“Money ... has often been a cause of the delusion of multitudes. Sober nations have all at once become desperate gamblers, and risked almost their existence upon the turn of a piece of paper. To trace the history of the most prominent of these delusions is the object of the present pages. Men, it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds, while they only recover their senses slowly, and one by one.”
- Charles Mackay in "Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds,” 1841
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
"The Battle of Beirut"
More on "The Battle of Beirut," or "The Afternoon of the Tiny Fist," or as I like to think of it - "The Valentine's Day Menacing"...
Michael Young comments in the Beirut Daily Start on Hitchens' speech at the American University, paying particular attention to the audience. Qifa Nadbki comments on Young's comment. Abu Muqawamma, a former Beirut resident, weighs in. The comments on AM's are particularly interesting. The Exiled rants... ill-informed and fallacious, but fun. No matter the context ("what are the ethics of vandalizing a swastika?"), it is very odd when writers cheer for thugs stomping on a writer's best hand. Unprecedented in my memory.
It should be noted that not a great deal of blood was spilled... but rather a great deal more ink and electrons than blood. No weapons were brandished. Meanwhile in the wake of the Hariri commemoration the city was festive. At the time of the menacing, I was drinking tea at a cafe less than a mile away as bottles of Kefraya were being opened.
May Beirut no longer be a battleground. It's a wonderful city. Go see for yourself.
Michael Young comments in the Beirut Daily Start on Hitchens' speech at the American University, paying particular attention to the audience. Qifa Nadbki comments on Young's comment. Abu Muqawamma, a former Beirut resident, weighs in. The comments on AM's are particularly interesting. The Exiled rants... ill-informed and fallacious, but fun. No matter the context ("what are the ethics of vandalizing a swastika?"), it is very odd when writers cheer for thugs stomping on a writer's best hand. Unprecedented in my memory.
It should be noted that not a great deal of blood was spilled... but rather a great deal more ink and electrons than blood. No weapons were brandished. Meanwhile in the wake of the Hariri commemoration the city was festive. At the time of the menacing, I was drinking tea at a cafe less than a mile away as bottles of Kefraya were being opened.
May Beirut no longer be a battleground. It's a wonderful city. Go see for yourself.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The Valentine's Day Menacing
... or Christopher Hitchens and the battle of Beirut... may be read at my Standpoint magazine blog here.
Monday, February 23, 2009
More on the Plimp
On Beirut soon, but meanwhile more Plimpton while he's on my mind...
For a few years at Paris Review I worked in a little office upstairs between George’s and the billiards room of his apartment. His assistant Antonio, though not much of a Star Trek fan, used to call these offices "The Bridge." When George would fly off to Omaha or wherever to give a speech I’d slip in to his capacious office and sit at his desk. Above it hung a framed letter from Hemingway and a verse collaboration between pugilist Cassius Clay (later M. Ali) and poet Marianne Moore that George had set them one evening at Toots Schorr's saloon. I'd sit at his desk, spin in his chair, sort of like a kid trying on his father’s shoes. Then I’d prepare to make my Important Call.
One day George had gone off and left a large book sitting open in the center of the desk. Well, well, I thought, what have we here? Handwriting... a diary... George’s diary. Open. Of course I had to look.
In the very center of the page that he'd left open, he'd written: “When one goes on a journey of self-exploration, one should go heavily armed. – Verlaine.”
So George.
For a few years at Paris Review I worked in a little office upstairs between George’s and the billiards room of his apartment. His assistant Antonio, though not much of a Star Trek fan, used to call these offices "The Bridge." When George would fly off to Omaha or wherever to give a speech I’d slip in to his capacious office and sit at his desk. Above it hung a framed letter from Hemingway and a verse collaboration between pugilist Cassius Clay (later M. Ali) and poet Marianne Moore that George had set them one evening at Toots Schorr's saloon. I'd sit at his desk, spin in his chair, sort of like a kid trying on his father’s shoes. Then I’d prepare to make my Important Call.
One day George had gone off and left a large book sitting open in the center of the desk. Well, well, I thought, what have we here? Handwriting... a diary... George’s diary. Open. Of course I had to look.
In the very center of the page that he'd left open, he'd written: “When one goes on a journey of self-exploration, one should go heavily armed. – Verlaine.”
So George.
A Lesson from the Master - George Plimpton
I've been away, on a research trip to Beirut, Lebanon, about which I'll be posting soon. Now back in London, I've been reading off-piste to unwind, mostly Nelson Aldrich's "George, Being George," an oral biography of my old boss at The Paris Review literary magazine in New York. I include here now a story I told Nelson for his book, about Plimpton's attempt to teach me a great lesson in life.
It was a time when 541 East 72nd Street was not such a happy place, and all manner of diverse gossip swirled. Even, so I gathered, about me... patently false rumors I should add. At the time I found such loose talk upsetting. For his part, George tried to teach me to make a practice of ignoring gossip... some of which of course he'd no doubt had a hand in unleashing. I was chatting with him in his office where he adopted a sage-like pose in his Eames chair and offered this bit of wisdom: "James, halitosis is better than no breath at all."
Huh? I said.
"You know," he said, smiling conspiratorially, "just as long as they're talking about you..." All I could do was shake my head and pout. Then one night, a drink with a young woman from Random House that turned into a sort of date. Midway through dinner, she stopped eating, stared at me intently and asked “Is it true you procure black transvestites for George Plimpton?" I burst out laughing. It was just so absurd. But at the same time, oddly, I suddenly had a light feeling, of some weird freedom. I realized there was little you could do to control that kind of thing, and better just to learn to let it slide off your back. The next morning I bounded up the stairs to George’s office to tell him that he had, after all, been right. Well, I did begin to tell him and he absolutely hit the roof—“She said WHAT?!” Who is this woman?”
I had to back out of his office saying, "Halitosis! George, remember halitosis!"
It was a time when 541 East 72nd Street was not such a happy place, and all manner of diverse gossip swirled. Even, so I gathered, about me... patently false rumors I should add. At the time I found such loose talk upsetting. For his part, George tried to teach me to make a practice of ignoring gossip... some of which of course he'd no doubt had a hand in unleashing. I was chatting with him in his office where he adopted a sage-like pose in his Eames chair and offered this bit of wisdom: "James, halitosis is better than no breath at all."
Huh? I said.
"You know," he said, smiling conspiratorially, "just as long as they're talking about you..." All I could do was shake my head and pout. Then one night, a drink with a young woman from Random House that turned into a sort of date. Midway through dinner, she stopped eating, stared at me intently and asked “Is it true you procure black transvestites for George Plimpton?" I burst out laughing. It was just so absurd. But at the same time, oddly, I suddenly had a light feeling, of some weird freedom. I realized there was little you could do to control that kind of thing, and better just to learn to let it slide off your back. The next morning I bounded up the stairs to George’s office to tell him that he had, after all, been right. Well, I did begin to tell him and he absolutely hit the roof—“She said WHAT?!” Who is this woman?”
I had to back out of his office saying, "Halitosis! George, remember halitosis!"
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