newyorker--2020-09-05--It’s Time for the Former General John Kelly to Speak Out About Trump’s Views on the Military

It ’ s been two days since The Atlantic published an article claiming that Donald Trump had called U.S. service members who died in combat “ losers ” and “ suckers , ” and the uproar over the story hasn ’ t relented .
Other news outlets , including Fox News , have confirmed various parts of the story , while some current and former members of the Trump Administration have called parts of it false .
The best way to resolve the controversy would be for John Kelly , the highly decorated military veteran who served as Trump ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to 2019 , to say publicly what he knows .
He ought to do this without hesitation .
So far , Kelly hasn ’ t commented on The Atlantic ’ s story , even though he features in it so prominently that Trump suggested on Friday that Kelly might have been one of its sources , who weren ’ t named .
The former four-star general was with the President in Paris , in November , 2018 , when Trump abruptly cancelled a visit to the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery and Memorial , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump decided not to go to the cemetery , Kelly stood in for him as a representative of the Administration .
On the face of things , Kelly would be in a unique position to vouch for , or knock down , a key passage of The Atlantic ’ s story , which reads , “ In a conversation with senior staff members on the morning of the scheduled visit , Trump said , ‘ Why should I go to that cemetery ?
It ’ s filled with losers.
’ ” In a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ France , The Atlantic ’ s story reports , Trump referred to some of the U.S. marines who are buried at the French cemetery “ as ‘ suckers ’ for getting killed.
” Kelly hasn ’ t denied The Atlantic ’ s story , but neither has he publicly confirmed it .
According to a report by Annie Karni , a White House correspondent for the Times , he “ has told associates that a retired four-star general should not come out against a sitting president in the heat of a political campaign.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ associate of Kelly ’ s , Anthony C. Zinni , a retired four-star Marine Corps general , said , “ He wants to avoid taking a position that might be perceived as political .
I also think he takes to heart the commitment to confidentiality in matters related to their interaction with the president.
” Keeping the military out of politics and following through on a commitment of confidentiality are both commendable goals , and , in normal times , they might be enough to warrant Kelly ’ s silence .
But these @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this isn ’ t a normal President .
Since entering the White House , Trump has repeatedly flouted the Constitution by defying congressional subpoenas , obstructing special-counsel investigations , and claiming that he has the power to deploy troops in American cities without the approval of governors .
Like all members of the military and government officials , Kelly swore to defend the Constitution against all enemies , “ foreign and domestic , ” when he joined the U.S. Marine Corps , in 1970 .
In addition to creating virtually unprecedented political strife @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stands accused of scorning the roughly 1.3 million active-duty members of the U.S. military , plus the more than eight hundred thousand people who serve in the reserves , and the roughly eighteen million veterans .
If Kelly can confirm key elements of The Atlantic ’ s story , he surely owes it to these current and former service members , and to the rest of the country , to stand up and do so .
If he can ’ t confirm some of the allegations , he should still come forward and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the military .
He could follow the example of John Bolton , Trump ’ s former national-security adviser , who was also on the 2018 trip to Paris .
Referring to the offensive comments about the American war dead that Trump allegedly made , Bolton told the Times , “ I didn ’ t hear that .
I ’ m not saying he didn ’ t say them later in the day or another time , but I was there for that discussion.
” In an interview with Bloomberg News , Bolton said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say , ‘ Oh , that doesn ’ t sound like the Donald Trump I know.
’ ” Bolton also said , “ I don ’ t think he really holds anybody in high regard except his family.
” As Kelly has maintained his silence , Trump and his associates have been pushing back aggressively against the story .
On Friday , Kayleigh McEnany , the White House press secretary , accused The Atlantic of “ peddling conspiracy-laden propaganda.
” On Twitter , one of McEnany ’ s predecessors , Sarah Huckabee Sanders @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in 2018 , called the story “ BS ” and added , “ I was actually there and one of the people part of the discussion—this never happened.
” Another former Trump aide , Jordan Karem , said that the story was “ not even close to being factually accurate.
” Meanwhile , a number of other media organizations said they had independently confirmed various elements of The Atlantic ’ s story , including the remarks about “ losers ” that Trump was reported to have made in Paris .
Citing a “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of events and a senior U.S. Marine Corps officer who was told about Trump ’ s comments , ” James LaPorta , of the Associated Press , wrote , “ The defense officials said Trump made the comments as he begged off visiting the cemetery outside Paris during a meeting following his presidential daily briefing on the morning of Nov. 10 , 2018.
” The A.P .
story goes on : “ Staffers from the National Security Council and the Secret Service told Trump that rainy weather made helicopter travel to the cemetery @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Trump responded by saying he didn ’ t want to visit the cemetery because it was ‘ filled with losers , ’ the official said , speaking on condition of anonymity because the official was not authorized to discuss it publicly.
” Jennifer Griffin , a national-security correspondent for Fox News , cited in her report a former Administration official who was on the trip to Paris with Trump .
This person said that Trump cancelled the trip to the French cemetery because he was mad at Emmanuel Macron , the French @ @ @ @ @ @ @ conversations between the President and his aides , but quoting the same official , Griffin said that Trump remarked , of the Vietnam War , “ It was a stupid war .
Anyone who went was a sucker , ” and said of American veterans generally , “ What ’ s in it for them ?
They don ’ t make any money.
” According to The Atlantic , “ What was in it for them ?
” was the question Trump asked Kelly on Memorial Day , in 2017 , during a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ resting place of Kelly ’ s son , Robert , a first lieutenant in the Marine Corps , who was killed in Afghanistan , in 2010 .
Citing sources close to Kelly , The Atlantic said that Kelly initially believed Trump was “ making a ham-handed reference to the selflessness of America ’ s all-volunteer force .
But later he came to realize that Trump simply does not understand non-transactional life choices.
” Kelly clearly does .
He retired from the military in January , 2016 , after a forty-five-year career that included @ @ @ @ @ @ @ culminated in him serving as head of the U.S. Southern Command .
That amounts to a great deal of service to the United States , but Kelly can do for the country one more vital act .
He should speak out .

It’s been two days since The Atlantic published an article claiming that Donald Trump had called U.S. service members who died in combat “losers” and “suckers,” and the uproar over the story hasn’t relented. Other news outlets, including Fox News, have confirmed various parts of the story, while some current and former members of the Trump Administration have called parts of it false. The best way to resolve the controversy would be for John Kelly, the highly decorated military veteran who served as Trump’s chief of staff, from 2017 to 2019, to say publicly what he knows. He ought to do this without hesitation.
So far, Kelly hasn’t commented on The Atlantic’s story, even though he features in it so prominently that Trump suggested on Friday that Kelly might have been one of its sources, who weren’t named. The former four-star general was with the President in Paris, in November, 2018, when Trump abruptly cancelled a visit to the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery and Memorial, in Belleau, blaming poor weather. After Trump decided not to go to the cemetery, Kelly stood in for him as a representative of the Administration.
On the face of things, Kelly would be in a unique position to vouch for, or knock down, a key passage of The Atlantic’s story, which reads, “In a conversation with senior staff members on the morning of the scheduled visit, Trump said, ‘Why should I go to that cemetery? It’s filled with losers.’ ” In a separate conversation on the same trip to France, The Atlantic’s story reports, Trump referred to some of the U.S. marines who are buried at the French cemetery “as ‘suckers’ for getting killed.”
Kelly hasn’t denied The Atlantic’s story, but neither has he publicly confirmed it. According to a report by Annie Karni, a White House correspondent for the Times, he “has told associates that a retired four-star general should not come out against a sitting president in the heat of a political campaign.” Karni also reported that a close associate of Kelly’s, Anthony C. Zinni, a retired four-star Marine Corps general, said, “He wants to avoid taking a position that might be perceived as political. I also think he takes to heart the commitment to confidentiality in matters related to their interaction with the president.”
Keeping the military out of politics and following through on a commitment of confidentiality are both commendable goals, and, in normal times, they might be enough to warrant Kelly’s silence. But these aren’t normal times, and this isn’t a normal President. Since entering the White House, Trump has repeatedly flouted the Constitution by defying congressional subpoenas, obstructing special-counsel investigations, and claiming that he has the power to deploy troops in American cities without the approval of governors. Like all members of the military and government officials, Kelly swore to defend the Constitution against all enemies, “foreign and domestic,” when he joined the U.S. Marine Corps, in 1970. In addition to creating virtually unprecedented political strife, Trump, as Commander-in-Chief, now stands accused of scorning the roughly 1.3 million active-duty members of the U.S. military, plus the more than eight hundred thousand people who serve in the reserves, and the roughly eighteen million veterans.
If Kelly can confirm key elements of The Atlantic’s story, he surely owes it to these current and former service members, and to the rest of the country, to stand up and do so. If he can’t confirm some of the allegations, he should still come forward and speak about Trump’s attitude toward the military. He could follow the example of John Bolton, Trump’s former national-security adviser, who was also on the 2018 trip to Paris. Referring to the offensive comments about the American war dead that Trump allegedly made, Bolton told the Times, “I didn’t hear that. I’m not saying he didn’t say them later in the day or another time, but I was there for that discussion.” In an interview with Bloomberg News, Bolton said, “I have not heard anybody say, ‘Oh, that doesn’t sound like the Donald Trump I know.’ ” Bolton also said, “I don’t think he really holds anybody in high regard except his family.”
As Kelly has maintained his silence, Trump and his associates have been pushing back aggressively against the story. On Friday, Kayleigh McEnany, the White House press secretary, accused The Atlantic of “peddling conspiracy-laden propaganda.” On Twitter, one of McEnany’s predecessors, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, who flew to Paris with Trump in 2018, called the story “BS” and added, “I was actually there and one of the people part of the discussion—this never happened.” Another former Trump aide, Jordan Karem, said that the story was “not even close to being factually accurate.”
Meanwhile, a number of other media organizations said they had independently confirmed various elements of The Atlantic’s story, including the remarks about “losers” that Trump was reported to have made in Paris. Citing a “senior Defense Department official with firsthand knowledge of events and a senior U.S. Marine Corps officer who was told about Trump’s comments,” James LaPorta, of the Associated Press, wrote, “The defense officials said Trump made the comments as he begged off visiting the cemetery outside Paris during a meeting following his presidential daily briefing on the morning of Nov. 10, 2018.” The A.P. story goes on: “Staffers from the National Security Council and the Secret Service told Trump that rainy weather made helicopter travel to the cemetery risky, but they could drive there. Trump responded by saying he didn’t want to visit the cemetery because it was ‘filled with losers,’ the official said, speaking on condition of anonymity because the official was not authorized to discuss it publicly.”
Jennifer Griffin, a national-security correspondent for Fox News, cited in her report a former Administration official who was on the trip to Paris with Trump. This person said that Trump cancelled the trip to the French cemetery because he was mad at Emmanuel Macron, the French President. Reporting on other sets of conversations between the President and his aides, but quoting the same official, Griffin said that Trump remarked, of the Vietnam War, “It was a stupid war. Anyone who went was a sucker,” and said of American veterans generally, “What’s in it for them? They don’t make any money.”
According to The Atlantic, “What was in it for them?” was the question Trump asked Kelly on Memorial Day, in 2017, during a visit to Arlington Cemetery, the final resting place of Kelly’s son, Robert, a first lieutenant in the Marine Corps, who was killed in Afghanistan, in 2010. Citing sources close to Kelly, The Atlantic said that Kelly initially believed Trump was “making a ham-handed reference to the selflessness of America’s all-volunteer force. But later he came to realize that Trump simply does not understand non-transactional life choices.”
Kelly clearly does. He retired from the military in January, 2016, after a forty-five-year career that included three tours of duty in Iraq and culminated in him serving as head of the U.S. Southern Command. That amounts to a great deal of service to the United States, but Kelly can do for the country one more vital act. He should speak out.
Read More About the 2020 Election


newyorker--2020-09-05--What to Stream: “Sicilia!”

What to Stream: “Sicilia!”

I first saw Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet ’ s film “ Sicilia !
” at the New York Film Festival , in 1999 .
On my way out of the screening , I ran into my former professor , Gilberto Perez , in whose class I ’ d first seen Straub and Huillet ’ s earlier films , in the nineteen-seventies .
Perez and I agreed that , compared to the duo ’ s other works—aesthetically spare , intellectually complex , often dramatically oblique—this one , with its with intense emotional confrontations , sharp intimate revelations , and relatively @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a Hollywood movie .
Even art-house filmmakers have styles and habits that can serve as self-imposed conventions ; in “ Sicilia !
, ” which is currently streaming on Lincoln Center ’ s Virtual Cinema , Straub and Huillet challenge their usual practices by confronting new subjects and new material , and , in so doing , expand their artistry .
Straub ( who did most of the directing and is still making films ) , and Huillet ( who did most of the producing and editing ; she died in 2006 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cinematic relationship with the classic arts .
Their first feature , “ Not Reconciled , ” from 1965 , is an adaptation of Heinrich Böll ’ s novel “ Billiards at Half Past Nine ” ; their second film , “ The Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach , ” is a bio-pic of Johann Sebastian Bach and is filled with extended on-camera performances of his works .
The pair have adapted Kafka and Brecht , Corneille and Marguerite Duras ; they ’ ve made films about Cézanne , and , above all , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ greatest films of operas—of Arnold Schoenberg ’ s “ Moses and Aaron ” and “ From Today Until Tomorrow.
” In “ Sicilia !
, ” an adaptation of the novel “ Conversations in Sicily , ” by Elio Vittorini , first published in serial form in 1938 and 1939—and set in Sicily around that time , under the Fascist regime—Straub and Huillet achieved another great multimedia work of pure cinema , one that is , in its own way , operatic .
“ Sicilia !
” is the story of Silvestro ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ born and raised in Sicily who , after emigrating to New York , returns home for the first time in fifteen years .
Soon after disembarking at a dock , he talks with a local man ( Carmelo Maddio ) of about the same age , and they compare their economic miseries—for the New Yorker , it ’ s unemployment ; for the Sicilian , it ’ s the inability to sell his orange crop .
( They also discuss food , both in relation to poverty and subsistence and in the light @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a train , where a pair of plainclothes secret-police officers flaunt their repressive political views .
In a scene of Silvestro in a compartment with other travellers , one , a local landowner , passes from making insulting remarks behind the officers ’ backs to considering the miseries that afflict him and others and cause them to work as the regime ’ s enforcers .
The train brings Silvestro to the house of his mother ( Angela Nugara ) , and their reunion—more than a half-hour long—is the heart of the film and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the modern cinema .
The house where she lives isn ’ t the one that Silvestro was raised in ; it ’ s her late father ’ s isolated house , which he ’ d built with his own hands , and to which she returned after her husband , Silvestro ’ s father , left home to live with another woman .
The site inspires his questions about the family ’ s past and his mother ’ s earlier years—and the responses that she delivers are profound and revelatory .
Their conversations @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the pressure of political history , starting with her description of her father , a laborer and a socialist and a local notable who cut a grand figure , and whose principled politics didn ’ t get in the way of him leading a local religious procession and its flamboyant cavalcade .
( In effect , the collective exuberance and unifying power of such homemade public pageantry , despite its religious pretext , comes off as a kind of people ’ s politics in itself . )
Silvestro asks questions about his childhood @ @ @ @ @ @ @ domestic subjects , including the detailed descriptions of foodstuffs and recipes , yet always with an eye toward how they related to the family ’ s fortunes .
Silvestro ’ s father worked for the railroad , unlike most men in the region , who were farmers and miners .
( A shot of Silvestro sniffing a winter melon that his mother brings to the table suffuses the scene with the Proustian power of culinary memory . )
Then , the elephant in the room makes some noise : Why did his father @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The woman ’ s tales of her life with her husband have an incendiary , purifying power ; she dispels Silvestro ’ s patriarchal illusions regarding his father while opening his eyes about her own life as a wife , a mother , and a woman .
She speaks of childbirth and of adultery , of sex and romance .
She blasts away at Silvestro ’ s petit-bourgeois moralism and his naïve , socially inculcated ideas of marriage—and she discloses to him a tale of her own long-ago passion that sets sexual desire @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , at the crossroads of history and class relations .
The film ’ s dialogue is less spoken than declaimed ; it ’ s nearly sung , in sharply etched phrases , by its actors—who , amazingly , are nonprofessionals .
They maintain frozen poses and lend their long speeches and short interjections precise yet impassioned power .
Straub and Huillet film them in images that are themselves sculpturally fixed , and that are edited together to land with the weight of stone .
The filmmakers ’ conjunction of the arts reaches an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sort of visual music that sets the dialogue like a libretto and renders the performances operatic .
When I interviewed Straub , in 2001 , in Paris , we discussed filmmakers ’ differing methods of evoking of the history of cinema in their work .
By way of illustrating his method , he invited me to attend a screening that night of their film “ Antigone , ” from 1992 , and to call him back a couple of days later .
After seeing the film , I got the point : their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ revisions of Hölderlin ’ s translation of Sophocles—and similarly , amazingly , performed by nonprofessional actors—was , in effect , the Straub and Huillet version of a John Ford film , albeit without any homages or quotes to suggest as much .
Similarly , seeing “ Sicilia !
” now , at two decades ’ remove , I consider it not quite an evocation of a Hollywood film .
Rather , with its references to the young man ’ s travels home and into his past , the lusty and carnivalesque stories that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of memory , “ Sicilia !
” suggests Straub and Huillet ’ s version of ( and improvement on ) a Fellini film .
The sense is reinforced by the film ’ s ending , a nearly antic scene of exuberant public craftsmanship and social principle .

I first saw Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet’s film “Sicilia!” at the New York Film Festival, in 1999. On my way out of the screening, I ran into my former professor, Gilberto Perez, in whose class I’d first seen Straub and Huillet’s earlier films, in the nineteen-seventies. Perez and I agreed that, compared with the duo’s other works—aesthetically spare, intellectually complex, often dramatically oblique—this one, with its with intense emotional confrontations, sharp intimate revelations, and relatively straightforward action, seemed like their version of a Hollywood movie. Even art-house filmmakers have styles and habits that can serve as self-imposed conventions; in “Sicilia!,” which is currently streaming on Lincoln Center’s Virtual Cinema, Straub and Huillet challenge their usual practices by confronting new subjects and new material, and, in so doing, expand their artistry.
Straub (who did most of the directing and is still making films), and Huillet (who did most of the producing and editing; she died in 2006), have always had a special cinematic relationship with the classic arts. Their first feature, “Not Reconciled,” from 1965, is an adaptation of Heinrich Böll’s novel “Billiards at Half Past Nine”; their second film, “The Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach,” is a bio-pic of Johann Sebastian Bach and is filled with extended on-camera performances of his works. The pair have adapted Kafka and Brecht, Corneille and Marguerite Duras; they’ve made films about Cézanne, and, above all, they’ve made two of the greatest films of operas—of Arnold Schoenberg’s “Moses and Aaron” and “From Today Until Tomorrow.” In “Sicilia!,” an adaptation of the novel “Conversations in Sicily,” by Elio Vittorini, first published in serial form in 1938 and 1939—and set in Sicily around that time, under the Fascist regime—Straub and Huillet achieved another great multimedia work of pure cinema, one that is, in its own way, operatic.
“Sicilia!” is the story of Silvestro (Gianni Buscarino), a thirtysomething man born and raised in Sicily who, after emigrating to New York, returns home for the first time in fifteen years. Soon after disembarking at a dock, he talks with a local man (Carmelo Maddio) of about the same age, and they compare their economic miseries—for the New Yorker, it’s unemployment; for the Sicilian, it’s the inability to sell his orange crop. (They also discuss food, both in relation to poverty and subsistence and in the light of culinary tradition.) Silvestro boards a train, where a pair of plainclothes secret-police officers flaunt their repressive political views. In a scene of Silvestro in a compartment with other travellers, one, a local landowner, passes from making insulting remarks behind the officers’ backs to considering the miseries that afflict him and others and cause them to work as the regime’s enforcers.
The train brings Silvestro to the house of his mother (Angela Nugara), and their reunion—more than a half-hour long—is the heart of the film and one of the great dialogue sequences of the modern cinema. The house where she lives isn’t the one that Silvestro was raised in; it’s her late father’s isolated house, which he’d built with his own hands, and to which she returned after her husband, Silvestro’s father, left home to live with another woman. The site inspires his questions about the family’s past and his mother’s earlier years—and the responses that she delivers are profound and revelatory. Their conversations about family history are furiously forged under the pressure of political history, starting with her description of her father, a laborer and a socialist and a local notable who cut a grand figure, and whose principled politics didn’t get in the way of him leading a local religious procession and its flamboyant cavalcade. (In effect, the collective exuberance and unifying power of such homemade public pageantry, despite its religious pretext, comes off as a kind of people’s politics in itself.)
Silvestro asks questions about his childhood, and the conversation inevitably turns to domestic subjects, including the detailed descriptions of foodstuffs and recipes, yet always with an eye toward how they related to the family’s fortunes. Silvestro’s father worked for the railroad, unlike most men in the region, who were farmers and miners. (A shot of Silvestro sniffing a winter melon that his mother brings to the table suffuses the scene with the Proustian power of culinary memory.) Then, the elephant in the room makes some noise: Why did his father, her husband, leave home? The woman’s tales of her life with her husband have an incendiary, purifying power; she dispels Silvestro’s patriarchal illusions regarding his father while opening his eyes about her own life as a wife, a mother, and a woman. She speaks of childbirth and of adultery, of sex and romance. She blasts away at Silvestro’s petit-bourgeois moralism and his naïve, socially inculcated ideas of marriage—and she discloses to him a tale of her own long-ago passion that sets sexual desire, and the nature of love itself, at the crossroads of history and class relations.
The film’s dialogue is less spoken than declaimed; it’s nearly sung, in sharply etched phrases, by its actors—who, amazingly, are nonprofessionals. They maintain frozen poses and lend their long speeches and short interjections precise yet impassioned power. Straub and Huillet film them in images that are themselves sculpturally fixed, and that are edited together to land with the weight of stone. The filmmakers’ conjunction of the arts reaches an apogee here: their images are a sort of visual music that sets the dialogue like a libretto and renders the performances operatic.
When I interviewed Straub, in 2001, in Paris, we discussed filmmakers’ differing methods of evoking of the history of cinema in their work. By way of illustrating his method, he invited me to attend a screening that night of their film “Antigone,” from 1992, and to call him back a couple of days later. After seeing the film, I got the point: their adaptation, based on Brecht’s revisions of Hölderlin’s translation of Sophocles—and similarly, amazingly, performed by nonprofessional actors—was, in effect, the Straub and Huillet version of a John Ford film, albeit without any homages or quotes to suggest as much. Similarly, seeing “Sicilia!” now, at two decades’ remove, I consider it not quite an evocation of a Hollywood film. Rather, with its references to the young man’s travels home and into his past, the lusty and carnivalesque stories that arise in conversation, and the politics of memory, “Sicilia!” suggests Straub and Huillet’s version of (and improvement on) a Fellini film. The sense is reinforced by the film’s ending, a nearly antic scene of exuberant public craftsmanship and social principle.


newyorker--2020-09-05--The Culinary Potential of Bolting Vegetables

Did your garden bolt early this year ?
Maybe you didn ’ t even notice , because of how jagged and asymmetrical the passage of time has been since spring .
Maybe you even spent a period in denial , thinking , This must just be what my cilantro , and lettuce , and parsley did last summer : briefly leaf in a friendly vegetative way , then sprint in suicidal mania toward a flowering death .
That ’ s what happened to me , anyway .
The start of July was salad days for herbs and the hardier head @ @ @ @ @ @ @ so of regular leafy growth the cilantro gave way cilantro seeds , the frilled lettuce to lanky tan stalks with blanched , droopy leaves that fluttered about like damp stockings .
If you garden , you ’ ve seen how a plant mutates when it bolts .
Its leaves get long and scrawny .
Where there were tender palms now there are tough stems , clusters of determined flowers and seeds .
Lettuce and herbs taste more intense after they ’ ve bolted : strong , often bitter .
This summer , as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ year , I ’ ve found this transformation peculiarly resonant .
When a plant bolts early , it ’ s because it senses that its survival is being threatened .
Heat , nutrient deficiency , or some other stressor is upon it .
It senses that the end is drawing near , and so it puts its energy toward reproducing .
The resources that the plant was devoting to growing leaves are reallocated for growing flowers ; when the flowers are pollinated , they produce seeds , from which new plants can one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ flowering plant is a defense mechanism , designed to ward off anything that might try to eat it during these reproductive assignations .
The plant is trying to stay alive just long enough to insure its future .
In other words , bolting is the crucial link between this plant and the next .
Do you see what I mean ?
Maybe out of admiration for this rational response to impending doom , I ’ ve always felt fondly toward bolting plants .
I especially love the plump , green pearls produced by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ few weeks ago that my friend Samin Nosrat does , too . )
The flavor of green coriander is a perfect complement to all the vegetables in season when it starts to bolt , even if the bolting happens earlier than expected .
I generally pound up a fresh clove of garlic ( also harvested in July and August ) with salt , then add a little handful of cilantro seeds to it , and once it ’ s all a redolent green paste , add it directly to any pan of roasted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or spoon it over the top of a tomato tart or tian , or into ratatouille .
Maybe the best and weirdest use I ’ ve ever found for green cilantro seeds is in a recipe I wrote for lima beans and eggplant a la creme , for my book “ Something Old , Something New.
” It sounds crazy but it ’ s delicious , and tastes like the simple luxury of a summer evening .
Lately , I ’ ve been pounding green coriander with garlic and salt , plus the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plus basil seeds .
I then cover the mossy green mixture in olive oil and use it wherever I can think to .
I ’ ve added some chopped up preserved lemon and ground cumin to turn it into the North African herb paste chermoula , which makes a magnificent marinade for shrimp or fish , or for spooning over couscous or rice , or a boiled or scrambled egg or two .
I added a chopped green chili to a batch and stirred it into yogurt for a creamy drizzling sauce , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mayonnaise for B.L.T.s—but really B.P.Ts , with parsley instead of lettuce , because the lettuce had bolted .
Speaking of pastes , if you haven ’ t made pesto using the seeds and flowers of basil , plucked obsessively off your bolting basil plants , as you will them to go on leafing for another day , now is the time : pesto made with basil seeds and blossoms is great .
It ’ s pesto in all its summer headiness .
Bolting lettuce is exasperating .
Historically I ’ ve pulled it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and reseeded the patch .
But in this summer ’ s raw , tender moment , I thought of dishes like Edna Lewis ’ s lamb ’ s-quarters , boiled in dry-cured pork stock , and of Chinese sautéed pea tips , and resolved to cook mine .
I chopped and braised my bolted lettuce , stems , leaves , and all , first following Lewis ’ s lead and adding pork—though I used bacon fat , and Lewis was adamant that bitter greens are best cooked with only the lean—and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pea-tip recipes that call for sesame oil .
In both cases the result was entirely unlettucelike , but very good , as long as I was willing to let it be something else .
There was bitterness , and also sweetness , and the unmistakable improvement of flavorful fat .
I ’ ll do it again .
My garden continues to flower , unchecked .
I find its insistence on survival inspiring , and hope it understands that I can only express my admiration and gratitude by cooking all that it produces .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ mortar and pestle and pound into a coarse paste .
( The food processor works , too . )
2 .
For a dolloping oil , add a quarter cup or more of good olive oil .
Add the paste to mayonnaise , or to softened butter , or use it straight as a marinade for fish .

Did your garden bolt early this year? Maybe you didn’t even notice, because of how jagged and asymmetrical the passage of time has been since spring. Maybe you even spent a period in denial, thinking, This must just be what my cilantro, and lettuce, and parsley did last summer: briefly leaf in a friendly vegetative way, then sprint in suicidal mania toward a flowering death. That’s what happened to me, anyway. The start of July was salad days for herbs and the hardier head lettuces, but after a week or so of regular leafy growth the cilantro gave way cilantro seeds, the frilled lettuce to lanky tan stalks with blanched, droopy leaves that fluttered about like damp stockings.
If you garden, you’ve seen how a plant mutates when it bolts. Its leaves get long and scrawny. Where there were tender palms now there are tough stems, clusters of determined flowers and seeds. Lettuce and herbs taste more intense after they’ve bolted: strong, often bitter. This summer, as we near the end of a disastrous year, I’ve found this transformation peculiarly resonant. When a plant bolts early, it’s because it senses that its survival is being threatened. Heat, nutrient deficiency, or some other stressor is upon it. It senses that the end is drawing near, and so it puts its energy toward reproducing. The resources that the plant was devoting to growing leaves are reallocated for growing flowers; when the flowers are pollinated, they produce seeds, from which new plants can one day grow. The bitterness of a flowering plant is a defense mechanism, designed to ward off anything that might try to eat it during these reproductive assignations. The plant is trying to stay alive just long enough to insure its future. In other words, bolting is the crucial link between this plant and the next.
Do you see what I mean? Maybe out of admiration for this rational response to impending doom, I’ve always felt fondly toward bolting plants. I especially love the plump, green pearls produced by cilantro plants. (I learned a few weeks ago that my friend Samin Nosrat does, too.) The flavor of green coriander is a perfect complement to all the vegetables in season when it starts to bolt, even if the bolting happens earlier than expected. I generally pound up a fresh clove of garlic (also harvested in July and August) with salt, then add a little handful of cilantro seeds to it, and once it’s all a redolent green paste, add it directly to any pan of roasted or grilled eggplant, or peppers, or spoon it over the top of a tomato tart or tian, or into ratatouille. Maybe the best and weirdest use I’ve ever found for green cilantro seeds is in a recipe I wrote for lima beans and eggplant a la creme, for my book “Something Old, Something New.” It sounds crazy but it’s delicious, and tastes like the simple luxury of a summer evening. Lately, I’ve been pounding green coriander with garlic and salt, plus the bolted leaves and stems of parsley, plus basil seeds. I then cover the mossy green mixture in olive oil and use it wherever I can think to. I’ve added some chopped up preserved lemon and ground cumin to turn it into the North African herb paste chermoula, which makes a magnificent marinade for shrimp or fish, or for spooning over couscous or rice, or a boiled or scrambled egg or two. I added a chopped green chili to a batch and stirred it into yogurt for a creamy drizzling sauce, and mixed some of the paste with mayonnaise for B.L.T.s—but really B.P.Ts, with parsley instead of lettuce, because the lettuce had bolted. Speaking of pastes, if you haven’t made pesto using the seeds and flowers of basil, plucked obsessively off your bolting basil plants, as you will them to go on leafing for another day, now is the time: pesto made with basil seeds and blossoms is great. It’s pesto in all its summer headiness.
Bolting lettuce is exasperating. Historically I’ve pulled it up from my garden, composted it, and reseeded the patch. But in this summer’s raw, tender moment, I thought of dishes like Edna Lewis’s lamb’s-quarters, boiled in dry-cured pork stock, and of Chinese sautéed pea tips, and resolved to cook mine. I chopped and braised my bolted lettuce, stems, leaves, and all, first following Lewis’s lead and adding pork—though I used bacon fat, and Lewis was adamant that bitter greens are best cooked with only the lean—and a second time following the guidance of Chinese pea-tip recipes that call for sesame oil. In both cases the result was entirely unlettucelike, but very good, as long as I was willing to let it be something else. There was bitterness, and also sweetness, and the unmistakable improvement of flavorful fat.
I’ll do it again. My garden continues to flower, unchecked. I find its insistence on survival inspiring, and hope it understands that I can only express my admiration and gratitude by cooking all that it produces.
Green Coriander Paste
Ingredients
2 Tbsp. green coriander seeds
A handful of bolted basil leaves
1 cup parsley leaves or ½ cup parsley stems, chopped
½ tsp. salt
1 clove garlic
1 teaspoon chopped fresh chili, such as jalapeño (optional)
Directions
1. Add all ingredients to a mortar and pestle and pound into a coarse paste. (The food processor works, too.)
2. For a dolloping oil, add a quarter cup or more of good olive oil. Add the paste to mayonnaise, or to softened butter, or use it straight as a marinade for fish.


newyorker--2020-09-06--Our Long, Forgotten History of Election-Related Violence

In the fall of 1856 , according to news reports , a Baltimore resident named Charles Brown was “ peaceably walking along the street ” when he was shot dead .
It was a local Election Day , and Brown was in the vicinity of a Twelfth Ward polling place .
Democrats attempting to enter it had been repelled by supporters of the American Party , better known as the Know-Nothings .
For some two hours , the groups exchanged gunfire in what the Baltimore American described as “ guerrilla warfare.
” Brown was one of five people killed , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were not lost .
This was not an uncommon event .
The American Party , a group defined by its truculent nativism , frequently deployed violence to political ends , particularly against immigrant voters .
As Richard Hofstadter and Michael Wallace , in their book “ American Violence : A Documentary History , ” wrote of Baltimore , “ In many districts immigrants were stopped from voting entirely.
” The United States is considered one of the most stable democracies in the world , but it has a long , mostly forgotten history @ @ @ @ @ @ @ during clashes between Whigs and Democrats in Philadelphia , an entire city block was burned to the ground .
In 1874 , more than five thousand men fought in the streets of New Orleans , in a battle between supporters of Louisiana ’ s Republican governor , William Kellogg , and of the White League , a group allied with the Democrats .
And the nation ’ s record of overlooking the violent prevention of Black suffrage is much longer than its record of protecting Black voters .
The general public tends to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the past , but historians tend to look at them the way that meteorologists look at hurricanes : as a predictable outcome when a number of recognizable variables align in familiar ways .
In the aftermath of events in Kenosha , Wisconsin , and Portland , Oregon , we are in hurricane season .
Following the release , on August 23rd , of a video showing Officer Rusten Sheskey shooting Jacob Blake , an unarmed twenty-nine-year-old Black man , seven times in the back , protesters poured into the streets of Kenosha @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and , two nights later , Kyle Rittenhouse , a seventeen-year-old with an AR-15-style rifle , reportedly crossed state lines , from Illinois , to defend property in the city .
According to prosecutors , he shot three protesters , two of them fatally .
Several nights later , a caravan of Trump supporters drove through downtown Portland , where anti-police-brutality protesters have been gathering for months , and fired paintballs and pepper spray into the crowd .
Aaron J. Danielson , a supporter of the right-wing group Patriot Prayer , was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Reinoehl , an Antifa supporter , was fatally shot by law-enforcement officers last Thursday , as they attempted to apprehend him south of Seattle .
Throughout these horrendous developments , Donald Trump has been at cross-purposes with the calling of his office .
He has sown conflict where none existed and exacerbated it where it did .
On a visit to Kenosha , Trump did not mention Blake , who has been left partially paralyzed .
But he has said that Rittenhouse , who has been charged with homicide , was likely acting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as is the President ’ s habit—that Rittenhouse “ probably would ’ ve been killed by protesters.
” In 2013 , when President Obama spoke about Trayvon Martin , an unarmed Black seventeen-year-old who was shot to death in Sanford , Florida , he addressed racism but not the particulars of the case , so as to not interfere with legal proceedings .
Republicans were nevertheless quick to accuse Obama of impropriety .
Seven years later , Party leaders have made no such complaints about Trump ’ s advocating for Rittenhouse .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ series of insults , each enabling greater violations of norms , ethics , and laws .
That pattern now seems poised to upend democracy itself .
It began even before Trump took office , when he refused to release his tax returns ; claimed that his Democratic opponent , Hillary Clinton , should be in jail ; and openly enlisted a foreign adversary to help achieve that end .
This year , he has removed five inspectors general from their posts and , with the assistance of Attorney General William Barr , corrupted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ degree that we are now unsure of the legal meaning of the word “ guilty ” when applied to a Trump-connected defendant .
The likelihood of political violence was also apparent from the start .
Trump ’ s 2016 rallies tipped over into displays of aggression directed at the media and at those who opposed him .
Such is the chaos of today that we ’ ve nearly forgotten that , two years ago , Cesar Sayoc mailed pipe bombs to Obama , Clinton , and fourteen others he believed had treated Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lawyers described him as “ a Donald Trump super-fan ” who suffered from mental illness , leaving him vulnerable to the antagonisms of the political climate .
The twenty-one-year-old Patrick Crusius was charged with fatally shooting twenty-three people in El Paso last year .
The language of an anti-immigrant manifesto he allegedly posted before the shooting was noted for its echoes of Trump ’ s rationalizations for building his border wall .
( Crusius pleaded not guilty . )
This May , the Michigan legislature temporarily shut down , after armed militia members @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s stay-at-home order .
A couple of weeks earlier , Trump had tweeted , “ LIBERATE MICHIGAN !
” The Transition Integrity Project , a nonpartisan group of academics , journalists , and current and former government and party officials , recently released a report outlining a number of election scenarios that are both plausible and terrifying .
Trump has primed his followers with repeated warnings of voter fraud , so there is a real possibility that they may denounce as illegitimate any outcome in which he loses .
Beyond that , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seize mail-in ballots in order to prevent them from being counted , or pressure Republican-controlled legislatures to certify results before all mail-in ballots have arrived .
The authors conclude that “ voting fraud is virtually non-existent , but Trump lies about it to create a narrative designed to politically mobilize his base and to create the basis for contesting the results should he lose .
The potential for violent conflict is high , particularly since Trump encourages his supporters to take up arms.
” This is where we are—at the perilous logical extension @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weather forecast is not a prediction of the inevitable .
We are not doomed to witness a catastrophic tempest this fall , but anyone who is paying attention knows that the winds have begun to pick up .
♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
In the fall of 1856, according to news reports, a Baltimore resident named Charles Brown was “peaceably walking along the street” when he was shot dead. It was a local Election Day, and Brown was in the vicinity of a Twelfth Ward polling place. Democrats attempting to enter it had been repelled by supporters of the American Party, better known as the Know-Nothings. For some two hours, the groups exchanged gunfire in what the Baltimore American described as “guerrilla warfare.” Brown was one of five people killed, and the newspaper marvelled that more lives were not lost. This was not an uncommon event. The American Party, a group defined by its truculent nativism, frequently deployed violence to political ends, particularly against immigrant voters. As Richard Hofstadter and Michael Wallace, in their book “American Violence: A Documentary History,” wrote of Baltimore, “In many districts immigrants were stopped from voting entirely.”
The United States is considered one of the most stable democracies in the world, but it has a long, mostly forgotten history of election-related violence. In 1834, during clashes between Whigs and Democrats in Philadelphia, an entire city block was burned to the ground. In 1874, more than five thousand men fought in the streets of New Orleans, in a battle between supporters of Louisiana’s Republican governor, William Kellogg, and of the White League, a group allied with the Democrats. And the nation’s record of overlooking the violent prevention of Black suffrage is much longer than its record of protecting Black voters. The general public tends to view such calamities as a static record of the past, but historians tend to look at them the way that meteorologists look at hurricanes: as a predictable outcome when a number of recognizable variables align in familiar ways. In the aftermath of events in Kenosha, Wisconsin, and Portland, Oregon, we are in hurricane season.
Following the release, on August 23rd, of a video showing Officer Rusten Sheskey shooting Jacob Blake, an unarmed twenty-nine-year-old Black man, seven times in the back, protesters poured into the streets of Kenosha. Some of them engaged in looting, and, two nights later, Kyle Rittenhouse, a seventeen-year-old with an AR-15-style rifle, reportedly crossed state lines, from Illinois, to defend property in the city. According to prosecutors, he shot three protesters, two of them fatally. Several nights later, a caravan of Trump supporters drove through downtown Portland, where anti-police-brutality protesters have been gathering for months, and fired paintballs and pepper spray into the crowd. Aaron J. Danielson, a supporter of the right-wing group Patriot Prayer, was shot dead; the suspect, Michael Reinoehl, an Antifa supporter, was fatally shot by law-enforcement officers last Thursday, as they attempted to apprehend him south of Seattle.
Throughout these horrendous developments, Donald Trump has been at cross-purposes with the calling of his office. He has sown conflict where none existed and exacerbated it where it did. On a visit to Kenosha, Trump did not mention Blake, who has been left partially paralyzed. But he has said that Rittenhouse, who has been charged with homicide, was likely acting in self-defense, claiming—without offering any evidence, as is the President’s habit—that Rittenhouse “probably would’ve been killed by protesters.” In 2013, when President Obama spoke about Trayvon Martin, an unarmed Black seventeen-year-old who was shot to death in Sanford, Florida, he addressed racism but not the particulars of the case, so as to not interfere with legal proceedings. Republicans were nevertheless quick to accuse Obama of impropriety. Seven years later, Party leaders have made no such complaints about Trump’s advocating for Rittenhouse.
The Trump Presidency has been an escalating series of insults, each enabling greater violations of norms, ethics, and laws. That pattern now seems poised to upend democracy itself. It began even before Trump took office, when he refused to release his tax returns; claimed that his Democratic opponent, Hillary Clinton, should be in jail; and openly enlisted a foreign adversary to help achieve that end. This year, he has removed five inspectors general from their posts and, with the assistance of Attorney General William Barr, corrupted the Department of Justice to such a degree that we are now unsure of the legal meaning of the word “guilty” when applied to a Trump-connected defendant.
The likelihood of political violence was also apparent from the start. Trump’s 2016 rallies tipped over into displays of aggression directed at the media and at those who opposed him. Such is the chaos of today that we’ve nearly forgotten that, two years ago, Cesar Sayoc mailed pipe bombs to Obama, Clinton, and fourteen others he believed had treated Trump unfairly. Sayoc pleaded guilty; his lawyers described him as “a Donald Trump super-fan” who suffered from mental illness, leaving him vulnerable to the antagonisms of the political climate. The twenty-one-year-old Patrick Crusius was charged with fatally shooting twenty-three people in El Paso last year. The language of an anti-immigrant manifesto he allegedly posted before the shooting was noted for its echoes of Trump’s rationalizations for building his border wall. (Crusius pleaded not guilty.) This May, the Michigan legislature temporarily shut down, after armed militia members entered the capitol to protest the state’s stay-at-home order. A couple of weeks earlier, Trump had tweeted, “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!”
The Transition Integrity Project, a nonpartisan group of academics, journalists, and current and former government and party officials, recently released a report outlining a number of election scenarios that are both plausible and terrifying. Trump has primed his followers with repeated warnings of voter fraud, so there is a real possibility that they may denounce as illegitimate any outcome in which he loses. Beyond that, the report suggests, the Administration could seize mail-in ballots in order to prevent them from being counted, or pressure Republican-controlled legislatures to certify results before all mail-in ballots have arrived. The authors conclude that “voting fraud is virtually non-existent, but Trump lies about it to create a narrative designed to politically mobilize his base and to create the basis for contesting the results should he lose. The potential for violent conflict is high, particularly since Trump encourages his supporters to take up arms.”
This is where we are—at the perilous logical extension of all that Trump represents. A weather forecast is not a prediction of the inevitable. We are not doomed to witness a catastrophic tempest this fall, but anyone who is paying attention knows that the winds have begun to pick up. ♦
Read More About the 2020 Election


newyorker--2020-09-06--Sunday Reading: The Political Athlete

Sunday Reading: The Political Athlete

We just witnessed a historic wildcat strike led by the Milwaukee Bucks to protest racist police brutality in Kenosha , Wisconsin , and beyond .
The team took action in the wake of even more rapid activism in the W.N.B.A .
This week , we ’ re bringing you a selection of pieces about athletes and political activism .
In “ The Exhilarating Jolt of the Milwaukee Bucks ’ Wildcat Strike , ” Vinson Cunningham writes about how the players ’ action delivered a profound statement of support for those fighting against the normalization of police shootings .
In “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Allyson Hobbs examines the fighter ’ s legacy and why it resonates so deeply with African-Americans .
In “ The Political Athlete : Then and Now , ” Hua Hsu considers the significance of Colin Kaepernick ’ s protests .
In “ Michael Bennett ’ s Political Football , ” Louisa Thomas explores efforts by the recently retired defensive end to rally the players in the National Football League .
Finally , Ben McGrath tells the story of the former St. Louis Cardinal lineman David Meggyesy , who protested the Vietnam War during @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Not everyone wants to “ play ball ” when the political stakes are so high .
The spectacle of the empty court on Wednesday night , a stage for action rendered radiantly fallow , was a rejection of normalcy .
Ali fought outside of the ring , too .
He didn ’ t always win .
The Philadelphia Eagles ’ defensive end wants N.F.L .
players to be a force for social change .
The moral drama of sports falls on our ability to interpret and project .
David Meggyesy was accused of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with a culture that has long celebrated authoritarian deference .

We just witnessed a historic wildcat strike led by the Milwaukee Bucks to protest racist police brutality in Kenosha, Wisconsin, and beyond. The team took action in the wake of even more rapid activism in the W.N.B.A. This week, we’re bringing you a selection of pieces about athletes and political activism. In “The Exhilarating Jolt of the Milwaukee Bucks’ Wildcat Strike,” Vinson Cunningham writes about how the players’ action delivered a profound statement of support for those fighting against the normalization of police shootings. In “Muhammad Ali and His Audience,” Allyson Hobbs examines the fighter’s legacy and why it resonates so deeply with African-Americans. In “The Political Athlete: Then and Now,” Hua Hsu considers the significance of Colin Kaepernick’s protests. In “Michael Bennett’s Political Football,” Louisa Thomas explores efforts by the recently retired defensive end to rally the players in the National Football League. Finally, Ben McGrath tells the story of the former St. Louis Cardinal lineman David Meggyesy, who protested the Vietnam War during the Super Bowl, in 1968. Not everyone wants to “play ball” when the political stakes are so high.
—David Remnick
The spectacle of the empty court on Wednesday night, a stage for action rendered radiantly fallow, was a rejection of normalcy.
Photograph by Stanley Weston / Getty
Ali fought outside of the ring, too. He didn’t always win.
Illustration by Paul Rogers
The Philadelphia Eagles’ defensive end wants N.F.L. players to be a force for social change.
The moral drama of sports falls on our ability to interpret and project.
Photograph by Mitchell Leff / Getty
David Meggyesy was accused of disrespecting the national anthem in a sport with a culture that has long celebrated authoritarian deference.


newyorker--2020-09-06--The Cryptic Crossword: No. 81

The Cryptic Crossword: No. 81

Some clues have been edited for clarity .
Subscribers can find explanations of the original puzzle ’ s answers in @ @ @

Some clues have been edited for clarity. Subscribers can find explanations of the original puzzle’s answers in our archive.


newyorker--2020-09-07--Is Russian Meddling as Dangerous as We Think?

In the summer of 2017 , Nina Jankowicz , a twenty-eight-year-old American , was working in Kyiv as a communications adviser to Ukraine ’ s foreign ministry as part of a yearlong Fulbright fellowship .
Jankowicz had an interest in digital diplomacy and in countering disinformation that was matched by a passion for musical theatre : in Washington , D.C. , where she lived for several years before moving to Ukraine , she played Sally in “ You ’ re a Good Man , Charlie Brown ” and Audrey in “ Little Shop of Horrors.
” So when she came @ @ @ @ @ @ @ House protest that called on “ resistance activists , show-tune lovers , and karaoke fans , ” her curiosity was piqued .
She later spoke with Ryan Clayton , a progressive organizer involved in the protest .
On July 4th , a man dressed in a waistcoat and a tricornered hat kicked things off .
“ Hear ye , hear ye , citizens , ” he said , ringing a bell .
“ Resist the rule of the treasonous King Donald !
” Protesters waving American flags performed musical numbers calling for Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ You Hear the People Sing ?
, ” the anthem from “ Les Misérables.
” Clayton told Jankowicz that he was impressed with the turnout .
He suspected that it had something to do with a last-minute Facebook message from a user named Helen Christopherson , who offered to pitch in cash to buy ads in exchange for administrator access to the event page .
“ I got like $ 80 on my ad account so we can reach like 10000 people in DC or so , ” the message read .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fact , Christopherson ’ s ad spend reached as many as fifty-eight thousand people in the D.C. area .
It wasn ’ t until October of the following year that Jankowicz began to consider how the success of the protest might fit into a broader pattern .
As part of congressional inquiries into Russian interference in the 2016 Presidential election , Democrats on the House Intelligence Committee made public a number of ad purchases by the Internet Research Agency , the so-called “ troll factory ” in St. Petersburg .
The I.R.A .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ who carried out social-media campaigns under false identities .
“ Helen Christopherson ” was a Facebook alias used by one of them .
In “ How to Lose the Information War , ” a persuasive new book on disinformation as a geopolitical strategy , Jankowicz writes , “ In an entirely unexpected collision of my two great loves , it seemed that Russia had weaponized show tunes.
” The I.R.A .
was financed by Yevgeny Prigozhin , a businessman who has prospered by carrying out unsavory tasks that the Kremlin wants done but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hiring Internet trolls or deploying mercenary soldiers .
( In the early two-thousands , his catering company hosted official dinners , earning him the nickname Putin ’ s Chef . )
According to the Mueller report , released in April , 2019 , I.R.A.-created groups and accounts “ reached tens of millions of U.S. persons.
” Belting out show tunes in front of the White House was perhaps more comedic than subversive , but it ’ s a telling example of the I.R.A.
’ s modus operandi : the troll factory found “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jankowicz puts it , to further the Russian state ’ s “ goal of fomenting large-scale distrust in government and democracy.
” Since the 2016 election , the spectre of Russia ’ s online meddling has become amplified by our own anxiety .
In “ The Folly and the Glory , ” Tim Weiner , the author of histories of the C.I.A .
and the F.B.I.
, argues that Russia “ deployed the power of social media to transform the politics of the United States.
” By way of illustration , Weiner discusses @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I.R.A .
in 2015 , that U.S. military exercises in Texas that year were part of an Obama Administration plot to confiscate guns in the state .
As the meme circulated , the governor of Texas spoke ominously of the exercises ; so did Senator Ted Cruz .
“ The IRA had gotten into the heads of some powerful politicians—and millions of voters , ” Weiner writes .
He warns that the success of Russia ’ s stealth and subversion “ may determine if America will endure.
” The challenge in making sense @ @ @ @ @ @ @ impact .
Prigozhin ’ s trolls may have aspired to distort American politics and upend American society , but to what extent did they succeed ?
The 2016 theft of Democratic National Committee e-mails by Russian military-intelligence hackers , and their subsequent dissemination via WikiLeaks , seem to have had an effect on the electorate , even if that effect is hard to measure .
What I.R.A .
trolls managed to achieve , however , was more diffuse , and considerably less significant .
In 2016 , they inflamed hot spots of American @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fire began ; their priority appeared to be scoring points with bosses and paymasters in Russia as much as influencing actual votes in the United States .
Russian disinformation—and the cynical , distorted world view it entrains—is a problem , but the nature of the problem may not be quite what we imagine .
Jankowicz describes the manic hunt for inauthentic online activity as a game of whack-a-troll .
Although taking down fake accounts and fact-checking their content is basic online hygiene , the effect can be limited .
A 2017 Yale study @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” increased the share of users who judged it to be false by less than four per cent .
And , in focussing on the tactics of the aggressors , we may be overlooking our weaknesses as victims .
“ Unless we mitigate our own political polarization , our own internal issues , we will continue to be an easy target for any malign actor , ” Jankowicz writes .
When the American public is full of fear , hate , distrust , and exhaustion , it ’ s not hard for some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ White House—to stir up those emotions into something even more poisonous .
What if , to borrow an old horror-movie trope , the call is coming from inside the house ?
Not long ago , I spoke with Aric Toler , a researcher at Bellingcat , an investigative outlet that tracks Russian intelligence operations .
Bellingcat identified the Russian military unit that provided the anti-aircraft missile launcher that downed Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 over Ukraine , in 2014 , and uncovered the identities of the Russian operatives who poisoned Sergei Skripal , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Toler is worried that Americans ’ sense of danger has been misdirected .
In April , in a Bellingcat column titled “ How ( Not ) to Report on Russian Disinformation , ” Toler took issue with a piece in the Times that had compiled a number of examples to show how “ Putin has spread misinformation on issues of personal health for more than a decade.
” The article devoted several paragraphs to an obscure Web site called the Russophile , which , Toler pointed out , has virtually no audience .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ scale , ” he told me .
Russian-produced disinformation certainly exists ; this spring , at the outset of the COVID-19 pandemic , Russia-linked social-media accounts promoted a theory that the virus was a bioweapon invented by the U.S. Army in order to damage China .
But compared with , say , Fox News pundits like Tucker Carlson and Sean Hannity , let alone Trump himself , the perceived menace of Russian trolls far outweighs their actual reach .
How audible , let alone consequential , are Russian efforts to boost claims that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ President regularly blares the thesis at deafening volumes ?
“ The effect of one Trump press conference or tweet in shaping opinions , even behaviors , can be monumental , ” Toler said .
In April , after Trump suggested that disinfectant could be injected into the body to treat COVID-19 , health officials in several states reported spikes in calls to poison-control hotlines .
A single such center in North Texas reported receiving nearly fifty calls about bleach ingestion in the first three weeks of August alone .
“ The most a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Toler added , “ is to get a Twitter hashtag trending for a few hours .
”

In the summer of 2017, Nina Jankowicz, a twenty-eight-year-old American, was working in Kyiv as a communications adviser to Ukraine’s foreign ministry as part of a yearlong Fulbright fellowship. Jankowicz had an interest in digital diplomacy and in countering disinformation that was matched by a passion for musical theatre: in Washington, D.C., where she lived for several years before moving to Ukraine, she played Sally in “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” and Audrey in “Little Shop of Horrors.”
So when she came across a Facebook page for a White House protest that called on “resistance activists, show-tune lovers, and karaoke fans,” her curiosity was piqued. She later spoke with Ryan Clayton, a progressive organizer involved in the protest. On July 4th, a man dressed in a waistcoat and a tricornered hat kicked things off. “Hear ye, hear ye, citizens,” he said, ringing a bell. “Resist the rule of the treasonous King Donald!” Protesters waving American flags performed musical numbers calling for Trump’s impeachment, including “Do You Hear the People Sing?,” the anthem from “Les Misérables.”
Clayton told Jankowicz that he was impressed with the turnout. He suspected that it had something to do with a last-minute Facebook message from a user named Helen Christopherson, who offered to pitch in cash to buy ads in exchange for administrator access to the event page. “I got like $80 on my ad account so we can reach like 10000 people in DC or so,” the message read. “That would be Massive!” In fact, Christopherson’s ad spend reached as many as fifty-eight thousand people in the D.C. area.
It wasn’t until October of the following year that Jankowicz began to consider how the success of the protest might fit into a broader pattern. As part of congressional inquiries into Russian interference in the 2016 Presidential election, Democrats on the House Intelligence Committee made public a number of ad purchases by the Internet Research Agency, the so-called “troll factory” in St. Petersburg. The I.R.A. was staffed by hundreds of young Russians who carried out social-media campaigns under false identities. “Helen Christopherson” was a Facebook alias used by one of them. In “How to Lose the Information War,” a persuasive new book on disinformation as a geopolitical strategy, Jankowicz writes, “In an entirely unexpected collision of my two great loves, it seemed that Russia had weaponized show tunes.”
The I.R.A. was financed by Yevgeny Prigozhin, a businessman who has prospered by carrying out unsavory tasks that the Kremlin wants done but prefers not to do itself, like hiring Internet trolls or deploying mercenary soldiers. (In the early two-thousands, his catering company hosted official dinners, earning him the nickname Putin’s Chef.) According to the Mueller report, released in April, 2019, I.R.A.-created groups and accounts “reached tens of millions of U.S. persons.” Belting out show tunes in front of the White House was perhaps more comedic than subversive, but it’s a telling example of the I.R.A.’s modus operandi: the troll factory found “authentic, local voices,” as Jankowicz puts it, to further the Russian state’s “goal of fomenting large-scale distrust in government and democracy.”
Since the 2016 election, the spectre of Russia’s online meddling has become amplified by our own anxiety. In “The Folly and the Glory,” Tim Weiner, the author of histories of the C.I.A. and the F.B.I., argues that Russia “deployed the power of social media to transform the politics of the United States.” By way of illustration, Weiner discusses a conspiracy theory, propagated by the I.R.A. in 2015, that U.S. military exercises in Texas that year were part of an Obama Administration plot to confiscate guns in the state. As the meme circulated, the governor of Texas spoke ominously of the exercises; so did Senator Ted Cruz. “The IRA had gotten into the heads of some powerful politicians—and millions of voters,” Weiner writes. He warns that the success of Russia’s stealth and subversion “may determine if America will endure.”
The challenge in making sense of disinformation operations is disentangling intent from impact. Prigozhin’s trolls may have aspired to distort American politics and upend American society, but to what extent did they succeed? The 2016 theft of Democratic National Committee e-mails by Russian military-intelligence hackers, and their subsequent dissemination via WikiLeaks, seem to have had an effect on the electorate, even if that effect is hard to measure. What I.R.A. trolls managed to achieve, however, was more diffuse, and considerably less significant. In 2016, they inflamed hot spots of American discourse, then ran away when the fire began; their priority appeared to be scoring points with bosses and paymasters in Russia as much as influencing actual votes in the United States. Russian disinformation—and the cynical, distorted world view it entrains—is a problem, but the nature of the problem may not be quite what we imagine.
Jankowicz describes the manic hunt for inauthentic online activity as a game of whack-a-troll. Although taking down fake accounts and fact-checking their content is basic online hygiene, the effect can be limited. A 2017 Yale study found that labelling Facebook content “disputed” increased the share of users who judged it to be false by less than four per cent. And, in focussing on the tactics of the aggressors, we may be overlooking our weaknesses as victims. “Unless we mitigate our own political polarization, our own internal issues, we will continue to be an easy target for any malign actor,” Jankowicz writes. When the American public is full of fear, hate, distrust, and exhaustion, it’s not hard for some trolls—whether in St. Petersburg or in the White House—to stir up those emotions into something even more poisonous.
What if, to borrow an old horror-movie trope, the call is coming from inside the house? Not long ago, I spoke with Aric Toler, a researcher at Bellingcat, an investigative outlet that tracks Russian intelligence operations. Bellingcat identified the Russian military unit that provided the anti-aircraft missile launcher that downed Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 over Ukraine, in 2014, and uncovered the identities of the Russian operatives who poisoned Sergei Skripal, a former Russian spy, in 2018. Toler is worried that Americans’ sense of danger has been misdirected. In April, in a Bellingcat column titled “How (Not) to Report on Russian Disinformation,” Toler took issue with a piece in the Times that had compiled a number of examples to show how “Putin has spread misinformation on issues of personal health for more than a decade.” The article devoted several paragraphs to an obscure Web site called the Russophile, which, Toler pointed out, has virtually no audience.
“It’s an issue of scale,” he told me. Russian-produced disinformation certainly exists; this spring, at the outset of the COVID-19 pandemic, Russia-linked social-media accounts promoted a theory that the virus was a bioweapon invented by the U.S. Army in order to damage China. But compared with, say, Fox News pundits like Tucker Carlson and Sean Hannity, let alone Trump himself, the perceived menace of Russian trolls far outweighs their actual reach. How audible, let alone consequential, are Russian efforts to boost claims that mail-in voting leads to fraud when the President regularly blares the thesis at deafening volumes?
“Would you do me the honor of taking on even more responsibilities while my life remains largely unchanged?” Cartoon by Suerynn Lee Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
“The effect of one Trump press conference or tweet in shaping opinions, even behaviors, can be monumental,” Toler said. In April, after Trump suggested that disinfectant could be injected into the body to treat COVID-19, health officials in several states reported spikes in calls to poison-control hotlines. A single such center in North Texas reported receiving nearly fifty calls about bleach ingestion in the first three weeks of August alone. “The most a few thousand Russian-directed bot accounts might achieve,” Toler added, “is to get a Twitter hashtag trending for a few hours.”
There’s nothing inherently foreign about the rise and spread of disinformation. Using the Russian word dezinformatsia doesn’t make the practice any different from homegrown falsehoods spread online by Americans targeting other Americans. What else to call the hoax circulated by members of a Facebook group in Klamath Falls, Oregon, a few days after the police killing of George Floyd? They warned that Antifa activists were about to descend on the town, and two hundred people came out with guns and bulletproof vests to do battle with what turned out to be a phantom threat.
In July, the Times, citing U.S. intelligence assessments, reported that a number of Russia-linked Web sites had been pushing misleading or false stories about the coronavirus. The three sites in question had a few thousand online followers among them—not wholly inconsequential, but crickets compared with fourteen million views for a video that Trump retweeted the day the Times ran its story. In the video, a number of fringe doctors standing on the steps of the Supreme Court make the false claim that neither masks nor shutdowns are needed to fight the pandemic. If Russian operatives had tried to insert such a meme into the American discourse, there would be rightful outrage over how Putin was trying to kill us.


newyorker--2020-09-07--“The Englishman,” by Douglas Stuart

“The Englishman,” by Douglas Stuart

The Englishman reminded me of my mother ’ s lemons .
When I was a boy , she would catch the far ferry to the distant mainland to stock up on dried goods .
It was a daylong pilgrimage that she made four times a year .
Once , while gathering the flour and the dried milk , she had been so surprised , so charmed , by these golden suns that she bought a little sack full of Sicilian lemons .
My brothers and I hid together in our narrow pantry and clawed at the waxy flesh , sniffing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ aback that they smelled so green and oily and not a bit like sunshine .
My mother made each of us suck one , and then shook with muffled laughter as we winced .
We were happy until my father caught us .
It was those lemons that I thought of , years later , lying in this stranger ’ s bed .
The Englishman was standing over me and all I could smell was his Penhaligon ’ s cologne with its undertones of lavender and peppery , heady citrus .
I didn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been watching me sleep , but the curtains were alive with London sunlight .
The day threatened a sticky sort of heat that we rarely enjoyed in the North .
The air was heavy , as if there were too much of it crammed into the small room , and it didn ’ t hurry or sing like it did at home on the island .
William was moving quietly , unaware that I was awake .
He set my tea upon the dresser .
Then he carefully lifted my cotton bedsheet as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tender flesh .
His eyes travelled up my bare leg as it emerged from the sleep-twisted sheets .
I pretended to be asleep .
I let him travel .
William ran his finger along my calf , then he tapped my anklebone gently .
I stirred as if he had woken me .
He was glowing—stewed pink from his morning bath—and everything about him smelled lemony and bright and feminine .
I am the youngest of five brothers , each son fading slightly , becoming paler , more flaxen .
It was as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that was running out of ink—and she was .
She always seemed to be weary .
All spring , my brothers had been stockpiling the most thankless chores for my return from college .
I ’ d been warned that I would be lugging the drystanes from our old blackhouse and repairing the sheep fank with them .
It was lonely , monotonous work .
Even in the summer , the scouring Atlantic wind barely ceased its howling .
At the end of the day you were likely to be soaked or sunburned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Any shite that my brothers did not want to handle , they ’ d left aside for me .
So , when I told them I would not be home for the summer , they each came on the telephone and roared at me , saying I was an ingrate .
I could sense that my father was disappointed in me .
If he told you that you ’ d done a fair job then he meant it ; his praise could be enough to send you floating for days .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that I was going to London .
I love him , but perhaps he does not love me .
How could he ?
I am careful never to be myself around him .
London was farther than I had ever been .
I sat at the back of the overnight coach , tucked between the chemical toilet and two derrickmen who were coming off the North Sea rigs .
In the darkness I listened as the oilmen bragged about all the women they would pump when they got home .
They were drinking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ time , compacting six weeks of drought into one sleepless night .
They handed me a can and I felt calmer for the warmth of it in my gut .
I watched them as they watched girls come and go to the toilet , somehow less pretty but better painted as we neared the South .
All I wanted was a summer in which to be myself .
The position paid four hundred pounds a week , cash in hand , and offered free bed and board ( bathroom en suite ) .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ me a plane ticket , and I had refused .
Then came a berth on the Caledonian Sleeper , and I refused that also .
It was stupid to be so proud but I knew it wouldn ’ t do to be beholden so soon—certainly not to an Englishman .
They were not to be trusted , my father would tell us , although as to why , he could never quite say .
The Englishman met me at Victoria Coach Station .
As I followed him through the morning rush , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of my mother .
He was a small , neat man and I guessed he was in his late fifties .
His swept-back hair reminded me of a plowed field , furrowed into rows by his comb .
He was dressed in a navy three-piece suit that was blurred with chalky pinstripes .
They made him appear as though he were vibrating when he was standing perfectly still .
Underneath his tailored clothes there was a frailty to him ; his wrists were all bone and his shoes were almost child-size .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ even when he was younger ; there was too much of a fussy , hummingbird quality to him for me to find him masculine in any way .
He smiled too much .
He told me to call him William .
I tried to hide my nerves as we crossed the congested station .
He seemed pleased to meet me and talked in a light , gossipy manner that would have angered my father .
His E-type Jaguar was double-parked outside ; it was as shiny as his monk-strap shoes .
As we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said he worked in the “ City , ” in “ banking , ” two words that were so vague I felt the vagueness was deliberate .
I asked my new employer what I would be doing .
“ Oh , this and that—cooking , cleaning , gardening .
Let ’ s make it up as we go along , shall we ?
” I tried to relax into the bucket seat , but I was sweating under the plastic bags I ’ d piled in my lap .

Audio available Listen to this story Audio: Douglas Stuart reads.
The Englishman reminded me of my mother’s lemons. When I was a boy, she would catch the far ferry to the distant mainland to stock up on dried goods. It was a daylong pilgrimage that she made four times a year. Once, while gathering the flour and the dried milk, she had been so surprised, so charmed, by these golden suns that she bought a little sack full of Sicilian lemons. My brothers and I hid together in our narrow pantry and clawed at the waxy flesh, sniffing our claggy fingernails in delight, taken aback that they smelled so green and oily and not a bit like sunshine. My mother made each of us suck one, and then shook with muffled laughter as we winced. We were happy until my father caught us.
It was those lemons that I thought of, years later, lying in this stranger’s bed. The Englishman was standing over me and all I could smell was his Penhaligon’s cologne with its undertones of lavender and peppery, heady citrus.
I didn’t know how long William had been watching me sleep, but the curtains were alive with London sunlight. The day threatened a sticky sort of heat that we rarely enjoyed in the North. The air was heavy, as if there were too much of it crammed into the small room, and it didn’t hurry or sing like it did at home on the island. William was moving quietly, unaware that I was awake. He set my tea upon the dresser. Then he carefully lifted my cotton bedsheet as though he were peeling a bandage from tender flesh.
His eyes travelled up my bare leg as it emerged from the sleep-twisted sheets. I pretended to be asleep. I let him travel. William ran his finger along my calf, then he tapped my anklebone gently. I stirred as if he had woken me. He was glowing—stewed pink from his morning bath—and everything about him smelled lemony and bright and feminine.
I am the youngest of five brothers, each son fading slightly, becoming paler, more flaxen. It was as though our mother were a rubber stamp that was running out of ink—and she was. She always seemed to be weary.
All spring, my brothers had been stockpiling the most thankless chores for my return from college. I’d been warned that I would be lugging the drystanes from our old blackhouse and repairing the sheep fank with them. It was lonely, monotonous work. Even in the summer, the scouring Atlantic wind barely ceased its howling. At the end of the day you were likely to be soaked or sunburned or wind-chafed—often all at the same time.
Any shite that my brothers did not want to handle, they’d left aside for me. So, when I told them I would not be home for the summer, they each came on the telephone and roared at me, saying I was an ingrate.
I could sense that my father was disappointed in me. If he told you that you’d done a fair job then he meant it; his praise could be enough to send you floating for days. But he said nothing when I told him that I was going to London. I love him, but perhaps he does not love me. How could he? I am careful never to be myself around him.
London was farther than I had ever been. I sat at the back of the overnight coach, tucked between the chemical toilet and two derrickmen who were coming off the North Sea rigs. In the darkness I listened as the oilmen bragged about all the women they would pump when they got home. They were drinking as if to make up for lost time, compacting six weeks of drought into one sleepless night. They handed me a can and I felt calmer for the warmth of it in my gut. I watched them as they watched girls come and go to the toilet, somehow less pretty but better painted as we neared the South.
All I wanted was a summer in which to be myself. The position paid four hundred pounds a week, cash in hand, and offered free bed and board (bathroom en suite). The Englishman said that he would buy me a plane ticket, and I had refused. Then came a berth on the Caledonian Sleeper, and I refused that also. It was stupid to be so proud but I knew it wouldn’t do to be beholden so soon—certainly not to an Englishman. They were not to be trusted, my father would tell us, although as to why, he could never quite say.
The Englishman met me at Victoria Coach Station. As I followed him through the morning rush, the gentle slope of his shoulders reminded me of my mother. He was a small, neat man and I guessed he was in his late fifties. His swept-back hair reminded me of a plowed field, furrowed into rows by his comb. He was dressed in a navy three-piece suit that was blurred with chalky pinstripes. They made him appear as though he were vibrating when he was standing perfectly still. Underneath his tailored clothes there was a frailty to him; his wrists were all bone and his shoes were almost child-size. I imagined he had never been handsome, even when he was younger; there was too much of a fussy, hummingbird quality to him for me to find him masculine in any way. He smiled too much. He told me to call him William.
I tried to hide my nerves as we crossed the congested station. He seemed pleased to meet me and talked in a light, gossipy manner that would have angered my father. His E-type Jaguar was double-parked outside; it was as shiny as his monk-strap shoes. As we pulsed through the clogged London traffic William said he worked in the “City,” in “banking,” two words that were so vague I felt the vagueness was deliberate. I asked my new employer what I would be doing. “Oh, this and that—cooking, cleaning, gardening. Let’s make it up as we go along, shall we?” I tried to relax into the bucket seat, but I was sweating under the plastic bags I’d piled in my lap.
William’s home sat near the River Thames in Chiswick, on a street of discreet, interlocking town houses. There were two separate living rooms on the ground floor, and a large messy kitchen that spilled out into a glass conservatory. On the upper floors there were six bedrooms. There were cats lurking beneath the beds.
It was peculiar that this man should be so fastidiously dressed, because his home was a shambles. The house was overstuffed with fine furniture: bureaus were turned to the wall, dressers were piled upon daybeds and crowned with end tables. Every surface was littered with curling paperwork and half-read quarterlies and there was a musty smell throughout, as if the rugs had never been lifted since the day they were laid. It was a way that only rich people could live. My mother would have died from the slatternly shame. William apologized for none of it. My heart sank at the thought of cleaning it all.
That first morning, he rapped on my anklebone and asked me to join him downstairs for breakfast. Then he didn’t leave the room as I got out of bed. He raked through some drawers as if he were looking for something important, but it was me he was watching.
William surveyed me the same way my father looked at sheep at the wool market. He assessed my broad shoulders, my concave stomach with its line of fair hair blooming from the waistband of my boxer shorts. “You’re awful pale,” he said, but he was dead-faced, so I didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing. “I should call you . . .” He drummed his fingers on the nightstand. “Casper! Bit better than dull old David, don’t you think? I’ve grown tired of Davids.” I cupped my hands over my crotch, my threadbare boxers gaping with the stubborn bloat of a good dream.
Downstairs, over whole-wheat toast, he handed me five hundred pounds, a neat brick of twenties that seemed fake. It was more money than I had ever held. It was not my wages, he explained, but money to buy whatever I needed for the house: cleaning supplies, fertilizer, milk. He gave me no more instruction than that.
After he left for the office, I tried my best to clean the house. I put my Walkman on and played one of the mixtapes I’d secretly dubbed from the radio, big ballad-y women’s music that I would never dare play at home. I worked my way down from the top of the house, wiping or vacuuming everything that lay before me. Mostly I just pushed the mess around. Anytime I lifted something, I felt that it would be wrong not to return it to exactly where I found it.
When I finally reached the parlor floor, I was startled by a woman and her two young daughters. The woman, who was Portuguese, was slicing a green apple. She chuckled when she saw the cleaning rags in my hand, but she did not seem surprised to see me. Her daughters were pulling the tails of their school shirts out from their pleated skirts. They pushed past me and sprawled on the rug in front of the color television.
The Portuguese woman didn’t speak much English—or she didn’t want to talk to me. I couldn’t be sure. She pried the rags from my hand and shooed me from the kitchen. I took my jacket and found my way to the river. I spent the afternoon drinking cold cider in a pub that overlooked some brightly painted houseboats.
Later that night, when I asked William who the Portuguese woman was, he laughed at me. Then he said I needn’t bother cleaning anymore.
The next morning, I went to an overpriced grocer’s and bought a cut of sirloin and too many potatoes. That evening, William stared at the heaped plate of charred meat I had prepared. He told me not to bother cooking for him again. He reassured me that he was not irritated by the inedible food that had been laid before him. “Oh, dear, poor Casper’s not getting it,” he said.
He took me back to the pub by the river. We sat in the beamed snug and William dined on scallops while I ate a burger and chips. I tried my best to be good company. He described the spectacular light in the South of France, then talked about Derek Jarman, and a writer called Hollinghurst or something like that. I find it hard, unnatural, to conjure talk out of nothing. I was telling him about home, about the Western Isles, when he interrupted me. “God. I find fishing ghastly.” William was wearing a jumper the color of full-cream butter. It looked so thick and soft that I wanted to reach out and stroke it. “Wouldn’t want to do it for food. Wouldn’t want to do it for fun.”
“Nobody I know does it for fun.”
“Hey, jackass! Keep it down, you inconsiderate jerk! And stay safe and healthy during these difficult times!” Cartoon by Benjamin Schwartz Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
William was tipsy. He ordered more drinks. When he returned, he stopped feigning interest in my stunted, inarticulate description of the islands. He was watching me very closely. “You’re handsome, you know. Hale like all the best Scotch. Pale like the top of the milk.” He was drinking port now and his little teeth were staining purple. “How tall would you say you were?”