes. High-level risks demand high-level coördination. As individuals, we can do our part by giving to causes that support humanity’s survival, and by having the conversations that coalesce, over time, into collective action. Much depends on what is imaginable. Ord points out that the possibility of nuclear apocalypse took time to feel real, growing easier to grasp as the Cold War progressed. Today, as forests burn and cities flood, the consequences of climate change are becoming more vivid. One of Ord’s goals is to help us imagine better, sooner. “At the moment, it seems that we have to wait about forty years after a threat is scientifically recognized before culture gets to it. And I think that’s too slow,” he told me, over Skype. Experience is a powerful teacher—countries that previously battled SARS and MERS have had comparatively better responses to the pandemic—and yet warning shots can only alarm us for so long. The challenge is to adopt a new frame of mind in which distant threats aren’t confused with impossible ones.
Ord proposed “a simple piece of mathematics” that, for him, “has helped make it all visceral”: even a once-in-a-century catastrophe has a five-per-cent chance of happening during any five-year Parliamentary term in the U.K., and a four-per-cent chance of occurring during any single Presidential term in the U.S. This risk calculus may seem commonsensical to us now, because we are living through such an event. Still, he said, “we’ll forget it!” He laughed. “We have five years or so where we are really protected from things like this, because we’re conscious of it,” he went on. “Beyond that, it relies on us to create institutions.” It’s for this reason, especially, that being consumed with dread serves no purpose. Fear must be motivating, or it’s pointless. Safeguarding the future requires believing in one.
More on the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-11-21--State and Local Republicans Standing Up to Trump Are Putting National G.O.P. Leaders to Shame

On Friday , following a hand recount of all the votes cast in Georgia , the secretary of state , Brad Raffensperger , certified that Joe Biden carried the Peach State by 12,670 votes—a victory that gave the President-elect another sixteen votes in the Electoral College , bringing his total to three hundred and six .
In an interview with the Washington Post earlier this week , Raffensperger , a businessman as well as a politician , criticized other Republicans for putting pressure on him to overturn Biden ’ s lead .
He also said that he and his wife @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the certification on Friday , Raffensperger described himself as “ a passionate conservative ” and “ proud Trump supporter ” who backed the President ’ s bid from early on .
He also said , “ Working as an engineer throughout my life , I live by the motto that numbers don ’ t lie .
As secretary of state , I believe that the numbers that we have presented today are correct .
The numbers reflect the verdict of the people—not a decision by the secretary of state ’ s office , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ campaign.
” Also on Friday , the Board of Supervisors of Maricopa County , Arizona , which includes Phoenix , certified that 2,089,563 votes had been counted in their county , a longtime bastion of Sun Belt conservatism , and that Biden had defeated Trump by more than forty-five thousand votes .
The certification came after the dismissal of lawsuits that the Trump campaign and the Arizona Republican Party had filed against Maricopa County—and after Trump supporters repeatedly demonstrated outside the Phoenix vote-counting center .
In announcing the certification , Clint Hickman , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Supervisors , said the lawsuits had “ fallen flat ” for lack of evidence .
“ No matter how you voted , ” he added , “ this election was administered with integrity , transparency , and , most importantly , in accordance with Arizona state laws.
” In Michigan , where Biden won by more than a hundred and fifty thousand votes , the state Board of Canvassers is expected to certify the result on Monday .
On Friday , Mike Shirkey , the Republican majority leader of the state Senate , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Michigan ’ s lower house , attended a hastily arranged meeting at the White House .
With some of the President ’ s allies openly calling on G.O.P.-controlled state legislatures to take the extraordinary step of appointing slates of Trump loyalists to the Electoral College , and with Trump having personally called a Republican member of the Board of Canvassers in Wayne County earlier this week , the get-together raised alarms .
But , after the White House meeting , Shirkey and Chatfield issued a statement that said , “ We have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ information that would change the outcome of the election in Michigan and as legislative leaders , we will follow the law and follow the normal process regarding Michigan ’ s electors.
” Contrast these statements , especially the ones from Raffensperger and Hickman , with the continuing silence from the vast majority of Republicans on Capitol Hill .
So far , only three G.O.P .
senators have spoken out against Trump ’ s tin-pot efforts to overrule the will of the voters , and all three of them—Susan Collins , of Maine ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ben Sasse , of Nebraska—have broken with Trump in the past .
On Friday , the Washington Post reported that it had contacted the offices of all fifty-three Republican senators for comment .
“ Fewer than 10 senators ’ offices responded , ” the Post ’ s report said .
“ Of those , most declined to comment or referred to previous remarks—in some cases remarks that predated Trump ’ s actions this week , including his call to a county canvassing board member in Michigan.
” Republicans ’ complicity with Trump goes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is .
The demented press conference that Rudy Giuliani and other Trump lawyers held on Thursday , at which they alleged a grand voter-fraud conspiracy orchestrated by the Biden campaign , took place at the Republican National Committee ’ s Capitol Hill headquarters .
After the event , the R.N.C .
posted a video clip from it on its Twitter account .
Later that day , Ronna McDaniel , the chair of the R.N.C.
, appeared on Sean Hannity ’ s show , on Fox News , where she defended Trump ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the election , claiming that it was based on “ real things that we are seeing on the ground across the country.
” In behaving in this manner , the national Republican Party has made the transition from the President ’ s passive enabler to his active co-conspirator .
Over the past couple of decades , many elements of the G.O.P .
have embraced tactics like voter suppression and rampant gerrymandering to retain power and frustrate the will of the majority .
But , even for a party well practiced in dark arts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that local officials have certified as entirely legitimate , and not even particularly close , represents a substantial leap into the politics of autocracy and failed states .
What motivates it ?
An obvious explanation is that Republican senators and representatives , even those with large majorities , are terrified of incurring Trump ’ s wrath and becoming the next Jeff Sessions or Jeff Flake .
Rather than standing up to the President and calling on him to end his antidemocratic crusade , they are relying on the courts , and state and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ job for them .
But , while fear may explain silence , it doesn ’ t explain the G.O.P.
’ s active role in Trump ’ s project .
To comprehend this level of aberrance and villainy , it is necessary to invoke higher forces .
One is the upcoming runoff elections in Georgia , which will take place on January 5th .
Everyone knows that control of the Senate—and , therefore , Democratic hopes of controlling Capitol Hill and the Presidency at the same time—depends on the outcome of these elections .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy , and other Republican leaders have every reason to believe that Georgia Democrats will turn out in droves to wrest control of the upper chamber from the G.O.P .
The Republican leaders also know that , with Trump ’ s name not on the ballot , some of their voters may be tempted to stay home .
Given how urgently they need the active engagement of Trump and his supporters , they are probably even more loath than usual to upset the President .
Also coming into play is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : personal character—or the lack of it .
When Clint Hickman , the Republican head of the Maricopa County Board of Supervisors , spoke about the vote certification , he revealed that he , like other officials , had been pressured to find a reason to change the result .
The reason that he refused to countenance such a path , Hickman explained , was that he couldn ’ t “ violate the law or deviate from my own moral compass.
” In engaging in their Faustian pact with Donald Trump , many @ @ @ @ @ @ @ subjugated whatever moral codes they retained to their lust for power , conservative judges , lower taxes , or whatever .
In all likelihood , few of these Republicans foresaw the day when abiding by this pact would lead them to condone , or actively participate in , a blatantly antidemocratic effort to abrogate an election in which more Americans voted than ever before .
That is where they are today , though .
And the vast majority of them , unlike some of their colleagues at the state and local level , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to do the right thing .
Read More About the 2020 Election • William Barr is the one Administration official with the power to stop Donald Trump and his attempted coup .
• Trump has survived impeachment , twenty-six sexual-misconduct accusations , and thousands of lawsuits .
His luck may well end now that Joe Biden has been elected the next President .
• With litigation unlikely to change the outcome of the election , Republicans are looking to strategies that might remain even after rebuffs both at the polls and in court @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what happened under the Trump Presidency and how we can prevent it from happening again .
• If 2020 has demonstrated anything , it is the need to rebalance the economy to benefit the working class—and there are many ways a Biden Administration can start .
• Sign up for our daily newsletter for insight and analysis from our reporters and columnists .

As Donald Trump has escalated his assault on the U.S. democratic process over the past few days, an interesting and encouraging trend has developed. In several of the states at the center of Trump’s odious machinations, at least some state and local Republican officials have defied the President and asserted the simple truth that so many of their fellow-Republicans in Washington have failed to acknowledge: the election was free, fair, and decisive.
On Friday, following a hand recount of all the votes cast in Georgia, the secretary of state, Brad Raffensperger, certified that Joe Biden carried the Peach State by 12,670 votes—a victory that gave the President-elect another sixteen votes in the Electoral College, bringing his total to three hundred and six. In an interview with the Washington Post earlier this week, Raffensperger, a businessman as well as a politician, criticized other Republicans for putting pressure on him to overturn Biden’s lead. He also said that he and his wife have received death threats. In announcing the certification on Friday, Raffensperger described himself as “a passionate conservative” and “proud Trump supporter” who backed the President’s bid from early on. He also said, “Working as an engineer throughout my life, I live by the motto that numbers don’t lie. As secretary of state, I believe that the numbers that we have presented today are correct. The numbers reflect the verdict of the people—not a decision by the secretary of state’s office, or of courts, or of either campaign.”
Also on Friday, the Board of Supervisors of Maricopa County, Arizona, which includes Phoenix, certified that 2,089,563 votes had been counted in their county, a longtime bastion of Sun Belt conservatism, and that Biden had defeated Trump by more than forty-five thousand votes. The certification came after the dismissal of lawsuits that the Trump campaign and the Arizona Republican Party had filed against Maricopa County—and after Trump supporters repeatedly demonstrated outside the Phoenix vote-counting center. In announcing the certification, Clint Hickman, the Republican chair of the Board of Supervisors, said the lawsuits had “fallen flat” for lack of evidence. “No matter how you voted,” he added, “this election was administered with integrity, transparency, and, most importantly, in accordance with Arizona state laws.”
In Michigan, where Biden won by more than a hundred and fifty thousand votes, the state Board of Canvassers is expected to certify the result on Monday. On Friday, Mike Shirkey, the Republican majority leader of the state Senate, and Lee Chatfield, the Republican speaker of Michigan’s lower house, attended a hastily arranged meeting at the White House. With some of the President’s allies openly calling on G.O.P.-controlled state legislatures to take the extraordinary step of appointing slates of Trump loyalists to the Electoral College, and with Trump having personally called a Republican member of the Board of Canvassers in Wayne County earlier this week, the get-together raised alarms. But, after the White House meeting, Shirkey and Chatfield issued a statement that said, “We have not yet been made aware of any information that would change the outcome of the election in Michigan and as legislative leaders, we will follow the law and follow the normal process regarding Michigan’s electors.”
Contrast these statements, especially the ones from Raffensperger and Hickman, with the continuing silence from the vast majority of Republicans on Capitol Hill. So far, only three G.O.P. senators have spoken out against Trump’s tin-pot efforts to overrule the will of the voters, and all three of them—Susan Collins, of Maine; Mitt Romney, of Utah; and Ben Sasse, of Nebraska—have broken with Trump in the past. On Friday, the Washington Post reported that it had contacted the offices of all fifty-three Republican senators for comment. “Fewer than 10 senators’ offices responded,” the Post’s report said. “Of those, most declined to comment or referred to previous remarks—in some cases remarks that predated Trump’s actions this week, including his call to a county canvassing board member in Michigan.”
Republicans’ complicity with Trump goes beyond their silence, disturbing as that is. The demented press conference that Rudy Giuliani and other Trump lawyers held on Thursday, at which they alleged a grand voter-fraud conspiracy orchestrated by the Biden campaign, took place at the Republican National Committee’s Capitol Hill headquarters. After the event, the R.N.C. posted a video clip from it on its Twitter account. Later that day, Ronna McDaniel, the chair of the R.N.C., appeared on Sean Hannity’s show, on Fox News, where she defended Trump’s unprecedented refusal to accept the result of the election, claiming that it was based on “real things that we are seeing on the ground across the country.”
In behaving in this manner, the national Republican Party has made the transition from the President’s passive enabler to his active co-conspirator. Over the past couple of decades, many elements of the G.O.P. have embraced tactics like voter suppression and rampant gerrymandering to retain power and frustrate the will of the majority. But, even for a party well practiced in dark arts, trying to void a Presidential election that local officials have certified as entirely legitimate, and not even particularly close, represents a substantial leap into the politics of autocracy and failed states. What motivates it?
An obvious explanation is that Republican senators and representatives, even those with large majorities, are terrified of incurring Trump’s wrath and becoming the next Jeff Sessions or Jeff Flake. Rather than standing up to the President and calling on him to end his antidemocratic crusade, they are relying on the courts, and state and local elected officials, to do the job for them. But, while fear may explain silence, it doesn’t explain the G.O.P.’s active role in Trump’s project. To comprehend this level of aberrance and villainy, it is necessary to invoke higher forces.
One is the upcoming runoff elections in Georgia, which will take place on January 5th. Everyone knows that control of the Senate—and, therefore, Democratic hopes of controlling Capitol Hill and the Presidency at the same time—depends on the outcome of these elections. Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, House Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy, and other Republican leaders have every reason to believe that Georgia Democrats will turn out in droves to wrest control of the upper chamber from the G.O.P. The Republican leaders also know that, with Trump’s name not on the ballot, some of their voters may be tempted to stay home. Given how urgently they need the active engagement of Trump and his supporters, they are probably even more loath than usual to upset the President.
Also coming into play is an even higher force than electoral politics: personal character—or the lack of it. When Clint Hickman, the Republican head of the Maricopa County Board of Supervisors, spoke about the vote certification, he revealed that he, like other officials, had been pressured to find a reason to change the result. The reason that he refused to countenance such a path, Hickman explained, was that he couldn’t “violate the law or deviate from my own moral compass.” In engaging in their Faustian pact with Donald Trump, many Republicans at the national level long ago subjugated whatever moral codes they retained to their lust for power, conservative judges, lower taxes, or whatever. In all likelihood, few of these Republicans foresaw the day when abiding by this pact would lead them to condone, or actively participate in, a blatantly antidemocratic effort to abrogate an election in which more Americans voted than ever before. That is where they are today, though. And the vast majority of them, unlike some of their colleagues at the state and local level, simply don’t have the character to do the right thing.
Read More About the 2020 Election


newyorker--2020-11-21--Danielle Evans’s Sublime Short Stories of Race, Grief, and Belonging

There ’ s a dark humor to reading “ The Little Mermaid ” as a passing narrative—that is , as a parable about a Black person who tries to pass as white .
The instinct makes sense : passing stories—which include James Weldon Johnson ’ s “ The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man ” and Nella Larsen ’ s “ Passing ” —pose questions about who is human and who is not .
In the late nineteenth century , these tales were the melodramatic concoctions of white as well as Black authors , and they tended to punish characters for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( Hence the “ tragic mulatto.
” ) The dream of opportunity and safety was forgivable , but the deception wasn ’ t ; or the ranking of races was correct , but the self-bettering impulse was presumptuous .
Eventually , passing grew into a richer theme , one whose tropes—assumed identities , secret selves—evoked the depths of loneliness and belonging .
Philip Roth knew this ( “ The Human Stain ” ) , as did Danzy Senna ( “ Caucasia ” ) and Brit Bennett ( “ The Vanishing Half ” ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to consider the sort of narrator who might ironically compare herself to the little mermaid .
Doing so reframes an old story to parody the passing genre ; the analogy also announces , plainly , that the speaker feels like a freak .
Shifting versions of this speaker appear throughout “ The Office of Historical Corrections , ” an extraordinary new collection of fiction by Danielle Evans .
The book , which follows the critically lauded “ Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self , ” from 2010 , examines alienation and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seem so forced and strange that they might as well take place underwater .
Lyssa , the protagonist of the first story , “ Happily Ever After , ” never liked the “ Little Mermaid ” movie , anyway .
( She “ knew a bad trade when she saw one , ” Evans writes . )
Lyssa works at a museum slash party venue built in the shape of the Titanic .
Her white co-worker , dressed as a princess , entertains children above deck ; Lyssa , for the sake of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , running the gift shop .
After a pop star rents the site to shoot a shipwreck-themed music video , the video ’ s director casts Lyssa as an extra , then invites her back to his hotel room .
This potentially “ bad trade ” drives the plot , but the story ’ s real hazmat lies buried in the past : Lyssa ’ s mother is dead , from cancer , and Lyssa has been advised to undergo a preventative surgery , which she keeps putting off .
Her delay owes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and medical racism .
( During her mom ’ s decline , Lyssa struggled to light on the precise qualities of face , dress , and tone that would secure for her family the same treatment that a white family would receive . )
But Lyssa ’ s reluctance also has to do with a sense of herself as marked .
As Evans writes , Lyssa “ couldn ’ t remember walking around without suspecting that something inside of her wanted her dead .
What future had there ever been but the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” possesses many of the watermarks of an Evans story .
A youngish woman , usually of color , guards a wound that won ’ t heal—a mother lost to illness or , as in the book ’ s second tale , a sister shot by her husband .
The protagonist is terse , isolated , with a fetish for self-sabotage that ranges from recreational to all-consuming .
The backdrop is incongruously bright and fun , like a water park or a bachelorette party .
Current events loom ; there are references to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ melting ice caps , the attention economy .
The American past also looms , and every horrific historical action has its equal and opposite tourist attraction—estranged relatives take a day trip to Alcatraz ; a gentrifier bar called Dodge City trades on D.C. ’ s plague of gun violence .
Evans evinces a special vigilance toward threats that are familiar , in the sense of both inherited and routine .
To read her is to become aware of ambience , of the peculiar iridescence that short fiction can sometimes offer : the stories @ @ @ @ @ @ @ precisely “ about ” any of them .
It would be a mistake , for instance , to reduce the book to its sociopolitical observations .
Still , the plots are seductively topical , as in the story “ Why Won ’ t Women Just Say What They Want , ” which documents the apology tour of a caddish “ genius artist.
” Have I mentioned how funny Evans can be ?
Here she is describing the man ’ s previous , unsuccessful attempts at making amends : “ I do concede that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way that I phrased things , ” he texts his “ Short-Suffering Second Ex-wife.
” “ There was probably a kinder way to express my frustration with your unreasonable expectations than to say that you just didn ’ t understand why so many women I had history with were still in my life because you ’ d never known what it was like to be as successful as I am , and , as a woman , in order to understand it , you ’ d have to imagine what things would be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Into my veins , as Twitter would have it .
Yet the story , with its outrageous jokes , turns genuinely profound , an autopsy of good intentions that finally aimed too low .
What kind of apology is possible , Evans asks , when you lack the empathy to fully grasp what you should be sorry for ?
The question resurfaces in another story , “ Boys Go to Jupiter , ” which maps the fallout when a white college student , Claire , allows her summer boyfriend to photograph her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ picture goes viral , and Claire , refusing to back down , seizes the chance to brand herself as a Southern “ heritage ” zealot .
Evans is sharp on the days-after contents of Claire ’ s inbox : “ Someone using the email fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou @ gmail.com thinks she is a cunt .
Twenty-two different rednecks from around the country have sent her supportive pictures of their penises.
” The story slyly suggests that white people practice their own forms of passing—earlier , Claire dismissed Lost Cause iconography as trashy—and it exposes , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ likability ” as a metric for fictional characters .
Claire ’ s complexity renders her more legible , not less .
Her mother , like Lyssa ’ s , has died of cancer , and she resents her Black best friend , Angela , whose mother is alive .
One is reminded that bigotry is not sorcery , that it comes from somewhere—and yet , as Evans traces Claire ’ s hateful behavior back to grief , she falls pointedly silent on the subject of the campus ’ s Black students .
We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ how Claire ’ s Black hallmate feels , sharing a dorm with her , or what it ’ s like to be a Black classmate watching the campus Libertarians defend Claire .
This omission functions as provocation : it ’ s as if the reader , in allowing compassion for Claire , forfeits the right to know anything real about her Black peers .
For Evans , one senses , this isn ’ t a “ gotcha ” —it ’ s a problem with no easy answers .
The last section features a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Historical Corrections , ” which symphonically unites the book ’ s themes .
Cassandra is a historian at a made-up government agency , the Institute for Public History .
For the most part , her brief—to root out instances of whitewashing and amnesia—has her wandering an assigned Zip Code in D.C. , issuing friendly “ corrections ” to owners of bakeshops and the like .
( “ We ’ re a public service .
Like 311 !
” she informs some cupcake vendors , before fact-checking their sign : Juneteenth does not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . )
But her bureaucratic veneer chips when she ’ s sent to Cherry Mill , Wisconsin , to investigate an arson and murder case from 1937 .
It turns out that the Black owner of the burnt building may have escaped the flames , aided by one of the perpetrator ’ s wives , a woman haunted by secrets .
This is the historical scenery ; on the apron stage of the personal , Cassie ’ s research collides with the crusade of Genevieve , a former colleague and childhood friend , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The two women represent—maybe to the reader , but more so to each other—opposing ways of embodying Blackness .
As a kid , Genevieve projected glossed perfection ( debate team , impeccable manners ) but years of twice-as-good-for-half-as-much have radicalized her , causing her to reject the I.P.H.
’ s conciliatory tone .
Cassie , meanwhile , grew up with less pressure and more freedom .
She defers to caution at work , and her boss occasionally deploys her , all dark skin and reassuring smiles , to defuse P.R .
crises @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It ’ s not spoiling much to say that the twisting , turning novella finally drops the collection off back where it began : with a woman yearning to be treated as human .
But Evans , reprising her fairy-tale motif , offers no cartoonish certainties .
She regards her characters with real curiosity and edges their discoveries with real terror .
A violent , far-right militia crops up , which reactivates questions of what monstrosity means , what beauty means , and where each can be found .
I was moved , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a sudden , flooding feeling of familiarity .
Here were themes from childhood picture books , problems that seemed native to the past , and yet they rushed back , louder than ever .
Metaphors amount to their own form of passing , obscuring realities that can only hide for so long .
Is it worth surrendering your voice to be safe ?
Conversely , is it worth sacrificing your life to be heard ?
Suppose that the creature weighing these things is a mermaid .
Now suppose that she ’ s been @ @ @ @ @

Once, in an undersea kingdom, there lived an odd creature who wished to be human. She disguised her natural form, which was beautiful to some and monstrous to others, and travelled far from home. After years of dwelling on land, the creature became an expert in the ways of people, but her transformation came at a cost: she couldn’t speak. The humans thus remained unable to see themselves as clearly as she did, nor did they learn to see anyone else. As for the heroine, the Disney-fied story rewards her virtue by turning her into a “real” woman. But the traditional tale is harsher. The character is left to float above the ocean, belonging nowhere.
There’s a dark humor to reading “The Little Mermaid” as a passing narrative—that is, as a parable about a Black person who tries to pass as white. The instinct makes sense: passing stories—which include James Weldon Johnson’s “The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man” and Nella Larsen’s “Passing”—pose questions about who is human and who is not. In the late nineteenth century, these tales were the melodramatic concoctions of white as well as Black authors, and they tended to punish characters for suppressing their “true” natures. (Hence the “tragic mulatto.”) The dream of opportunity and safety was forgivable, but the deception wasn’t; or the ranking of races was correct, but the self-bettering impulse was presumptuous. Eventually, passing grew into a richer theme, one whose tropes—assumed identities, secret selves—evoked the depths of loneliness and belonging. Philip Roth knew this (“The Human Stain”), as did Danzy Senna (“Caucasia”) and Brit Bennett (“The Vanishing Half”). It is interesting, then, to consider the sort of narrator who might ironically compare herself to the little mermaid. Doing so reframes an old story to parody the passing genre; the analogy also announces, plainly, that the speaker feels like a freak.
Shifting versions of this speaker appear throughout “The Office of Historical Corrections,” an extraordinary new collection of fiction by Danielle Evans. The book, which follows the critically lauded “Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self,” from 2010, examines alienation and the phantasmagoria of racial performance—how certain interactions can seem so forced and strange that they might as well take place underwater. Lyssa, the protagonist of the first story, “Happily Ever After,” never liked the “Little Mermaid” movie, anyway. (She “knew a bad trade when she saw one,” Evans writes.) Lyssa works at a museum slash party venue built in the shape of the Titanic. Her white co-worker, dressed as a princess, entertains children above deck; Lyssa, for the sake of “historical accuracy,” stays below, running the gift shop. After a pop star rents the site to shoot a shipwreck-themed music video, the video’s director casts Lyssa as an extra, then invites her back to his hotel room. This potentially “bad trade” drives the plot, but the story’s real hazmat lies buried in the past: Lyssa’s mother is dead, from cancer, and Lyssa has been advised to undergo a preventative surgery, which she keeps putting off. Her delay owes to grief, anxiety about having children, and medical racism. (During her mom’s decline, Lyssa struggled to light on the precise qualities of face, dress, and tone that would secure for her family the same treatment that a white family would receive.) But Lyssa’s reluctance also has to do with a sense of herself as marked. As Evans writes, Lyssa “couldn’t remember walking around without suspecting that something inside of her wanted her dead. What future had there ever been but the imaginary?”
“Happily Ever After” possesses many of the watermarks of an Evans story. A youngish woman, usually of color, guards a wound that won’t heal—a mother lost to illness or, as in the book’s second tale, a sister shot by her husband. The protagonist is terse, isolated, with a fetish for self-sabotage that ranges from recreational to all-consuming. The backdrop is incongruously bright and fun, like a water park or a bachelorette party. Current events loom; there are references to rent prices in the Bay Area, melting ice caps, the attention economy. The American past also looms, and every horrific historical action has its equal and opposite tourist attraction—estranged relatives take a day trip to Alcatraz; a gentrifier bar called Dodge City trades on D.C.’s plague of gun violence. Evans evinces a special vigilance toward threats that are familiar, in the sense of both inherited and routine. To read her is to become aware of ambience, of the peculiar iridescence that short fiction can sometimes offer: the stories are infused with many things but not precisely “about” any of them.
It would be a mistake, for instance, to reduce the book to its sociopolitical observations. Still, the plots are seductively topical, as in the story “Why Won’t Women Just Say What They Want,” which documents the apology tour of a caddish “genius artist.” Have I mentioned how funny Evans can be? Here she is describing the man’s previous, unsuccessful attempts at making amends: “I do concede that I owe you an apology for the way that I phrased things,” he texts his “Short-Suffering Second Ex-wife.” “There was probably a kinder way to express my frustration with your unreasonable expectations than to say that you just didn’t understand why so many women I had history with were still in my life because you’d never known what it was like to be as successful as I am, and, as a woman, in order to understand it, you’d have to imagine what things would be like for you if you were beautiful.” Into my veins, as Twitter would have it. Yet the story, with its outrageous jokes, turns genuinely profound, an autopsy of good intentions that finally aimed too low. What kind of apology is possible, Evans asks, when you lack the empathy to fully grasp what you should be sorry for?
The question resurfaces in another story, “Boys Go to Jupiter,” which maps the fallout when a white college student, Claire, allows her summer boyfriend to photograph her in a Confederate flag bikini. The picture goes viral, and Claire, refusing to back down, seizes the chance to brand herself as a Southern “heritage” zealot. Evans is sharp on the days-after contents of Claire’s inbox: “Someone using the email fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou@gmail.com thinks she is a cunt. Twenty-two different rednecks from around the country have sent her supportive pictures of their penises.” The story slyly suggests that white people practice their own forms of passing—earlier, Claire dismissed Lost Cause iconography as trashy—and it exposes, too, the silliness of using “likability” as a metric for fictional characters. Claire’s complexity renders her more legible, not less. Her mother, like Lyssa’s, has died of cancer, and she resents her Black best friend, Angela, whose mother is alive. One is reminded that bigotry is not sorcery, that it comes from somewhere—and yet, as Evans traces Claire’s hateful behavior back to grief, she falls pointedly silent on the subject of the campus’s Black students. We do not know, for instance, how Claire’s Black hallmate feels, sharing a dorm with her, or what it’s like to be a Black classmate watching the campus Libertarians defend Claire. This omission functions as provocation: it’s as if the reader, in allowing compassion for Claire, forfeits the right to know anything real about her Black peers. For Evans, one senses, this isn’t a “gotcha”—it’s a problem with no easy answers.