As Americans turn to George Orwell’s 1984 (1949) to better understand Donald Trump’s election, as we entertain the exciting possibility that we can read our way to some level of sensible public understanding, it’s time to suggest another classic 20th-century work, one that lends even deeper insight into Trump’s unlikely rise to power: Roland Barthes’ Mythologies (1957). Like Orwell, Barthes deals in language. Unlike Orwell, he deals in language to elucidate the subversive (and oppressive) power of myth. Trump is more than a butcher of language. He is a builder of myths.
Myths are not, in Barthes’ analysis, innocent origin stories. They are dangerous cultural distortions. They cleanse language of its history, and liberate words from their past, all in order to make a non-essential (and often ridiculous) connection seem essential. This somewhat mystical (myths are mysterious) transformation works by suggesting that certain fabricated phenomena are all natural (and, thus, all good) while hiding the cynical process of social construction behind their making. We build myths to prevent as many people as we can from asking questions about the hidden distortion that, inevitably, serves someone’s interest at the expense of truth, justice, and enlightened common sense.
Read more here.
In 1912, the essayist Randolph Bourne wrote in the Atlantic Monthly that the ability to think “was given us for use in emergencies, and no man can be justly blamed if he reserves it for emergencies.” If the photography of Francesca Woodman can be reduced to one defining feature, it’s that she provides emergencies. Woodman’s emergencies are not loud or particularly dangerous; they don’t require alarms or intervention. But they do ask us to think, to ponder the urgency of an unorthodox kind of desire—a desire that insists, I am here, naked and soft, on one side of a wall, and I want to be over there, on the other side, where an equally naked and soft orchid flirts with me. This situation is serious.
For Woodman, who died in 1981 at twenty-two, convincing viewers to accept this predicament as crisis-worthy was a body-centered ambition. Feminist critics have long noted how she used her body to simultaneously court and reject “the male gaze.” Others have suggested that she posed as an unabashed object of seduction as an attention-grabbing tactic. Both claims seem generally credible. But what’s difficult to reconcile fully is how Woodman’s pictures—most of them, at least—tend to slowly sap her body of eroticism. The surrounding drama, in all its preoccupying power, overwhelms the potential for seduction. The extent of Woodman’s nakedness ends up reflecting no more or less than the relative need, under the particular circumstances, for clothing. “I am as tired as the rest of you of looking at me,” she once wrote in an undated letter. When clothes are involved, as they often are, they are necessary to the photo’s narrative.
Read more here.
As an advocate for both books and therapy, I determined, upon first hearing the word “bibliotherapy,” that this might be my bespoke profession. I go to group therapy. I read a lot of novels. I’m constantly recommending novels to my group. Members struggling with various problems typically don’t count on me to empathize through personal experience. They count on me for book recommendations. Your adult son is an expat in Europe and is exploring his sexuality? See Caleb Crain’s Necessary Errors. You feel alienated from your wealthy family but drawn to nagging spiritual questions about existence? Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer is for you. Gutted by the loss of a loved one? You could do worse than James Agee’s A Death in the Family (Men’s therapy group, by the way).
Read more here.
On September 20th, the United Nations Secretary General Ban-Ki Moonpresided over the U.N.’s first-ever general assembly meeting on the topic of “superbugs.” Superbugs are drug-resistant bacteria that kill over 700,000 people a year. They develop in response to one general cause: the overuse of antibiotics.
“If we fail to address this problem quickly and comprehensively,” Moon said, “antimicrobial resistance will make providing high-quality universal health-care coverage more difficult if not impossible.” The World Health Organization (the U.N.’s public-health division) urged medical professionals to radically reduce antibiotic use.
That’s sensible advice. The fewer antibiotics prescribed, the fewer the opportunities for superbugs to develop. But it shouldn’t obscure the fact that the leading cause of antibiotic resistance comes not from the treatment of gonorrhea or tuberculosis?—?both mentioned by the U.N.?—?but from animal agriculture.
What follows is the intro to my recent piece in the Virginia Quarterly Review. Clink link below to go to full article.
Dylan, a three-year-old yellow Lab, leaped from the van and made a beeline for Beth, a volunteer who was standing alone in her driveway, pressing a black blindfold to her eyes. This was their second meeting. Judging from Dylan’s demeanor (his tail wagged like a metronome) his final days as a guide-dog-in-training were happy ones. His trainer, Natalie Garza, introduced Dylan to my daughter and me, and although he bowed his head for a scratch, you could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he was focused on the task at hand: leading Beth, who otherwise has normal vision, on a test walk through a suburban neighborhood in Austin, Texas.
Guiding a sighted volunteer, Garza explained, required Dylan to work harder than usual. Specifically, he had to exaggerate his signals with Beth, signals that a visually impaired person accustomed to sightless navigation might not require. Dylan, who was soon to be matched with his first visually impaired guardian, couldn’t afford to cut corners today. “These dogs save people’s lives,” Beth reminded me as Garza lowered a harness over Dylan’s head and adjusted it for comfort. He had to be on his game.
Complete article here.
Like most people who vow to lose weight, Becca Reed?—?51, diabetic, confined to a wheelchair, taking nearly a dozen medications?—?had precise goals. Unlike most people, she’s willing to share them. On a piece of crinkled notebook paper she wrote in bubbly cursive script what she hoped her future would be like:
- Reach 225 pounds or less.
- Feel sexy and buy an outfit at a regular store.
- Have James look at me with that sparkle in his eye.
- Feel better able to clean the house.
- Walk five minutes straight.
- Bench press 100 pounds or more.
- Back fat and fat above butt—get rid of it.
- Strengthen arms?—?flabby upper part.
- Get off medication!
- Ride horses on Padre Beach with James.
- Be able to stand long enough to sing more than one song.
James Reed, Becca’s husband, is a baby-faced 57 who suffers from his own obesity-related problems, namely his high blood pressure, which was 250/190 before he was finally medicated for it. He, too, made a list of weight-loss goals and agreed to share it:
- Get below 250 pounds.
- Feel better about myself.
- Bench 400 pounds.
- Leg press 600 pounds.
- No blood pressure meds.
- Weigh 210–215 pounds.
- Make it to retirement.
- Don’t become diabetic.
I recently sat down with Becca, James, and their 26-year old son Drew . . . . Read More
It probably wasn’t on your calendar. But between June 21 and June 30 the annual Lychee and Dog Meat Festival took place in Yulin, China. While declining in popularity, eating dog meat remains common enough throughout Asia. In the Shaanxi province, it’s more than common: It’s a delicacy considered central to the region’s culinary identity.
This dietary preference has spelled trouble for Asian canines. In years past, over 10,000 dogs? (some strays, some farmed, some possibly stolen from pet owners?) were slaughtered to sate the palates of festivalgoers eager to sample such fare as “crispy dog” and “dog hot pot.” The prevailing belief that the taste of dog meat improves when the animal is killed while in distress hasn’t helped the festival’s global appeal and, with reports of horrific slaughter accumulating, this year’s attendance numbers (as well as the number of dogs killed?) have dropped. Still, for the diehard aficionados of dog meat, the festival remains an annual rager to be defended at all costs, on grounds both culinary and cultural.
“If the Yulin dog meat festival weren’t real, philosophers would have dreamt it up,” says Bob Fischer, a Texas State philosopher and author of The Moral Complexities of Eating Meat. Indeed, dog meat presents conscientious Westerners with a perfect conundrum. It pits an enlightened expectation of cultural tolerance? (?live and let live!?) against our deep emotional attachment to dogs as companion animals?, ?an attachment that makes eating them seem, at the least, morally repugnant.
Despite a 2015 report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention suggesting that childhood obesity was in decline, the numbers?—?when properly interpreted (and supplemented with more recent research)?—?confirm the opposite. As they have for decades, children between the ages of two and 19 are, in fact, becoming overweight or obese at a steadily increasing rate.
Today, 33.4 percent of kids are considered overweight, with 17.4 percent of them qualifying as obese (defined as having a body mass index [BMI] of 35 or more) or severely obese (a BMI over 40). To put these measurements in perspective, a healthy person who is 5’9″ and 150 pounds will have a BMI of around 22.
These numbers intersect with an especially compelling sociological observation: As childhood obesity becomes commonplace, parents are increasingly unable to recognize the condition in their children. Writing inScientific American, Jane Ogden explained that, “as populations get fatter, the new normal has become overweight and therefore invisible.”
It’s later afternoon at the Town Lake YMCA in Austin, Texas, and a man in Lane Two is gliding through the pool with fearless perfection. His movements are languid; breathing metronomic; pace effortless. He completes lap after lap with such ease of motion that the only word that keeps coming to mind as I watch him move down the lane is natural. That’s a natural-born swimmer.
In fact he’s nothing of the sort. No human being is a natural-born swimmer.To confirm, I need only look over to the YMCA’s instructional pool, where the whole notion of being a natural-born swimmer is quickly disabused by a clutch of six physically fit adults milling anxiously in waist-deep water around Dena Garcia, a swim instructor.
They’re participants in a TOW?—“Terrified of Water”—class, and the contrast with what’s happening in Lane Two illustrates something important. At some point in time (probably very early in life), the impossibly elegant lap swimmer had to do exactly what these courageous adults were now doing in the instructional pool: confront his fears by gripping the edge and kicking, placing his face in the water and making bubbles, and allowing his body to float while avoiding a panic attack.
Exactly why we don’t instinctively swim is a mystery. But as Daniel E. Lieberman, professor of human evolutionary biology at Harvard University, explains, “It is possible that some of our ancestors swam or occasionally waded into marshes to collect sedges, but there is very little evidence that natural selection acted much on human abilities to swim.” He calls humans “slow, inefficient, and awkward as swimmers.”
Read the full story here.
It’s an interesting time for luxury voyeurism. The obvious expressions of rare wealth — the 50,000-square-foot homes, the $250,000 cars, the private jets, the stratospheric penthouses, the monthlong trips around the globe — are, at least in terms of shock value, fading. These acquisitions have become so Disneyland-ish in their well-publicized glitz that they barely register on the over-the-top meter.
But what’s more notable, if only sociologically, is how the wealthy elite, perhaps bored with its own ostentation, has unleashed its purchasing power on the more commonplace aspects of life. Indeed, simple acts that the rest of us could feel a flash of superiority about performing are being colonized by a kind of extravagant, trickle-down consumption manifest in once-humble acts, such as gardening.
This observation came to me while running through Houston’s River Oaks neighborhood, the residential Eden of the city’s moneyed elite. You know you’re in River Oaks because pets are walked by hired help, leaf blowers provide the white noise, faux chateaux compete for manorial distinction and a private police force keeps the peace (well, actually, they pick up newspapers left out too long). But what stopped me while I was running was an activity that had never before registered, in my experience, as a spectacle: Someone was planting a tree. only the act involved an aerial lift crane, a truckload of labor and a backhoe.
The idea had never occurred to me: The super-rich generally don’t drop to their knees and plant saplings. To the contrary, they outsource photosynthesis, allowing annual tree rings to accumulate on someone else’s time, with someone else’s labor, with the nutrients from someone else’s soil. on this occasion, a fully formed willow oak protruded from a root ball the size of a large pickup truck. It swung from a crane that was slowly lowering it into an even larger hole. Six men leaned into the thing. They attempted to hold it steady while shuffling around the canyon’s edge, negotiating the precipice while pushing against the swaying heap, one terrifying misstep away from being smashed between root ball and hole. A master gardener I know (my mother) later told me, in a rather unfazed manner, that the entire operation probably cost well over $100,000.