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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.                   

The conflict between Russia and Ukraine is over a year old. The last few months have seen heavy fighting in the Ukrainian southeast provinces that Russia has claimed for its own. Russia launched a major offensive in this area that has, by all accounts, gone nowhere. The Ukraine is poised to launch a counter-offensive designed to regain sovereignty of the territories that Russia now controls.

In the meantime, Russian assaults on Ukrainian infrastructure have continued. In particular, Russia has targeted facilities generating power. Presumably these attacks were to inflict maximum discomfort on the Ukrainian people over the winter months. As with the Russian offensive, these assaults seem to have little impact on the Ukrainian will to resist, though it would be wrong to fully discount the damage and hardship engendered.

While Ukraine is publicly optimistic about its military position, it is hard to envision their counter-offensive driving Russian troops out of the disputed areas. As weakened as the Russian military may be, Putin will certainly use all of his resources to avoid withdrawal. He has too much personally at stake to allow that to happen.

There have also been some attacks within Russia, though they have been few and far between. Responsibility for these attacks have been disputed, though what is clear is that the Ukraine doesn’t have the capacity to bring the war to Russia. (Side note – It is almost laughable to see the indignation of Russia whenever these attacks occur. As if they cannot fathom why someone would want to harm “Little Ol’ Me”).

There was some thought that international pressure would force Russia to backdown. There always has been little chance of that as long as Putin is in power, but any spark of hope died when China declared its “neutrality”. China, supposedly, will not provide weapons to either Russia or the Ukraine, but neither will they condemn the Russian invasion. Even if it is true that they will not sell weapons to Russia (which I doubt) it would take a fully united international response to get Russia to even consider a change in position, and China has made that impossible.            

There have also been calls for negotiations, but it is hard to see a basis for compromise. The Ukraine certainly would want Russia to withdraw from all disputed territories, and, as noted above, Putin will not let that happen. Nor is the Ukraine going to be inclined to cede those provinces to Russia, especially when Russia has been unable to establish a firm foothold there through military means. A plebiscite of the inhabitants’ desires is theoretically possible, but it is hard to see how agreement could be reached on the details of such a vote. Bleeeding Kansas is a more likely precedent than Schleswig.

What is inevitable is that the end of this war will be messy. They always are. As much as historians like to focus on how wars start, how they end often has longer lasting consequences. The classic case is the Treaty of Versailles, a victor’s peace that imposed conditions on Germany that made WWII if not inevitable, much more probable. The end of WWII saw the rise of the “iron curtain” which killed democratic movements in eastern Europe, and led to a cold war that instigated an arms race we are still in the midst of today.

Recent United States experience proves the same. The first Iraqi war was relatively easy from a purely military perspective. It was not hard to drive Hussein out of Kuwait. However, the battles bled into sanctions which only increased the Iraqi government’s repression of dissident sects (the Shias and the Kurds). Eventually this provided an excuse for the second Iraqi war, in which militarily objectives were quickly attained. But the subsequent Sunni insurrections and the rise of ISIS resulted in significantly greater losses than the war itself.

The chaos surrounding the withdrawal of Russia and the United States from their respective wars in Afghanistan also highlight wars ending badly. Both countries hoped to install a government favorable to their interests. Both failed miserably. The result is a despotic regime impervious to international influence, devoted to taking the country back to the Islamic Middle Ages. There is no end in sight to the suffering of the Afghan people (especially women).

Which brings us back to the Ukraine. What now? We can hope for a miracle like the removal of Putin, or Ukrainian exhaustion leading to the cession of territory, but, contrary to popular opinion, miracles are very rare in times of war. We can also conjure up scenarios where either Russia or the Ukraine score decisive military victories which decide the issue. However, there is no evidence such a breakthrough is on the horizon.

What is probable is a stalemate for the foreseeable future. The Ukrainian counter-offensive may dent Russian positions, but it’s hard to envision them fully driving Russia back across the border. After the failure of the winter offensive, I don’t foresee Russia launching another for some time. They are more likely to dig into defensive positions and continue to declare their shaky hold on the disputed territory a victory.

To the extent there is a solidification of positions, less conventional warfare is sure to follow. Ukraine will want to try and bring the war to Russia proper but can only do so through covert action. Russia will continue to bomb and is likely to get less discriminant in its targets. Any way you look at it, more death and destruction will follow.

The international community will also be dragged further into this, but not as peacemakers. As the Russian bombing continues, Ukraine will call for more and more sophisticated weapons. They are likely to get them. That may spark China to drop its “neutrality” and supply Russia with whatever it needs to continue its aggression. Not a pretty picture.

I wish I could engender some optimism about this situation, but I can’t. This is just another predictably bloody wormhole arising out of an idiotic, meaningless war. We never learn. I am afraid that we never will.  

I was listening to a Spotify playlist the other day and the Beatles song “Norwegian Wood” came on. I have heard this song hundreds of times but was still drawn to listen for the sitar that makes it so distinctive. However, the song begins with a few bars of a beautiful acoustic guitar and this threw me. I momentarily wondered whether I was hearing a cover version. Then the sitar began and all was again well with the world.

This brief episode led me down one of those proverbial rabbit holes. It dawned on me that when this song first aired in 1965 the vast majority of people listening to it not only had never heard a sitar used in a pop song, they had never heard a sitar, period. In fact, most probably did not even know that such an instrument existed. I wondered what it must have been like to hear this “strange” sound with no frame of reference as to its origin.

This led me into considering those innovations that come so out of the blue there was no prior context to categorize them. Most inventions evolve from something familiar. Gutenberg’s printing press may have been a deviation of cataclysmic proportions, but what came out was still a book, and people knew what a book was. The first transatlantic flight was an incredible achievement, but the real shock must have been when people first looked up into the sky and saw a man-made machine passing overhead.

The most famous reaction to an innovation in modern times might be the projection of moving pictures onto a large screen. Legend has it that when the Lumiere brothers first exhibited their film showing a locomotive coming straight toward the camera as it pulled into the La Ciotat Station in 1895 people were so startled that they screamed and ran to the back of the room. Film historians have noted that the closest technique prior to that time producing a naturalistic moving image was the camera obscura, and that would have been no equivalent to what the Lumiere’s were presenting.

There is a similar sense when you hear Boomer’s wax poetic about Pong, a simple game with two “paddles” on either side of the screen batting an imaginary ball back and forth at incredibly slow speeds. When this game first hit bars and arcades it was a wonder. This was nothing like the pinball machines which dominated prior to then. While it was quickly eclipsed, Pong still holds a special place in the hearts of many.

Of more import was the invention of the microscope. The telescope may have brought objects closer, but people knew that the heavens were full of wonders. The microscope, on the other hand, reveals an unknown world that totally engulfs us, and what a bizarre world it is. It wasn’t just that we were seeing everyday objects close up, we were seeing other living organisms on our clothes, on our bed sheets, on our skin!!! It had to have been a shock, to say the least.

Similarly, the discovery of the X-Ray at the turn of the 20^th Century must have been mind-boggling. The was no precedent for being able to see through something seemingly solid. Could such superpowers even be imagined prior to that discovery? Those shown an early X-Ray and being told that they were looking at the inside of their own body must have been incredulous.

Probably those most amazed by innovation were our stone age ancestors. The invention of the wheel, or the transformation of rocks into tools must have been awe-inspiring. Not surprisingly, Gary Larson has captured the likely tenor of those times in the cartoon below.

 J. Krishnamurti understood the power of this unadulterated mindset better than anyone else I have encountered. He put it in terms of stopping the internal monologue which moderates experience. He used the example of a person who witnesses an incredible sunset and then returns the next night to experience the same. However, the mind will inevitably make comparisons, dulling the impact regardless of the reality.  

I think that one of the reasons little children can be so fascinating is because they do not have that filter. For young kids so many things are innovations without context. We can watch their amazement at the everyday and be entranced by it. We may chuckle, for example, at their astonishment (or fear) of fireworks, but we all secretly wish we could experience that same sense of the unprecedented.

A favorite mind game has always been the question if you could go back in time to witness one historical event, what would it be. Some will say Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address or the Signing of the Declaration of Independence or an original Shakespeare play being performed at the Globe. However, I fear that they all would be somewhat disappointing, knowing what we now know.

On the other hand, if we could erase our memories of things to come and experience the first phonograph record, or the first photograph, that would be something. A new way of experiencing the world that most of us could not have conceived of before that moment. That would be a time trip worth taking.

Alas, you cannot erase what you know. As much as I revere Krishnamurti, I cannot turn off the internal monologue. It is constantly babbling away, interposing itself on experiences. Still, with the rate of technological change, I have little doubt that we are in for surprises that few of us can contemplate. The trick will be to enjoy that when it happens.

From The Beatles to Krishnamurti. As far as rabbit holes go, not too shabby.     

Free speech is an easy concept to rally around. We are ‘Mericans. We have the right to say any damn thing we want, any damn time we want, any damn where we want. Left or right, we are all wary of proposals that limit free speech, aren’t we?

And yet, we are uncomfortable with unfettered speech. We know how damaging mere words can be. We know that the phrase, “sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me” is hopelessly naïve. “Names” can leave scars, often deeper and harder to mend than broken bones. We also know that speech can quickly lead to action, and that action can be very damaging indeed.

Knowing this, we accept limits on our speech. We don’t countenance those who barge into any setting shouting whatever nasty epitaphs might be running through our minds (unless they’re in Congress).  We know that our place of work is not a free speech zone. Spouting off around the proverbial water cooler, or even worse, on social media, about what idiots your bosses are or how worthless your company’s products are, will get you fired, and we accept that.

These rules get a lot trickier when you are dealing with the efforts by the government, or even entities funded by the government, to curb speech. The First Amendment was directed at the government for good reason. Censorship has been the cornerstone of authoritarian regimes since time immemorial. Control what is said, and how information is disseminated, and you go a long way towards controlling the populace.

These days the tension between concerns about governmental regulation of speech and the recognition that there are limits to free speech is being played out in classrooms nationwide. Most of the focus has been on limiting topics to be covered in K-12 schools, or what books are acceptable in school libraries, but these tensions have spilled over to the university level as well, where notions of academic freedom make boundaries much harder to negotiate.

In 2022 Florida (where else) passed a statute that establishes a new post-tenure, five-year review cycle for professors at the state’s public institutions. Governor DeSantis was not shy about his reasons for signing this bill (is he ever?). He was quoted as saying that the bill would keep faculty and curriculum in line with what he calls the state’s priorities, which, of course, means his priorities. Considering the nature of politics in the United States, no doubt similar bills will soon crop up in other states around the country.

 It will be interesting to see how this law is enforced. At first blush, tenure or no, it is hard to see how the firing of a professor for statements that angered the powers that be can pass constitutional muster. In fact, such a firing would go to the very heart of the of the First Amendment. My guess is that Florida really doesn’t care about constitutionality and is more concerned with the optics of such a bill and the angst it will bring.

Another side of this coin is presented by the case of Kareem Tannous, a non-tenured business professor at Cabrini college. Tannous was recently fired after a series of personal tweets became public criticizing Israel in harsh terms. Among the tweets was one saying that “Israel and Ukraine [elsewhere called Zionazi Ukraine] are societal cancers and must be eradicated”. Another urged that we “dismantle #AparthiedIsrael by any means necessary”.

Tannous is one in a growing list of academics disciplined, or fired, for expressing incendiary opinions. Some have successfully sued for damages or reinstatement. Others have weathered the storm and continued to teach. Tannous claims that he is now blacklisted and has sued Cabrini arguing that, as an institute that receives state and federal support, it violated his First Amendment rights.

In attacking Israel, Tannous targeted one of the few issues on which both left and right kind of agree. While the left (I realize that I am shamelessly generalizing here) is often uncomfortable with the machinations of the Israeli government, especially under Netanyahu, there is still widespread support for our most reliable ally in the Middle East. The right, with visions of Armageddon dancing in their heads, is even more hawkish in its embrace of Israel.

Yet, few would countenance the firing of Tannous if his criticism stopped at lambasting Israeli policy, especially since it was done outside the classroom. We recognize the need to allow debate, even where views expressed may be unpopular. In fact, many of us welcome those who speak at the edges of consensus, reminding us that none of these issues are so black and white that all sides shouldn’t be aired.

The question becomes trickier when the speaker goes beyond criticism to an incitement to action. In exhorting his readers to eradicate Israel “by any means necessary” Tannous is clearly endorsing violence. “By any means necessary” embraces war, terrorism, bio-chemical attacks and any other nasty iteration of mayhem that mankind can envision. It takes this from impassioned criticism to exhortation of the worst kind.

Tannous denies his comments are ant-Semitic, but if he wants to eradicate Israel, what does he propose to do with the seven million Jews that live there? Considering the history of violence against Jews, and the on-going and seemingly intractable anti-Semitism that continues to pollute our world, it is hard to imagine that Tannous just wants to wipe the state of Israel off the world map and leave the populus there. Is there any doubt that if he has us eradicate the state, he would have us eradicate the people there as well?

To all of this he would probably respond that he is just a nobody who has no following and no ability to carry through on his unrestrained fantasies. All of that is probably true. But, on the other hand, he is a teacher. And one of the things that we expect from teachers is that they will not judge their students by any criteria other than their performance. In Tannous defense, there is no evidence that he has discriminated against his students because of their ethnicity but could a Jewish student in his class feel comfortable knowing his views on “eradication”?

 A similar issue arose with respect to Penn Law Professor Amy Wax who declared that the country would be “better off with fewer Asians” and that “on average, Blacks have lower cognitive ability than whites.” Wax is till teaching. Unlike Tannous, she did not advocate violence, but you still have to wonder how she can possibly be fair and impartial to Black and Asian students in her class while holding these views. I know that if I was of those ethnicities I would avoid her classes like the plague, even if it meant missing a class I would otherwise like to take.

There is no doubt that this is a slippery slope. If we advocate for the removal of Wax and Tannous we open the door for the Floridians who would remove any teacher who says something they do not like. And, for that reason, maybe it is a door that must stay firmly shut. But if you’re going to take that position have the guts to look a Black or Asian or Jewish student in the eye and tell them this yahoo is who their stuck with.   

For years, Major League Baseball has been taking hits for the way its games dragged on. It has been losing viewers by the droves, even for marque events, like the World Series. While it has been easy to throw baby boomer rants about youngsters with miniscule attention spans, the truth was that fans of all ages were turning off the games. It was time for change. All that was needed was someone to push through those changes, and that person was Theo Epstein.

Epstein’s problem was that baseball has one of the most conservative fan bases imaginable. The rules are sacrosanct. Any change disrupts time-honored traditions that will destroy our venerable national pastime. He also had to convince the players. How could they adjust their batting gloves for the 10^th time, or meander around the mound, if they had to be ready to bat or pitch in 15 measly seconds?

But push through the changes he did. A clock now determines when the batter must be in the box, and when the pitcher must deliver to the plate. Violations result in a ball or strike. Some said it would never work. One player predicted the clock would have to be abandoned within two weeks. But here we are into the first week of the season, and the clock is going nowhere. The games are quicker and more enjoyable to watch.

Epstein might have been the prefect catalyst for altering the rules. He was the wunderkind General Manager who led the Boston Red Sox and Chicago Cubs, two teams desperate for post-season success, to World Series wins. He epitomized a youth movement in the sport and had overseen drastic changes in how games are managed, and players evaluated. As a consultant to the Major Leagues in respect of on field matters, he had the power. If anyone could convince the hidebound to move it was him.

Baseball is not alone in being resistant to change. If, as Albert Einstein said, “[t]he measure of intelligence is the ability to change”, most come up short. That is true for huge enterprises like Major League Baseball, companies, both big and small, as well as us puny individuals. Even Al didn’t quite measure up, spending over 30 years of his life fruitlessly searching for a unified theory in physics.

At least MLB did something. The corporate graveyard is filled with companies that were on top and then tanked because they could not alter what they were doing to meet new challenges. It wasn’t long ago that Blockbuster was the go-to source for films to watch at home. Had they been better run they would have seen that the days of physical DVD’s were numbered and used their name recognition to usher in the streaming world, but it didn’t happen.

As much as CEO’s like to paint themselves as visionaries, and are paid as if they are, most are sloggers who have climbed through the ranks via their management skills, not their foresight. Making fundamental changes to business operations is not only a professional risk, but a personal one as well. It is the type of risk that few of these multi-millionaires are willing to take.

Those that do take the risk tend to drag the rest of the business world with them. As annoying as Jeff Bezos is, and as maddening as Amazon can be, they have forced all other retailers, both big and small, to rethink how they get their products to the public. Vendors can no longer rely on a prime spot in a megamall to capture customers. They must adapt to the technology, and re-envision how, and if, those stores can compete in a digital world. There is no longer a choice.

A catalyst can also be an antagonist. It is difficult to imagine the achievements of the American space program without the Soviets. The threat of the USSR advancing in the exploration of space prompted the investment of time and money that led to the July 1969 landing on the moon. I doubt if the United States would have made that commitment otherwise, even though advances in propulsion technology made the timing right. We needed that catalyst.   

It’s not just businesses, or governments. Most of us have trouble identifying when it is time for a change in habits. It’s one thing to have change forced upon you. It’s another to admit that the way in which you have been doing something for years has passed its expiration date. Most of us are creatures of habit who dread breaking with the familiar and comfortable, even when we know that it no longer works.

The list of changes that we know we should make, but don’t, are legion. There is always weight and fitness. There is all that time wasted in front of the TV. There is the general inertia that stops us from engaging in the world as we should, whether it’s keeping in contact with friends, or volunteering our time to help others.

As with CEO’s, very few of us are seers. We are stuck with suppositions about what the future will hold and what that will mean to us. We know there are alterations that should be made, but that makes it no less complicated.  It is very easy to talk yourself out of changes that, in retrospect, were obvious.

That is why a catalyst is often needed. Maybe it’s someone like Theo Epstein. A person who speaks with authority, either personal or professional. Doctors can certainly get your attention, but so can friends, even if it only by example. Seeing someone you know and respect take control of their life can be a spark to act similarly.

These may be obvious truths, but they are ones that I have to keep repeating to myself again and again. Change involves risk, and I can be very risk averse. The drive to inertia runs deep. As bizarre as it seems, seeing citadels of orthodoxy like Major League Baseball move forward helps spark action. In fact, I think I will lay down on the couch, put on the Phillies game, and contemplate where to go next. Sounds like a plan.     

I recently saw two different productions looking to bring new insights to well-known historical narratives. One was a revival of the 1969 musical “1776”, with a racially diverse cast of women, nonbinary and trans actors playing the founding fathers. The other was the movie “Elvis”, which focused primarily on the singer’s relationship with his manager, Colonel Tom Parker. Both highlighted the never-ending attempts to reinterpret events, and the difficulty in doing so.  

1776 deals with the debate among Continental Congress delegates in the months leading up to the issuance of the Declaration of Independence. There is no verbatim record of that debate, so the writers were free to shape the arguments, as well the relationships between the various representatives. The play’s goal is to highlight the issues that separated the states, including the elephant in the room, slavery, while having Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, et al., croon largely forgettable tunes.

The Director behind this revival said that she decided to stage the play with this diverse cast “to hold history as a predicament, rather than an affirming myth”. I take that to mean that she wants the audience to appreciate the compromises the Philadelphia delegates had to make to unify around a Declaration. There is also no doubt that she wanted to stress the irony of white men seeking freedom and equality, while at the same time reaffirming their commitment to holding many in bondage and excluding those represented by this cast.

The problem is that the casting ends up undermining the irony. It is the fact that it is a bunch of white men, many of them slaveholders, spouting these high ideals, that makes you cringe. Watching others express those views somehow makes them more acceptable, though I am sure was not the intent. The only part of the play where the alternate casting did add was at the beginning and end when the actors slip into, or out of, the colonial accoutrements they wear through most of the show. That was a subtle and effective reminder that the outcome of the debates in 1776 still resonate with us today. 

That being said, it is hard to imagine the play being presented with traditional casting. The dilemmas being dramatized, and the aftermath of the decisions made, are too well known to enjoy watching white men alternate between rousing speech making and clever show tunes. The excellent mixed cast made that palatable, if not enlightening.

The stakes in Baz Luhrmann’s Elvis are not near as weighty, but it is still the depiction of a story that may be better known than that of the Continental Congress. How do you bring fresh insights into the rags to riches tale of the boy that made rock and roll the dominant musical genre? Can you make the audience understand what the pressures must have been must in the eye of that hurricane?

Luhrmann takes the odd tack of telling the story through the lens of Colonel Parker. It keeps us at a distance from the main character, the only one we care a whit about. We sense the push and pull of Elvis’ devotion to his music and his love of family, but it as if we are viewing it from the rafters. We want to know how Elvis reacted to being revived so he could appear on stage, or be on board Elvis’ plane, the Lisa Marie, when he realizes that his career is, and has been, conscripted, but we’re not allowed those pleasures.

Even though neither of these historical retellings was satisfying, I appreciate the effort. It is essential that we constantly reexamine and reevaluate the historical record. It is naïve to assume that any version of historical events is sacrosanct, or that there is easy path of cause and effect that can explain why something occurred.

The signing of the Declaration of Independence is a great example. The official story may be that it was pushed through by a group of like-minded great men with high ideals, pushed to the brink by British perfidy. Or was it a move by aristocrats consumed with their own business interests, calculating that a break with the British empire would free them unwanted economic strictures? Or was the movement towards revolution more grassroots, with ordinary citizens from all walks of life willing to take up guns and fight the British? Does causation differ if we look at Boston merchants, firebrands like Thomas Paine or South Carolina slaveholders?

The Elvis story engenders its own perplexities. What was it that caused Elvis to be such a phenomenon, and what sparked the violent backlash against him? Was it the undoubted sexual vibe that Elvis projected? Was it the black music that he drew from? Was it tied to the conformity of the 1950’s? Was he shacked by the Colonel, or was it as much his own choice?

Part of the on-going response to “woke” culture is an attempt to put our history into a box, especially when it comes to teaching in schools. Following the examples of authoritarian regimes, history is to be viewed as a propaganda tool to instill patriotic fervor. Facts and interpretations that undermine that goal, especially if they are uncomfortable, are to be minimized, or weeded out.

Any such effort to propagandize history will certainly kill it, and maybe that’s the goal. Nothing is more boring than a straight recitation of historical events. History only comes alive when it can be debated. When you try and determine cause and effect. When events are not just facts, but gateways to a broader understanding of where we have been, and how it impacts what we are today.

I don’t remember much about my high school courses, but I do vividly recall Mr. Jay’s 11^th grade history class. He taught history as an on-going discussion to be consistently reevaluated. I recall one assignment in particular when he divided the class into groups and gave each a possible reason for American entry into WWI to support. A bunch of 16-year-olds screaming at each other about whether it was submarine warfare, the Zimmerman telegram or economic interests that led us into war sticks with you, and makes you want to dig deeper.

History is complex, both factually and emotionally. Arguments about what we humans did and why can get heated. Uncomfortable truths about what occurred years ago can lead to demands for action now.* But attempts to shove the past under the carpet are both wrong-headed and ineffectual. So, for all their flaws, bring on more in the spirit of “1776” and “Elvis”. We need it.             

*Shamelessly stolen from George Orwell’s 1984. “He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past.”

*See Ta-Nehisi Coates incredible essay, “The Case for Reparations”.          

The 1755 Lisbon earthquake remains one of the most devastating in recorded history more than 250 years after it wreaked havoc on Portugal. According to Wikipedia, the death toll from that quake has been estimated at around 50,000. The city of Lisbon was basically flattened, as was the surrounding countryside and much of northern Morocco. Innumerable irreplaceable works of art, book collections and historic documents were consumed in the fires that followed.

I thought of the Lisbon quake while reading the news about the earthquake that recently hit Turkey and Syria. Last I read, the death toll from that quake exceeds 45,000, and will no doubt go higher. As with the Lisbon quake, the property damage is extensive, taking in such major locales as the Gaziantep and Kahramanmaraş Provinces in Turkey (home to approximately 3.4 million people). Historic buildings were leveled, and ancient artifacts destroyed. *

The level of the destruction caused by the Turkey earthquake was not what suggested the Lisbon quake. That came when I read a report about the Turkish rescue workers yelling “Allah Akbar”, generally translated as God is Great, whenever they pulled a survivor out of the rubble. Immediately my cynical western mind began to wonder whether those being rescued felt the same. While I sure they were happy to be alive, they were likely facing the loss of family and friends, not to mention most of their possessions. They may agree that God is “great”, as in powerful, but would they think God is “good” considering those losses?

The Lisbon quake sparked that very question. It has been cited as a catalyst for the enlightenment, especially it’s reevaluation of religious beliefs. Voltaire in particular was moved by the devastation of the quake to dispute accepted notions of God’s goodness. His searing satire, Candide, mercilessly skewered the notion that God was a benevolent creator who must have made this “the best of all possible worlds”, as posited by Gottfried Leibniz. He was branded an atheist and a heretic, but the question remained.

This question was dramatized in the 2008 movie “God on Trial”, based on an Elie Wiesel play. In that film internees at Auschwitz debate whether God has broken his covenant with the Jewish people in allowing the Germans to commit genocide. They first pose the generally accepted answer that God must allow people to choose actions that lead to horrible results because of the importance of human freedom of will, but ultimately reject that platitude as unsatisfactory. They continue the debate, ultimately concluding that no, God is not good. Faced with that conclusion, and the question of what to do next, they begin to pray. It is a powerful moment.   

More recently, the Oscar nominated movie “Women Talking”, raised the same issue. In this film, women in a Mennonite-like community have been subjected to horrendous sexual abuse from the men of the commune. They have been instructed by the male leaders that it is their religious duty to forgive the seemingly unforgivable. They debate whether to submit or leave. Though it is not stated as starkly as in God on Trial, underlying the entire discussion is the question of how this could happen in a supposed God-centered community. They are debating not only a pragmatic choice, but the core of their religious beliefs, and their concepts of God.

The ultimate discussion of this question is in the biblical book of Job, arguably the most powerful book in the Jewish and Christian canon. What distinguishes Job is that here God actually responds to the charges. Job is a prosperous farmer known for his piety. “The Adversary”, often translated as Satan, suggests that Job is pious only because he has significant material and personal assets. God gives Satan permission to strip away everything that Job has (family, wealth, health) to see if he still retains his faith.

Job’s neighbors suggest that Job must have done something to deserve the misery that God inflicted upon him, but Job will have none of that. He proclaims his innocence and piety, and we know from the earlier discussion between God and the Adversary that he speaks the truth. It is therefore left for God to speak in his own defense.

God’s answer to Job goes on for over 125 verses. It is hard to read without thinking that the deity doth protest too much. The diatribe is a testament to God’s power, which has not been questioned. It is not, however, a justification of the use of that power to injure an innocent man, unless you buy that might makes right.

Soren Kierkegaard tackled this dilemma by proclaiming the gap between the religious and ethical as a paradox. There is no rational reason that can bridge the gap. It is an absurdity that cannot be reconciled except by a leap of faith. Any search for an explanation is a waste of time, missing the point.    

Job certainly takes this leap of faith. In response to God’s litany Job repents, though it is unclear what he is repenting of, and returns to unquestioningly worshiping God**. This is, to some extent, also the response in “God on Trial” and “Women Talking”. The Jewish internees return to prayer, and the women continue to praise God, even though neither group can reconcile what has happened to them.

I think this attitude explains to a large extent the exultant cry of the Turkish rescuers. They may well understand the religious conundrum they face, just as Job did. However, they have elected to retain faith despite questions that cannot be answered. Most likely many of those pulled from the rubble adopted this same attitude and rejected the Voltairean cynicism as well.

As a child of the enlightenment, it is not so easy for me. The rational predominates. If I cannot explain it, I cannot accept it. I struggle to reconcile the response of Job. I struggle to see any greatness or goodness in these earthquakes, the holocaust or the fate of the women in “Women Talking”. And yet, I appreciate those who maintain a faith that can withstand the worst that can be thrown at them. I respect their steadfastness; I just don’t understand it.

This is just one of those never-ending questions that will plague man forever. There is no right answer, or right response. Maybe you react like the Jewish internees and continue to pray. Or maybe, like Voltaire, you deride the entire notion of goodness in the world. Each of us must decide on our own. As Friedrich Nietzsche said, “When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you”.

*Some accounts suggested that part of the reason that the devastation in Turkey was so extensive was because of Turkey’s notoriously lax building code enforcement. Just saying.

**Job’s wealth and family is restored in a way that seems to suggest that spouses (or at least wives) and children are as fungible as camels and sheep. Somewhat cringeworthy in my book.