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I have been thinking a lot about the Pope lately. More specifically, I have been thinking about his death.

I find it odd to be thinking about the Pope. After all, I am not Catholic. Nor have I ever given the reigning Pope much thought before. In my lifetime there was Pope John, then Pope John Paul, then Pope John Paul George (Sorry. A blatant theft of an Eddie Izzard joke I couldn’t resist). Basically, they all blended together, and seemed to have little to say about the world I lived in or the issues confronting that world.

But Pope Francis has been different. He has thrown himself in where angels have previously feared to tread. Most recently, he went to Dubai for an international conference on climate change despite a mild flu and lung inflammation. He didn’t need to go. He’s 87. He could have just issued a supportive statement, and no one would have thought less of him. But he sees climate issues as within his purview, and serious enough that the extra weight of his physical presence was necessary.

Of course, this is not the first time that Pope Francis has waded into waters that many consider treacherous. While the Pope has not overturned the Church’s stance on marriage within the Church, he has endorsed civil unions for same sex couples. He also continues to emphasize that homosexuality is not a sin in and of itself, different than any other sex outside of marriage. He has also made clear that to the extent homosexual sex outside of marriage is a sin, it is no worse than any other sin. In fact, it’s clear that he views other sins, such as lack of charity to others, as much, much worse.

He has also significantly expanded the permissible role of women in the Church. Women still cannot be ordained as priests, but they can administer communion and serve at the altar. He also appointed women to Vatican posts previously held only by men, including a high position in the bishop’s synod, which helps decide Catholic rules.   

Obviously, I would like to see Pope Francis go even farther on these and other issues, but his willingness to address such matters with compassion and in a spirit of inclusion is refreshing. He has stretched the Catholic Church in ways I never thought possible. In doing so he has largely rewritten and broadened the discussion around the role of the Church. At last the Church seems like it is engaging with the world as it is, not as it may wish it were.

This refocus has not been without controversy. Traditionalist elements within the Catholic Church hierarchy bristle at these changes, as do many of the lay people. Critics have been vocal, including Bishops and Cardinals. Many do not want to see the Church back down from what they see as the moral high ground. Others see issues such as climate change as outside of the appropriate Papal scope.

There is irony here. Presidential candidate John F. Kennedy was attacked for being a Catholic on grounds that he would be beholden to put the pronouncements of the Pope over his constitutional oath. It was a silly argument, but it did reflect a view of Papal authority that saw a Pope’s positions as more than more than mere suggestions.

You also hear very little these days about Papal infallibility. Frankly, that has always been a fraught topic. It was not a tenet of the Church until the mid-1800’s. Even then it only applied in very limited circumstances. Yet, it had a cache beyond its actual application, and seemed to permeate everything a Pope did. My sense is that this cache has disappeared as more people got nervous about this Pope’s predilections. Now it seems like many view the Pope’s authority as to be heeded only if they agree with it.

And that is why I have been thinking about the Pope’s death. He is 87, and not in great health. His successor will be chosen by the College of Cardinals (Go Big Red!!!). It is impossible for me to gauge the temperature of that group, but I have no doubt that many of its members would like to pull back on the social activism of Francis, and are inclined to elect a more priggish, supercilious Church representative.

World trends suggest that this is a real possibility. Netherlands, of all places, looks like it will have a far-right Prime Minister. Argentina just elected a self-styled anarcho-capitalist to shape its government. Closer to home, it’s far from certain that the United States won’t head in that same direction in 2024.

Many Catholics have embraced the worldwide culture wars. Others have welcomed aggressive stances around immigration. They would no doubt applaud a Pope that reminds them less often about the need for love in dealing with homosexuals, refugees and migrants. It would be much more convenient if the Pope limited his outreach to more traditional evangelism.

My sense is that the Pope’s stance on homosexuality is especially troubling to much of his flock. This issue remains a touchstone for many, though heaven knows why. These people would like a Pope that reinforces their view that homosexuals belong in the seventh level of Dante’s hell. His willingness to elevate their own sins above the supposed abomination of homosexuality does not sit well.

The conclave of Cardinals will have to decide the future of the Church amid this general worldwide turmoil, and the matching turmoil within the Church itself. Some candidates will undoubtedly present themselves as a tonic to the relatively activist Church of Francis. They will claim that they, and not the progressives, are in keeping with the mood of the faithful. I have no doubt that the internal debates will be brutal.

At the end of the day, I won’t have much of a stake in the inevitable white smoke of a new Papal coronation. Still, the loss of a strong moral voice when we need such voices would be disheartening. Maybe Francis isn’t my Pope, or the Pope I would choose, but at least he is a visible and vocal advocate for inclusion, benevolence, and love, and we can use all that type of advocacy we can get. So, Francis, as another moral paragon once said, “Live Long and Prosper”.        

Karl Ove Knausgaard is a very incisive author. His “My Struggle” novels turn his keen eye inward to examine his own life with sometimes excruciating honesty. His four books of essays, named after the four seasons in which they were written, continue that introspection, but also provide commentary on the world around him, without sacrificing any of the candor that makes his work stand out.

In his book “Autumn” Knausgaard is inspired by the impending birth of a daughter to set out his observations on a plethora of subjects, each essay only a few pages long. In one essay, considering abandoned rural churches in modern Norway, Knausgaard expresses his seemingly inexplicable sadness at the loss of small community life they represent. He has no connection to these churches or the life they once embodied, yet he feels nostalgia for the demise.

Knausgaard identifies this longing for an unknown past as a “shadow sickness”, dampening joy for what we have. He contrasts this to a “longing for that which still doesn’t exist, the future….” But he recognizes that the pull of the past is so much stronger because “utopia has vanished from our time, so that longing can only be directed backwards, where all its force accumulates”.

This is an amazing insight into our modern condition. The concept of an achievable utopia has been a large part of human social DNA since the enlightenment. However, within the last 70 years such a concept has seemed not only unlikely, but almost silly. We can no longer believe that human perfection is achievable, or even that the pursuit of such perfection is desirable.

It’s easy to forget how prevalent serious consideration of a heaven on earth, whether religious or secular, was throughout the 19^th Century and the first half of the 20^th Century. Utopian societies abounded. Owenists, Fourierists, Oneida Perfectionists, Mormons, Amana Inspirationalists, and New Icarians all founded utopian communities in America between 1820 and 1870. The Shakers were one of the oldest and longest lasting of these experiments in the achievement of peace and harmony.

Most of these societies were separatist, looking to create utopia on a small scale. However, the Social Gospel movement, started by Walter Rauschenbusch, had a much broader goal. He called on Christians to emulate the Kingdom of God, arguing that this Kingdom “is not a matter of getting individuals to heaven, but of transforming the life on earth into the harmony of heaven.” He and his followers wanted to establish a world where justice would govern relationships between individuals, regardless of ethnicity or religious belief.

The great secular utopian experiment was Communism. In our modern cynicism we are tempted to dismiss communists as nothing more than power hungry despots, but that is a mistake. Those that led the communist parties of the early 20^th Century truly believed that they held the key to implementing a world of total equality. As late as 1939 the British philosopher and novelist to be, Iris Murdoch, could write without hesitation, “I thank God that I have the party to direct and discipline my previously vague and ineffective idealism. I feel now that I am doing some good, and that life has a purpose and that the history of civilization is not just an interesting series of unconnected muddles, but a comprehensive development towards the highest stage of society, the Soviet world state”.

Hitler was utopian as well. To some extent this accounts for his allure to so many otherwise rational people. His philosophy of the world, which he imposed on the receptive German people, posited that if you could deal with non-Aryans either by eliminating them completely (the Jews), or making them slaves (the Slavs), you could create a 1000-year age of peace and prosperity. Of course, his utopian view only worked for the Aryans, but to him and his followers, that was beside the point.

The modern rejection of utopianism can be tied directly to Communism and Naziism. As the scope of Stalin’s crimes against his own people and those of Eastern Europe were brought into the open, it was clear that the Soviet authorities believed that the only way the “highest stage of society” could be achieved was through mass incarceration, rigid control of thought and creativity and a regular purging of those who did not fit the mold of the “Soviet world state”. The cost of trying to achieve this utopia could not offset the promise of its supposed realization.

With Hitler the costs of pursuing a utopia were even more stark. The horrors of the Holocaust and the general savagery of the German occupation of Europe made their ideal of an Aryan utopia repellent. Like the Communist experiment, the Nazi’s utopian dreams came at an unacceptable cost to humanity and drove a stake through the heart of any movement to implement heaven here on earth.

This loss of belief that any system, religious or secular, can create a perfect society is irreversible. I cannot conceive of a movement that can garner mass support with a pledge of global unity, peace, and harmony. The skepticism and cynicism run too deep. Considering the result of prior efforts, that is probably not a bad thing.

While utopianism may be dead, the desire for a better future is not. Unfortunately, as Knausgaard noted, that desire is often channeled into a nostalgic longing for the past that is both unrealistic and unrealizable. We long for a return to a never-existent golden age. It is part of the attraction of MAGA as a slogan and ideal.

The loss of a possibility of societal pefection also accounts for the continuing strength of fundamentalism. There is a thread of nihilism in the belief that the only solace mankind will find is in an afterlife. It can make what happens here not only secondary, but immaterial. Why worry about climate change when the ultimate award awaits on another plane of existence?      

Most of us do, of course, still look to improve the world we live in. We have not given up the hope that the future can be better than the present. We may not believe in the perfectibility of humankind, but we do believe that we can substantially improve life in the here and now.

Those hopes for the future are challenged daily by the realities of the present. Whether it’s the rise of militant white nationalism, the creeping calamity of environmental disaster, or the never-ending slaughter in the Middle East, it is difficult to hold onto any optimism for a better future. And yet we must.  

I do not think that the death of utopianism is a bad thing. People can justify almost anything if they “know” it will lead to a perfect world. However, if we lose a faith in the future generally, and succumb to the “shadow sickness” of a false nostalgia, we are truly f*#@ed.      

The other night as part of my Criterion Challenge (another post for another time) I watched the 1931 movie “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”. As I said in my Letterbox review, even though some of the acting and direction was dated, it was a very effective adaptation of this well-known story. The Hyde character was truly repulsive. You could relate to the fear he engendered in everyone he encountered.

What made the movie especially interesting was that as vile as Hyde was, he was clearly a part of Jekyll, whose name for some reason was pronounced “Gee-kill”. He reflected and exaggerated Jekyll’s arrogance. He was Jekyll’s barely contained lust come to life. This was not a brainless monster, or some general creep. This was a side of Jekyll himself unleashed.

The sophistication of this story led me to consider the incredible array of excellent horror films that came out in the early 1930’s. Even film buffs don’t watch a lot of films from the era. Talking pictures were new. While there are notable exceptions, most of the films from 1930 through 1933 are stilted, unimaginative and forgotten. Then there are the horror films, which created images and icons that continue to radiate through popular culture today. These films are still shown in theaters and on TV to appreciative audiences.

The best known of these early talking films are Frankenstein (1931), Dracula (1931), The Mummy (1932), The Invisible Man (1932) and King Kong (1933). Each of these films has been remade again and again, but it is the original conception of the titular characters that stick with us. (I know, I know. Frankenstein was the Doctor and not the monster, but does anyone think of it that way?). No matter the quality of the remake, or the superior effects employed, we cling to those original depictions.

Most of these films come from well-known source materials. Shelley’s Frankenstein, Stoker’s Dracula and Well’s Invisible Man are still great reads. Yet, it is impossible to do so without conjuring up the images from the films as you do so. As Count Dracula greets Renfield in his Transylvanian castle you hear the sonorous voice of Bela Lugosi, whether you want to or not. When the scientist Griffin checks into the inn at Sussex, the mind’s eye calls up Claude Raines wrapped in bandages hiding his face behind a floppy hat and sunglasses.

 Frankenstein is the ultimate example of this phenomenon. According to IMDB, there have been over 30 Frankenstein movies made since the 1931 version. And yet, when my elementary school son wanted to be the monster for Halloween, we got him a mask that was modeled on that original monster. When Gene Wilder and Mel Brooks set out to make “Young Frankenstein” 40 years after the original, they could feel comfortable that their audience would know the source of the satire.

These films not only presented characters that became iconic, but they are also smart and often thoughtful. They came out before imposition of the Hays Code in 1934, and so the filmmakers had a bit more latitude than films that followed, and they took advantage. I doubt if the naked lust of the 1931 Dr. Jekyll would have made it through code standards. While the 1941 remake starring Spencer Tracey wisely retained many of the elements of the 1931 version, Hyde was not as clearly driven by Jekyll’s sexual needs.

All of this still begs the question as to why there should have been this outpouring of such films at that time. Some of it can be attributed to Carl Laemmle, Jr., son of the founder of Universal Pictures, who produced many of these masterpieces. Laemmle used his position as the boss’s son to overcome skeptics who saw such movies as second-rate filler. He hired creative people to helm the projects and provided ample funding to help them bring their visions to life. The result was massive hits that made Universal synonymous with horror.

Still, that does not explain why these films resonated as they did, and do, with the public. Did these monsters and mad scientists somehow reflect the general unease as the effects of the Great Depression continued to spread? Were they a reflection of the anger and frustration with the lords of industry who claimed the power through the stock market to create an everlasting trough of wealth?

Or maybe it was more basic. We like to be scared, and the filmmakers of the early 30’s found that the addition of sound allowed them to enhance the atmospherics that help create an aura of dread. In doing so, they defined the genre. It’s not as if silent films were devoid of horror, but they lacked that final ingredient to truly generate sweaty palms and the pounding of the heart.

I tend towards this last explanation. I cannot imagine Frankenstein without the gathering storm and buzz of the Doctor’s equipment. What would Dracula be without the beating of bat wings? There is nothing to match the demonic cackling of the Invisible Man or the ominous sound of the Mummy’s shuffling gait or the mighty roar of Kong.

I know that this does not explain why the images from these films became so iconic. That may have to be laid at the feet of the filmmakers themselves who did not see their creations as throw away fodder for the masses. They were able to imbue what could have been stock monsters with personality, depth, and heart. At times, you even found yourself rooting for them to prevail.

Whatever the reason, I relish the chance to see these films again this time of year. Sometimes I even get the chance to view them on the big screen, and that only enhances the fun. So, my advice is to pop some popcorn, turn down the lights and put on one of these classics. No matter how many times you’ve seen them before, it is time well spent.    

If you have not seen the recent movie “Golda”, starring Helen Mirren, now would be a good time to do so. If you have, you must be suffering from a bit of déjà vu as you contemplate the October 7 Hamas incursion into Israel. While history does not repeat itself, sometimes it sends forth echoes of the past that are hard to ignore.

“Golda” centered on the Yom Kippur war between Israel, Egypt and Syria. On October 6, 1973, Egypt and Syria launched an invasion of Israel, catching the Israeli intelligence services and military by surprise. The Israelis initially were thrown into disarray, but quickly recovered and turned the war into a triumph that led eventually to the Israel/Egypt peace accords of 1978 and 1979.

I doubt if things will go that smoothly this time around. It is going to be much more difficult to defeat an amorphous movement like Hamas than it was to counter nation states like Syria and Egypt. Despite the early success of the Arab armies in 1973, they presented a definable foe that could be outmaneuvered and overpowered. Plus, when the war turned in its favor, Israel had a counterpart in Anwar Sadat who it could negotiate with to end hostilities.

Hamas, on the other hand, has a more diffused leadership that presents no clear focus for negotiation. Plus, it does not have a conventional army that can be destroyed. Its fighters will disperse back into the general population of the Gaza Strip ready to take up arms when it is again deemed advantageous. In doing so they hold the civilian population of the Strip as a human shield decrying Israeli atrocities when Israel bombs the cities where the fighters reside, hoping to win international sympathy and support.

Plus, there are pertinent questions about the Israeli leadership. Despite the formation of a unity government, it is hard to envision Benjamin Netanyahu putting aside the reforms of the Israeli judiciary and the aggressive expanse into the West Bank that divide the Israeli people. He seems much too focused on his own political fortunes to be the type of leader that can rally the entire nation.

That being said, anyone who has paid any attention to Israel over its 75-year history is unlikely to bet against them. Israel has been confronted with existential threats since the day that it declared itself a nation. Each of those threats was countered with determination and resiliency.

Israeli response to attack has rarely been pretty. Israel has been prepared to employ seemingly ruthless methods to secure its future. While the Israeli government certainly cares what the international community thinks of its tactics, it is not going to hold back just because it may face criticism. It will do what it feels necessary and let the chips fall where they may. As much as we may think that Israel depends on outside support, especially from the United States, they are clearly willing to stand alone if need be.

There is a reason for this. Israel is in a no-win situation. Criticism of an Israeli response to Hamas started before they even had a chance to take in and evaluate the incursion. Even worse, there are voices that blame Israel for the actions of Hamas, as if Hamas would be a nice, quiet set of quiescent frat boys if Israel would just stop provoking them. This is, of course, nonsense, but it doesn’t stop this distorted narrative from being loudly promulgated.

Hamas has counted on this. They expect to be able to don the mantle of the victim despite their killing and kidnapping of Israeli citizens. They know that prominent people will support them regardless of what they do, as much from a hatred of Israel than from any love of Hamas. It is a cold, calculating, cynical strategy, and Israel recognizes it as such. They are unlikely to be swayed by those voices calling for restraint.

The sad truth is that the willingness of Hamas to sacrifice its own people may let them achieve its goals no matter what Israel does. Hamas knows that it cannot destroy Israel. However, they can increase Israeli isolation in the Middle East. Many people believe that the timing of Hamas’s actions is tied to the Abraham Accords, and a seeming stabilization of the relationship between Israel and certain Arab states, including Saudi Arabia. The inevitable Israeli response to Hamas will make it extremely difficult for these nations to maintain ties to Israel, and that is exactly what Hamas wants.

The reverberations for Israeli politics could also be significant, though how that plays out is far from certain. Netanyahu and his right-wing allies will no doubt be blamed for the failure of the intelligence community to anticipate the Hamas incursion. They will be accused, and maybe rightly so, of ignoring the threat of Hamas in their quest to populate the West Bank with as many settlements as possible.

On the other hand, there may be increased support for a more hardline approach to the Palestinian population. That is the typical reaction to attack, especially when the attack targets civilians the way this one did. Once the dust settles Netanyahu may not be in a position to demand a harsher policy in relation to Palestinians wherever they live – the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, southern Lebanon – but someone will do so, and they may well meet a receptive audience.

The future of Hamas is also very much up in the air. Israel knows who the Hamas leaders are, and they will pursue them doggedly. They will seek to break the back of Hamas and leave them rudderless so that there is no possibility of another similar attack. And, as noted above, Israel is willing to go to any extent necessary to achieve that goal.   

I still firmly believe that violence breeds violence and that once that violence is unleashed it is hard to control. Just look at the war in Ukraine. The difficulty here is that chaos is exactly what Hamas wants. It might get that, but there is a very good chance that it is more chaos than it can handle.

United States President after United States President has sought peace in the Middle East. While some progress has been made in normalizing relations between Israel and certain states, that goal is no closer today than it was in 1973. There are just too many factions in that part of the world for whom peace is unthinkable, and too many others that are willing to arm them to the teeth so they can pursue their bloody agenda. We don’t know where this latest chapter in this horrific saga will lead, but we can safely guess that it won’t be the last chapter to be written.    

As I retire from the Board of The Joshua Project (JP4Men.org), a non-profit dedicated to providing meaningful rites-of-passage experiences for young men moving into the meaning of mature masculinity, I feel a need to shine a light. Tom has mentioned in earlier posts that we appear to be lacking any societal rituals or norms that help boys develop in a healthy way. Tom’s post discussed young men and their lack of ..  uh .. ‘college completion’?  He ruminated on this as resulting from a gap in our societal focus. He is correct. I just did not feel his conclusion went deep enough.

From everything I have seen, we, as a society, are unable to find space to allow men, and more specifically young men, to explore their archetypical balance. These boys need to discover who they are, how they should act, and what their future holds. They need to find their place as adults in our communities. You know, they need to become mature men.

In calling for a focus on the maturation of young men I am not looking to diminish the justly deserved push towards gender equality, or the expanding role of women in our society. As a father of two successful young women, I have seen the societal pressures on young women and applaud our efforts to make sure that every girl can develop into the strong, mature woman she wants to be. Nor am I talking about what the internet, magazines or media think either one of our genders ‘ought to be’, or how they should interact.

What I am referring to is the breakdown in our society in the instruction of how boys become men. Boys do not need understanding or pity. They need role models and the tools to become the strong, mature men they want to be. As our society has changed, and our expectations of men has been altered, our failure to provide those tools has the potential to lead to disastrous results.

I suppose the foregoing paragraph can be considered my theory statement. But it leaves a question to be answered. Can I “prove we have this issue”?

As we have shifted our educational focus almost exclusively on preparation for college, we have diminished traditionally male careers. Shop class and vo-tech training appears as an afterthought. Young men who are interested in these pursuits are too often looked down upon as second-class citizens, almost as if we are asking whether a young man can pursue a trade and still be ‘useful to society’. With the push towards college as the ultimate goal for high school students, women have outpaced men in academia, and seem better poised to take advantage of this focus. It feels as if it points to a maturation difference between the sexes. Studies show this is true. (Of Boys to Men)

The seeming frustration among boys with these expectations has shown itself in some troubling statistics, like suicide rates. More young males commit suicide than young females. The reason for this may be complex, but clearly we are failing these young men.

In the book “King, Warrior, Magician, Lover: Rediscovering the Archetypes of the Mature Masculine”, Jungian psychologists Robert Moore and Douglas Gillette argue that males are genetically born with four archetypes.  The King, the Warrior, the Magician, and the Lover. Yes, inherited genetic archetypes. We tend to shy away from such designations because of the propensity of some to bend such concepts into ideologies of domination. However, as Moore and Gillette show, these archetypes transcend time, are intrinsic to all men, and have nothing to do with supremacy nor superiority.

How does a young man be a “King” without knowing what a King truly is? Does he understand that a King is someone who takes control of his PERSONAL realm? Can a young man even control that realm? Even if he can, does he understand how to use that control in a positive way for both himself and those around him?

The other archetypes provide similar opportunities for positive mature growth. The “Magician” promotes the power of knowledge, initiation and transformation. The “Warrior” recognizes a tendency toward aggressive action, but channels that in a positive way to meet goals. The “Lover” revels in our connection to others and the world around us.    

A failure to recognize these archetypes allows their shadow to predominate, and immature males to emerge. The Magician becomes a hoarder of knowledge, doing nothing constructive with it. The Warrior vacillates between misspent aggression and inaction. The Lover becomes self-centered and manipulative.

These shadows of the male archetypes need to be exposed for what they are. Dead ends. But without the tools, knowledge, and technology to be successful how are young men going to properly channel these instincts? Are they going to get that guidance from Movies? Video games? School? Da Boys? Gangs? Jackin’ a car may make a kid appear strong to his buddies, but it does not make a man.

How does a dude learn this stuff? What can we do?

Well, I guess the first step is awareness of the fact that the pendulum has swung away from raising healthy boys to become men in their mature fullness. We have left the boys behind. More men need to step up and get involved.

At the Joshua Project we seek to provide meaningful rites of passage for young men moving into manhood. We look to encourage adult/youth mentoring relationships that can help steer boys to understand the drives within them and properly channel those drives. We use the archetypes as a means of creating compassionate, perceptive, discerning men.    

So, as I step away from my official capacity, I am worried. I wish I could have done more. I am not going to quit helping and being involved, but younger men than I need to step up. We have work to do.

In January of 2005, less than two years after the second gulf war toppled Saddam Hussein, Iraq held a parliamentary election. Approximately 80% of eligible voters participated, putting in power the United Iraqi Alliance, a confederation of mainly Shia political parties. The internet was filled with pictures of proud Iraqis showing off their ink-stained fingers indicating that they had voted.

Shortly after this election, a friend of mine, with whom I had had a series of intense debates about the morality of the Iraqi war, approached me, and crowed “See, everyone wants democracy.” It was a popular argument at the time. Not long before, Francis Fukuyama had written “The End of History and the Last Man”, arguing that with the dissolution of the Soviet Union we had reached, the “end-point of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government”.

Eighteen years after the 2005 Iraqi election, and the predictions of democracy’s ascendancy, we can only look back on that misplaced optimism and shake our heads. It now seems that democracy is under attack almost everywhere, including the supposedly democratic (small “d”) bastion of the United States. We have to confront again the question of whether democracy is the best governmental system, and if it is, what that means.

Most of the concerns about democracy in the United States surround a second Trump presidency. Many are worried, and probably rightly so, that if “The Donald” gets the reins of government again, he will do what he can to assure that he is not ousted as he was in 2020. The sense is that most of his followers will gleefully follow wherever he leads, and that the Republican establishment will be drug along behind, whether it likes it or not.

While Trump is definitely the largest existential threat to U.S. democracy, the debate about stopping him leads me to wonder how committed the rest of us are to the democratic principals we seek to uphold. All to often, I hear the equivalent of “Why doesn’t Biden do something?” on a myriad of issues as if we want him to waive a magic wand and impose our favorite policy positions. Or, worse, simply dictate those positions into existence.

Our tendency to want to sidestep democratic principles is understandable, especially when faced with inane hijinks like the near governmental shutdown. Congress seems unable to handle the most basic tasks, putting in jeopardy the well-being of millions. It is so tempting to want someone to take the bull by the horns and stop the insanity.

The idea of the imperial presidency has been around for many years. Sometimes it has been used as a warning against presidential overreach, and sometimes it has been used as an aspiration. The truth of the matter is that the concept has great appeal. We all want to see the person we elect act decisively to implement the policies that we support.

It is natural to look at the President as the sole purveyor of policy, but to blame, or praise, him (or, hopefully, someday soon, her) for all that happens is both naïve and dangerous. We all saw Schoolhouse Rock growing up, and many of us can still sing “I’m Just a Bill”, but in times of frustration we tend to forget its message. The President cannot enact laws, that is the business of Congress.

There is, however, the Executive Order. In the early days of our nation, these were used sparingly. The first President to buck that trend was Theodore Roosevelt, who more than quadrupled the Executive Orders issued by any of his predecessors. The President who made the most use of those orders was another Roosevelt, Franklin.

Many of us were heartened when Biden issued an executive order protecting the right to reproductive health services in response to the Supreme Court’s reversal of Roe v Wade. On the other hand, we were less than thrilled when Donald Trump issued an Executive Order authorizing the building of a wall on the Mexican border when congress refused his request for such funding. *

Good or bad, an Executive Order only enhances the imperial presidency. They may have a role to play at times of stalemate, but calling for their frequent usage risks a further undermining of democracy. When the President is ours, it seems like the way forward. But I am reminded of those who urged Democrats to abolish the filibuster in 2020 so that they could force through certain legislation, wondering how they could forget that only the year before Republicans were in control.

Near the end of the Roman Republic** Cicero, the leading voice of republican principals, led the Roman Senate to execute, without trial, the leaders of a conspiracy to overthrow the Republic. While that stance was popular at the time, it came back to haunt Cicero as he opposed later efforts to install a more authoritarian regime. After all, if even he was willing to abjure democratic precepts in times of crises (and isn’t it always a time of crises) how could he stand in the way of those wanting to save the Roman nation.

I have no easy answers. I just know that democracy is the best hope we have of making this the country we want it to be. All too often, we will be called on to bite our tongue, shake our heads and press forward as best we can against blind stupidity. There are no shortcuts. Or at least there are no shortcuts that don’t stand of very good chance of ultimately leading to outcomes we would not want to live with.    

*Someday I will write a post on the meeting regarding wall funding between Donald Trump, Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer, which sticks in my craw to this day. Pelosi and Schumer infuriatingly missed a golden opportunity to confront Trump with the “Art of the Deal”, instead opting for meaningless posturing (but didn’t she look good in those sunglasses).

**I know that it is a bad time to be citing this antidote. I am no doubt opening myself up to the charge of thinking constantly about the Roman Empire. Truth be told, I have recently been listening to a podcast discussing Roman literature and history. That doesn’t make me a bad person, does it?           

The long-awaited NASA report on UFO’s has finally appeared. This was anticipated by millions of sky watchers as the big one. The dispatch that would reveal that we have been visited by beings from other planets. The government would finally come clean on the data that it had complied proving that we are not alone in the universe. Oh boy, oh boy!!!

Unfortunately, the report landed with an audible thud, not creating the monstrous crater envisioned by so many ufomaniacs over the years. Essentially, the “Blue-Ribbon Panel” found that there was no evidence that we have been the recipients of alien curiosity. The panel Chairman concluded there are so few high-quality observations that no scientific conclusions can be drawn. Most events, he said, can be attributed to planes, drones, balloons or weather conditions.

This comes on the heels of NASA appointing a director of UFO research, though the name of that individual is being kept classified because of the threats and harassment this Panel faced during its existence. The threats are not surprising, though they are pathetic. In all likelihood they came from both those advancing the Mulder theory of visitation (“I want to believe”), and the humancentric groups who believe that we are God’s one and only unique creation. Both sides are firmly convinced that anything coming from the government suggesting other than their personally held belief is a coverup of an uncontroverted truth.

This leaves us where we have been throughout my lifetime. There are too many indications of alien life to just dismiss the possibility out of hand, but there is nothing concrete enough to make a definitive statement. Believable eyewitnesses to unexplainable phenomenon, like my friend Gregg Swentor, relate experiences that cannot be readily explained by “planes, drones, balloons or weather conditions”. Yet verifiable evidence, the kind of evidence we, in the scientific age, usually require, is not available, at least to us mere peasants.

I have come to the conclusion that this is not a bad place to be. While the never-ending round of speculation has become stale (don’t expect an X-Files reboot anytime soon), the lack of certainty provides fertile grounds for imagination. We can collectively ponder the implications of contact with life on other planets without being confronted with what might turn out to be a banal reality, and that pondering is more than worthwhile.

I know that there are many out there who have no patience for science fiction, but there are not many arenas like it where we can give full throat to our fears and desires, without naysayers pointing to uncomfortable facts (unless you count politics). We can ruminate on every aspect of alien life. What it looks like. What new technologies it could bring. How we would find a common ground for communication. And no one can say that we are just plain wrong.

More importantly such hypothesizing makes us consider where we would actually fit into a universe where we are not alone. Not surprisingly, we generally still see ourselves in the center of that universe. Regardless of the aliens we encounter we want to be the prime movers and shakers behind the expanded cosmos. Yet, we know it would not be that easy, so we have to consider what it would mean to encounter beings more powerful than ourselves as well.

It is not worth delineating the incredible wealth of speculative literature and films that have pursued these questions. Many people much smarter than me have scrutinized all aspects of extraterrestrial life, and what it might mean for us. Some of it has been thoughtful. Some of it has been silly. But generally, it is engaging.    

Considering the flip side is also worthwhile, even if it does not lead to the flights of fancy a crowded universe does. What are the implications if we are the only sentient beings around? Many would argue that this would validate the geocentric religions we cling to. However, another way of looking at it is that if we are alone, our obligations to this lonely planet are greater than ever. There may be nowhere else to run, and there may be no alien races to pick up the pieces if we destroy what we have here.

Don’t get me wrong. I would like to know if E.T. exists as much as any rabid Mulderite. Uncertainty makes me uncomfortable, as it does most of us. If we are going to deal with ALF or MAC* let’s get on with it and see what happens.

Until that happens, however, we should revel in the speculation, ponder the imponderables and scrutinize the inscrutable. There are so few arenas where imagination can run wild, and they should be embraced. Who needs NASA anyway!!!  

*Most of you have probably never seen what is arguably the worst alien visitation movie ever, Mac and Me. Consider yourself lucky. It is a film that manages to be both a shameless rip-off of E.T. and a drawn-out McDonalds commercial. It is not even fun, the way some bad movies can be (see Plan 9 From Outer Space), unless you watch the Mystery Science Theater 3000 “experiment” riffing on this disaster. It is one of their best, and that is saying a lot.

The Test Drive

An explosion of sound knocked me out of a deep sleep, and almost out of bed. It filled the room so completely it made me wonder if someone had snuck in and installed speakers in every corner of my ceiling.

It took me a moment to remember who and where I was. Then slowly it dawned on me that this cacophony had a distinct Latin beat. It was crystal clear. I could pick out the finely plucked guitar, driving bass line, and intoxicating rhythm of the percussion. Over it all soared a women’s voice, pure and strong.

There was nothing left to do but start bopping along. My annoyance at being awakened was gone. Realizing that the music infiltrating my room came from outside, I leapt out of bed and hurried to the window.

There, idling at the corner, was the music’s source. It was a sleek, burnt orange, three wheeled “vehicle”. Was it a car? A motorcycle? Some kind of modified dune buggy? I had no idea. All I knew was that it was the coolest “chariot” I had ever seen. And to top it off, it had the best sound system I had ever heard.

Moments later the light changed, and this beauty roared off into the night. I stood gaping, awestruck. This combination of power, elegance and sound was like nothing I had ever imagined. I staggered back to bed and laid there for the next hour with the image of that car(?) swirling around my brain, until finally I nodded off into a restless sleep.

                                                            .           .           .

The next morning I awoke, somewhat groggy, with thoughts of what I’d seen and heard the night before still firmly implanted in my head. Armed with a cup of coffee, I logged onto my computer to try and find out what it was.

My first search, “three-wheeled vehicles”, brought up a slew of scooters and other ways for kids to tool around. It clearly wasn’t what I was looking for, but I lingered for a while, amazed at the mini cycles and trikes available, all electric powered. Didn’t kids pedal anymore?

I refocused and tried again with “three-wheeled vehicles for adults”. This took me to the Can-Am Spyder F3. Streamlined. Black. Like a version of the Batcycle. Nice, but not what I was looking for.

The third time was the charm. “Three-wheeled vehicles with two seats for adults”. Though not the most elegant searches, it got me to the T-Rex RR, a self-defined three-wheeled motorcycle. Like its namesake, this baby was clearly powerful, and able to blow the doors off any rivals on the road. It came in colors from Gulf Orange to Rosso Mugello to Acid Green.

My only disappointment was that the ad said nothing about the sound system. Was that included, or something you had to customize? There was only one way to find out. I had to see one of these up close. Luckily, there was an authorized dealer not far from where I lived.

                                                .           .           .

Before I go on, I should probably tell you something about myself. I am a 65-year-old man, recently retired. I never married and live a pretty solitary existence. I didn’t make a lot of money, but with Social Security and a modest 401k I have more than enough to live comfortably.

Part of the reason for my professed financial security is because I am incredibly cheap. I rarely indulge myself with anything, let alone a toy like the T-Rex. What’s more, I never cared a whit for cars, motorcycles, scooters, or any other form of motorized transportation. For years I owned a beat-up Toyota Corolla but gave that up to save on insurance. If I want to go somewhere I walk or take a bus or hail an Uber. I rent a car for my rare forays out of the city.

My only extravagance is a killer sound system. Macintosh MAC7200 receiver, Rega Planar 3 turntable, Dan Clark Audio AEON Flow 2 headphones, surround sound Bose speakers and an LP collection that would rival most FM radio stations. While I appreciated the style of the T-Rex, that booming sound system was its real lure. I could take my music on the road.

While I did not miss work, retirement left a void. I hadn’t realized how much I depended on my co-workers for what little social life I had. Now most of my interaction was with my neighbors, like 80-year-old Mrs. Johnson, and the Davis’s downstairs. Even that was mainly passing the time of day and little more. I felt a need for a change.

                                                .           .           .          

When I walked into the dealership I knew immediately that I was not their normal customer. Glancing around, I didn’t see anyone else over 30. That included salespeople, other customers and even the mechanics. A strong hipster vibe permeated the place. Heads immediately turned to gape at me, with looks that cried out, “What the hell is he doing here?”.

Regardless of my discomfort, I was immediately smitten by the “cycles” that surrounded me. There were 10 or so T-Rex’s scattered about. In person they were even more impressive. The aerodynamic design, the low-slung leather bucket seats, the view at road level which begged for speed.

A sales rep, wearing a multi-colored bowling shirt with Boaz stitched across the heart, casually sidled over to me. “She’s a real beaut, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is”, I replied, keeping the female nomenclature. “Can you tell me a bit about her”?

Immediately Boaz launched into his prepared speech. “Under that hood, is a Kawasaki 1441 CC engine, with 208 horsepower, water-cooled, with two overhead cams. She has fully adjustable coil-over shocks, for maximum traction, with a reinforced, frontal impact crash tested tubular chassis.”

I could see Boaz had much more to tell me about the mechanics but he must have sensed my wavering interest. Either that or my eyes glazed over. So he switched tactics and got to what I considered the heart of the matter.

He reached out and laid a hand on the dash. “Beyond all that, she has a killer sound system. We’re talking an Alpine Halo9 iLX-F409 receiver, and Rockford Fosgate P165-SI Punch speakers with integrated concealed crossover.”

“Really”, I said, trying to exude nonchalance. The gleam in his eye showed me that I had failed miserably. He knew he had me.

“Oh, yeah”, he enthused. “Just listen to this”.

Boaz slid into the T-Rex and turned her on, immediately reaching out to the stereo and hitting play. Out boomed Kid Cuti’s “Pursuit of Happiness”, a hipster hip-hop favorite. Not exactly my style, but a good choice to show off the system’s power. Reverberating in the cavernous showroom, it sounded even better than what I had heard in my bedroom the night before.

“Want to take her for a spin? We can put on one of your tunes and cruise the neighborhood.” I didn’t need to be asked twice. He led me to a Neon Yellow Rex out on the lot.

First I had to get in. To say that the T-Rex is low to the ground is like saying that the Empire State Building is tall. I could sense the interest mount in the showroom as I began to bend. As I leaned down to squeeze my bulk through the small opening in the chassis, my left knee let out a loud crack. It had been doing that for years, but I never realized how audible it was until that moment.

If that wasn’t bad enough, I misjudged how far I had to go to the seat and plopped the last few inches, letting out an audible “oomph”. I could hear the snickers behind me, but they were quickly muffled by a stern look from Boaz who clearly hoped that he had hooked a live one.

I should have known that his next question was coming, but it stumped me, nonetheless. “What do you want to listen to?” I was a record guy. I shared a Spotify account with my brother, but I hardly used it. Somehow, in the back of my mind I had thought I could just browse my collection and pick something, but that was not going to happen.

A Coltrane standard, like “Giant Steps”? No, too esoteric. How about “Close to the Edge” by “Yes”? That would get me laughed out of the dealership. Maybe some Beatles? Everyone loves the Beatles. But was that really cruising music?

As the Boaz stared at me, clearly noting my rising indecision, I panicked. I plugged in my phone and simply picked “Daily Mix 1”. I didn’t know what would be on it, but at least it would be something acceptable, wouldn’t it?

But I forgot that this was a shared account, so what came pouring out was my brother’s. His go-to genre is saccharine Broadway musicals, so what I was confronted with, at ear splitting volume, was “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from “The Sound of Music”.

I was mortified. Instead of something at least semi hip, I was filling the T-Rex with a lame duet between a stupid young girl and her budding Nazi boyfriend. I quickly fumbled for my phone, dropping it of course, all the time trying to explain in a voice loud enough to drown out Rolf that this was not really my taste. Boaz nodded sympathetically, but I could tell he wasn’t buying it.

Twisting to pick up the phone elicited a sharp pain in my back, resulting in another groan. I fought through that pain, driven by my embarrassment and grabbed the phone. I stabbed at the access code, finally typing it right the third time around, and quickly opened the Spotify app, looking up the first album that came to mind. It was “Legend” by Bob Marley. Yes, it was over 50 years old, but not lame!!!

I glanced over at Boaz, who was looking at me like I had three heads and said to him, as nonplussed as possible, “Well, shall we go”?

“Sure” he said, with a sardonic smile.

At that moment I realized this was a manual transmission. In the previous century I had a Pinto with a stick shift. And to be honest, I was never too good with shifting back then. Still, I knew what to do, and was not about to back down now.

I eased the clutch down and slid her into first gear, giving her gas as she engaged. It was not pretty. The first lurch almost sent Boaz through the front opening. Luckily, there was no windshield, or it could have been really ugly.

“Sorry about that” I said sheepishly. “It’s been a while since I used a stick shift”.

“No problem”, he said, but I could hear worry in his voice.

Once we got going it was a bit better. There was still some lurching about, but it generally was smoother.

We ended up on city streets, so I couldn’t open her up, but the power was undeniable. I found it impossible not to rev the engine, or gun it down a block, but the constant stop signs kept me pretty much bridled.

Still, for a moment I was in hog heaven. I was driving a vehicle that was more powerful, more sleek and more rad than any I had even been in before. Music that I loved was blasting from a beautiful sound system. I could get used to this. 

Then I noticed the people around me. I saw a middle-aged couple walking on the street glancing at me and then exchanging sour looks. A young man in the next car glared at the Rex. An older woman leaning out a window covered her ears. The negative vibes appeared universal.

I immediately thought back to the night before. I had not minded being awakened in the middle of the night, but was I the exception to the rule? What about Mrs. Johnson who is always complaining about her inability to get a good night’s rest? From what she said, if she was woken, she would never go back to sleep. The Davis’s had a three-month-old baby. Every time I saw them, they looked exhausted. Did the music wake them from some badly needed respite in the baby’s crying?

It was true that I was not driving at night, but what about the people I saw? Did any work a night shift? Did they have any sensitivity to noise triggered by the music I was blaring? Even if they didn’t, they were clearly annoyed.

It dawned on me that I was not taking my music on the road but imposing it on those around me. They were given no choice about what they wanted. Maybe they liked Bob Marley, maybe they didn’t, but shouldn’t they have as much right as I did as to when and where they would listen to it?

I reached over and turned down the volume to a conversational level. Boaz appeared confused.  I told him that I was ready to return to the showroom. He said fine and directed me back. I took my time, careful not to rev the engine, or otherwise draw any attention to us, though admittedly the T-Rex did that on its own.

When I got back to the dealership I immediately and effortlessly popped out of the cycle. Before Boaz could say a word, I said, “Thanks so much for the test drive, but this really is not for me.”

He wasn’t giving up that easily. “Can we just go in for a few minutes and let me explain all the benefits. I can give you a good deal. You won’t regret it.”

 “No. I don’t want to waste any more of your time or mine. Goodbye.”

I quickly turned, pulled headphones out of my bag, and walked off. I took out my phone, hit the Spotify app and selected “Chet Baker Sings”. I was happy. I had my music, and no one else did.

Life was as it should be.           

Disparagement of the rut is one of the hallmarks of modern existence. I have no doubt the idea started with the rise of modern industry, and the creation of the management world. Before that, people did what they did, whether they were farmers, cobblers or blacksmiths. While they may not have liked it much, there was a sense of acceptance that few argued against.

Once work became a 9 to 5 existence people’s view of the inevitability of their station in life changed. The job itself seemed more random, something that you fell into rather than were born to. Even if it was a job you liked, the prospect of dragging yourself to work day in and day out seemed daunting. The idea of being trapped in a fate that you chose took hold.

The term “rat race” emerged in the 1940’s and was quickly recognized as an apt description of the modern worker’s plight. We were akin to mice in a maze, wondering aimlessly for some nugget which probably wasn’t very satisfying anyway. We endured because we saw no way out. Life was passing us by, but we were powerless to hop the maze walls and search the rest of the laboratory.

Popular culture reinforced this feeling of paucity at the core of our daily routine. We marvel at the well-cultivated image of the celebrity as a free spirit who does what he or she wants when they want to do it. Part of our fascination with stardom is a wish to emulate that sense of being unbound, even if the image is far from reality.

The rise of the antihero as an icon in the 1960’s cemented this sense of the rut as the ultimate version of hell. Free spirits such as Captain America in Easy Rider or Jack Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces glorified a lifestyle that discarded any sense of structure. It is also part of the lure of superhero movies, especially when the “heroes” are outsiders such as Deadpool or Wolverine. While few would opt to be any of these characters, the allure of their “freedom” is undeniable, especially in contrast to our own seemingly constricted world.

I have bought into this anti-rut mantra as much as anyone. I love novels with unconventional protagonists such as Catch-22 or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I’ve sat through meetings wondering why I am wasting my time on something I ultimately didn’t care about. I have often fantasized about breaking out of the mold and living an unstructured life.

Then the last three months hit. Without going into detail, life intruded to push aside the routine that I had established over the last few years. Suddenly, my days were subject to unintended obligations (nothing bad), which left me feeling somewhat adrift and unsettled.

Truth be told, my feelings were much worse than the reality of my situation. I still had plenty of time on my hands to do what I wanted to do, but I felt like I was not in control. Things that I normally would do as a matter of course did not get done, like writing this blog. I felt that I was fighting to maintain the balance I desired.

Eventually it struck me that I owed a lot to the “rut”. What would I have accomplished if I did not have a structure that I rigorously followed? Would I have filled the unstructured time with spontaneous, creative activities, or just sat around wondering what to do next? Is the lack of a routine another way of saying aimless drifting?

I must admit that despite my imagined iconoclasm the ingrained habits worked pretty darn well. They made sure that I was not ignoring things that made my life significantly better. And not only mundane things like paying bills on time, but also activities that made my life mine. Like staying on top of the kid’s schedules, planning vacations, keeping up with my reading, seeing movies or an occasional concert.

As I look back on it now, the heart of the drudgery was not as bad as my conditioned self often thought it was. Yes, there were endless meetings, but there was also a lot of time spent plopping down in someone’s office and laughing at the inanities of corporate life. The daily train ride was usually relaxing and refreshing. There was real joy in returning home after the day was done, even if it was at the same time I had returned the day before, and the day before that.

There was also plenty of variety if I focused on that instead of the routine. Nothing was as predictable as it seemed. Maybe it was lunch with an old friend, or a quick turnaround needed on an issue that was new and challenging. It could have been the anticipation of a kids’ concert or play. The view on the ground was very different from the view at 10,000 feet.

Since retirement I have spoken glowingly of the unfettered free time, but the reality was, and is, that the need for a rut is just as strong, if not stronger. Without a sense of what to do when, the TV issues its unending siren song of intriguing ten-part miniseries that morph into seasons two, three and beyond. (What will happen to Tom Wamsgans, and is it mere coincidence that his name is so close to mine? Yes, it is). Structure provides meaning and purpose.

It is time to admit that I am no “Cool Hand” Luke Jackson, or Sal Paradise, and I would never want to be. I need to be kept on the straight and narrow. So, here’s to you rut! You have been derided and debased, and yet you hold us together. Your day has come.  

*Actually, not an ode, but no one wants me writing poetry

I am always floored by good writing. The art of putting together vibrant, intelligent, meaningful sentences to create a compelling and thought-provoking whole is inspiring, whether it’s fiction or non-fiction. But those fiction writers who use their prose to create characters and draw up plots that immerse me in a wholly separate world are special. While those worlds are totally separate from my own, these authors make me feel like I could be part of it.

It also amazes me how such authors can use different approaches to bring their conceptions to life. I recently read three novels, all New York Times Notable books, whose authors took distinctive paths to telling their stories, and yet managed to construct an engaging narrative. As someone pretty much stuck in one format, this inventiveness is stimulating. If they can do it, why can’t I? Talent?.

The first of the novels was “Trust” by Hernan Diaz, a work in four acts which was just awarded the Pulitzer Prize. The first hundred pages are a novel inside a novel. It is written almost as a biography, very flat and matter of fact. Part 2 appears to be the outline of an autobiography and seems to have only limited connection to the first segment, though I have no doubt a more astute reader would have picked up on the links.

Part 3 makes the connection between the first two segments clear and makes you go back to rethink what you’ve just read. It also introduces a wholly different voice and style. The 4^th narrative is a diary which sheds light on all three of the segments that precede it. It’s only then, in the last 40 pages, that the true arc of the story becomes clear.

There are pluses and minuses to this approach. I found it hard to care about the characters until the third segment. They were only interesting in retrospect. However, once they were rounded out by the subsequent narratives, they acquired new resonance. It’s a question of whether you are willing to stick with the opening segments to get to the pay-off.  

Tana French comes at it from a totally different direction. If you have ever read any of her Dublin Murder Squad series, you know that while she writes thrillers, she is more interested in character development than plot exposition. All her novels explore the psychology of her police protagonists, focusing as much on their inner lives as on the crime they are investigating.

In her recent novel, “The Witch Elm”, which is not a police procedural, I was struck by her ability to quickly and succinctly define her “hero”. The first 29 pages of this 500-page book introduces us to the lead character, who is also the narrator. Even though little of import happens in these pages, by the end of the first chapter you feel you know this person. You sense his charm, his devil-may-care attitude arising out of a life where everything has worked out to date, and his moral relativism, born of the same. Plus, some subtle foreshadowing lets you know that all of this will be challenged in the pages ahead.

French’s first-person narrative approach adds another layer to your confrontation with this character. You are getting a feel for him through his recitation of events. While he seems sincere and honest, you cannot help but question whether he is reliable. You take it in while wondering whether you are being led down a garden path. It makes for a great start to a psychological thriller.

The third book in this trilogy, “Go, Went, Gone” by German author Jenny Erpenbeck, takes a dangerous approach to structure. It is clear early on that Erpenbeck not only wants to write a novel, but she also wants to educate the reader about the plight of refugees in Germany. She chooses to do so through the eyes of a retired philology professor, even though his experience is miles away from theirs.

Not far into the novel alarm bells go off. Are these refugee narratives depictions of actual events presented in a novel format for the sake of accessibility? Was license taken to make them more dramatic? Are we supposed to relate to the professor and mirror his journey of discovery about the Kafkaesque world of these displaced persons? Does the author believe that the reality of these refugees can only be made affecting through western eyes?

For the most part Erpenbeck is able to pull this tightrope walk off. She makes the professor a real character, so we care about his interactions with the emigrants. The refugees come across as humans, not caricatures. Still their stories tend to run together, making it hard to remember one individual from another as the book progresses. Plus, it all wraps up a bit too neatly. Yet by the end you feel the author has generally succeeded in bringing some light to a difficult topic, while presenting an engrossing story.

Each of these approaches has its strength and weaknesses, but what struck me was the willingness of these authors to take chances to tell the stories envisioned. Diaz risks keeping you in the dark through a fairly mundane opening hoping you will stick around for the payoff. French risks telling you to much, to early, hoping that the character is interesting enough to hold your attention for the next 470 pages. Erpenbeck risks alienating readers who find the secondhand presentation of the refugees plight troubling.

It is those very risks that make a book “notable”, and worth reading. A straightforward narrative is all well and good, and can be very satisfying if well executed, but a steady diet of that approach can be stultifying. We need authors that defy our expectations, take us out of our narrative comfort zones and force us to consider stories from different perspectives. It engages the “critical” area of our brain that weighs and evaluates the stories that we hear on a daily basis. And that can’t be a bad thing.