Search results matching tag 'jim cullen'

Powerfully obscure

Anonymous — Mon, 06 May 2013 09:50:00 GMT

In The Forgotten Presidents: Their Untold Constitutional Legacy, Michael J. Gerhardt, tries, not altogether successfully, to make people like Franklin Pierce and Calvin Coolidge interesting

The following review has been posted on the Books page of the History News Network.

In The Forgotten Presidents, University of North Carolina law school professor Michael J. Gerhardt looks at a dozen presidents, beginning with Martin Van Buren and ending with Jimmy Carter, and argues that each had more of an impact than many people -- not simply a public at large that may only be vaguely familiar with their names, but also professional historians more likely to interested in more prominent figures -- and suggests their impact has been greater than is commonly recognized. As his subtitle makes clear, Gerhardt is not arguing that these presidents had compelling personalities, or that their political gifts or tactics were especially notable. Instead, he argues that each made essentially administrative decisions that either marked a precedent in the history of the presidency itself or quickened a tendency in the nature of office. Much of Gerhardt's analysis focuses on topics like presidential appointments, vetoes, and relationships with other branches of government, especially the courts and the U.S. Senate.

Insofar as there's a narrative trajectory in this series of profiles, it's that presidents of all times and parties have tended to guard and strengthen the prerogatives of the office. To be sure, there have been any number that have been avowedly in favor of limited government. But, as Gerhardt shows, these figures (Van Buren, Franklin Pierce, Grover Cleveland the first time around) are among the least successful in U.S. history. He also shows that the two Whig presidents elected to office, William Henry Harrison and Zachary Taylor, began their terms avowing deference to the legislative branch, in large measure as a reaction to the perceived high-handedness of Andrew Jackson. But both men, as well as the vice presidents (John Tyler and Millard Fillmore) who succeeded them, found this theory of government wanting. Indeed, even those executives who did profess a federalist approach to governing, from Cleveland to Coolidge, nevertheless fought hard to maintain and extend their power in their own domain when it came to things like removing cabinet officers or naming Supreme Court justices. And others, notably Cleveland the second time around -- he gets two separate chapters for each of his administrations -- became increasingly convinced of the need for presidential initiative in lawmaking.

Gerhardt is a scrupulous scholar who explores some compelling byways of presidential history; we learn, for example, that Carter, not Barack Obama, was the first president to confront the prospect of government default -- twice. But on the whole, this is pretty dry stuff, rendered in a pretty dry way (Gerhardt tends to list implications of presidential histories in lists with paragraphs that begin, "First," "Second," and so on). A little more context might also have been nice. For example, Gerhardt draws a series of contrasts between William Howard Taft and his mentor, Theodore Roosevelt, but the effect of of his emphasis on Taft's belief in limited government leads wonder to wonder why he wasn't a latter-day Jacksonian Democrat instead of a progressive Republican -- or, if he wasn't really progressive, why Roosevelt was so keen to have him as his successor. We sometimes lose the forest amid the trees.

Perhaps it's useful to end where we began: with Gerhardt's emphasis on law and policy rather than politics and personality. Though the book is organized in such a way that seems to emphasize individuals, the real story here is more about the presidency itself than the people who held the job. As such, The Forgotten Presidents makes a point worth remembering.

Record profits

Anonymous — Thu, 02 May 2013 12:33:00 GMT

In Democracy of Sound: Music Piracy and the Remaking of American Copyright in the Twentieth Century, Alex Sayf Cummings traces churning tides of freedom in the business of distributing music

The following review has been posted on the Books page of the History News Network.

It seems like it was so much easier in aristocratic societies: artists had patrons to support them, and those who paid the fiddlers called, paid for, and owned the tunes. But in capitalist societies, there is apparently no end to the complications of who owns what and what those on the receiving end of art can and cannot do. Nowhere have the issues been more complicated than in music. Copyright was essentially an invention of print culture, and for most of modern history, the written word was a physical object. Not so music. For a while, it seemed its essence could be captured as sheet music. But the advent of recorded sound raised nettlesome -- and, at times, profound -- questions about what the essence of music really is. In Democracy of Sound, Alex Sayf offers a detailed narrative account of how the issues became so complicated -- and how, in the face of corporate pressure, they're becoming brutally simple.

Cummings begins his story with the wax cylinders and tin foil of early recording in the late nineteenth century (some sound innovations date back to earlier in the century, but their inventors were not in a position to commercially exploit them). The first major piece of legislation to affect recorded music dates from the Copyright Act of 1909, signed by Theodore Roosevelt on his last day in office. Under the law, musical compositions could be copyrighted. But recordings could not. Moreover, anyone could record and sell a rival version of a musical composition, as long as a flat-rate royalty was paid to the composer.

Naturally, record companies were unhappy about this. But they found other things to be unhappy about as well. Bootleggers recorded live shows they sold to the public, which jostled alongside commercially released recordings. Pirates reproduced cheaper copies (in multiple senses of term) of contractually sanctioned recordings and undercut their sales. Collectors resurrected out-of-print titles and sold them to devotees. Exactly how much damage such practices caused is impossible to calculate. Whatever the estimate, one can also make a decent case that they actually fostered sales by introducing (or re-introducing) music to buyers in ways that might otherwise not have happened.

That said, it became increasingly clear by the second half of the twentieth century that a musical recording was more than a mechanical process and indeed was a source of artistry in its own right. As a piece of songwriting (i.e. a set of chords, a melody, and some hokey lyrics), "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" is not all that remarkable a piece of music. But executed in two versions that bookend a suite of songs whose whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and rendered as an aural experience marked by any number of sound effects, the song forms the core of a landmark work in the history of popular music. By the early 1970s, Congress and the courts were increasingly receptive to such logic, a tendency that crystallized with the passage of the Copyright Act 1976, which established a new benchmark of protection for records.

This legal turn signaled some ominous developments, however. "American copyright had always been utilitarian in nature, designed to 'promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts," Cummings writes, citing the Constitution. "The new way of thinking emphasized protection of capital outlays, of established businesses like like record labels, rather than incentives." Earning back investment, not sustaining innovation, was now the point. Corporations needed to exploit hits in order to finance the misses; those who tried to make money any other way were skimming the cream. And amid the strong libertarian currents running through the U.S. and global economy generally, this profit imperative became increasingly insistent.

But it also ran headlong into what may be termed the file-sharing sensibility of the early 21st century. Nowhere has the conflict been more evident than in the world of hip-hop, a quintessentially postmodern idiom whose signal artistic strategy is sampling other musical works. The more the record industry has tries to clamp down on this -- notwithstanding the way it often serves as a kind of farm system for up-and-coming talent -- the more it has strained credibility among its customers. The people caught in the middle are artists, who tend to react ambivalently: they like the exposure, but they'd like money, too. Given the fact that it's the big behemoths, not the little guys, who actually own the rights to most of this music, it's hard to feel that honoring record company wishes is truly the most honorable thing.

Cummings's own sympathies in this conflict are clear enough: he recognizes there are dilemmas, but tends to side with those who think music wants to be free. "Piracy may not kill music," he notes, "but history may record that it killed the twentieth-century music industry." If so, there will clearly be some losers, not all of them big business. But there will always be people around who are willing and able to make sound investments. For such people, Cummings has provided a usable, musical past.

All about the Benjamins

Anonymous — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 10:28:00 GMT

The Horace Chronicles, #6

September 30

Dear Maya,

Today Mr. Smith told a story. I recorded it on my phone (I've been doing this lately; he says it's OK).

"So I want to tell you about two people," he said about halfway through class about the fights between the British and French in the colonies in the 1700s. "One is an old woman named Silence Dogood. The other is a young kid -- your age, actually -- named Benjamin Franklin."

"You mean the guy on the $100 bill?" Carl asked.

"Right. Except this is when he was a teenager."

"He was never a teenager," Hannah said. "Teenagers hadn't been invented yet."

"Well, you're right about that. Teenagers are only about a hundred years old. Still, Benjamin Franklin was 16 once. So, for that matter, was I."

"You were not." (It is a little hard to picture, Maya.)

Liz raised her hand. Mr. Smith nodded. "What was the old woman's name again?"

"Silence Dogood."

"That doesn't sound like a real name."

"You're right, Liz: it isn't. Actually, the old woman based her name on two books by a famous preacher named Cotton Mather, who was a real big shot in colonial Boston. One was called "Silentarius.' The other was called 'Essays to Do Good."

"So what does she have to do with Benjamin Franklin?" Carl asked.

"Well, I should start by saying that Benjamin Franklin came from a large family. And he was among the youngest. So his father didn't have a lot of money to pay for his schooling. So he apprenticed the boy to his oldest brother James, who was a printer. Anybody remember how the apprentice thing worked?"

Evan Thompson, who switched into the class after the first week, raised his hand. "That's when you worked for someone for seven years and learned a job."

"Right. So Benjamin Franklin was working for his brother. James Franklin published a newspaper called The New England Courant. The Courant was really the first independent newspaper in the colonies, which is to day that it practiced freedom of the press. Which meant it sometimes criticized the colonies authorities. One of whom was the Reverend Cotton Mather." Mr. Smith paused to drink some coffee. He looked around the room. We were with him -- partly because he did that. It created a little suspense.

"Cotton Mather, for example, had a crazy idea. He thought -- get this -- that you could prevent a dangerous disease like smallpox, which once killed millions of people, by actually infecting them with a mild form of it, but sticking the germs into a cut. That you could, to use a technical term, 'inoculate' them."

"Crazy man, crazy," Carl said. He was really into it today. Maybe he got some extra sleep or had a good breakfast or something.

"Well, James Franklin said it was crazy. He also said that colonial authorities were too lax in going after pirates. Which landed his *** in jail."

"Pirates?" This from Deana.

"Yes, pirates. They were common in those days. French, Spanish, even the English did it. Lots of money to be made by raiding ships of rival nations. And there were lots of ships going in and out of Boston. It was the largest port in North America at the time."

"The seniors are going to have Pirate Day next week."

Mr. Smith ignored this. "James Franklin wasn't in jail long. And it didn't stop him from tweaking the Boston authorities. So he was pleased when he began getting a series of articles slipped under his door by this old woman, Silence Dogood. She made fun of Harvard students, local ministers, and the like. She was a widow who made clear she wouldn't mind getting married again. She even got some marriage offers."

"Did she get married again?" Hannah asked.

"No."

"Why not? Was she good-looking?"

"No."

Hannah squinted. "How do you know?"

"Well, actually, I kind of do know," he answered. "Good-looking, yes, I think so. But not a she. Silence Dogood was not actually an old woman. She was an adolescent boy named Benjamin Franklin."

I think Mr. Smith expected a laugh or some sense of surprise. But we didn't say anything.

"Young Franklin had written the pieces anonymously. And there were very popular. So his brother was upset when they stopped coming. But when he found it it was his kid brother, he got mad. So Ben ran away. To the new and rapidly growing city of Philadelphia." Another sip of coffee and a glance at the clock. Class was almost over; Dave was moving stuff around on his desk.

"So what do you make of this guy?"

"He was smart," Carl said. "Funny."

"Does he seem like the guy on the $100 bill?"

"Not really. So what happened next?"

"What do you think happened?"

"I dunno. He wrote the Declaration of Independence?"

"No. That was mostly Thomas Jefferson. Besides, it's 1723, and that's over fifty years away."

"Wow. He was old."

"By then, yes. But Franklin did a lot before that. We'll talk more about it tomorrow."

So there you have it Maya, Ben Franklin, teenager. He was probably too cool for the likes of us. But I like hm anyway.

One messed-up poem

Anonymous — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 15:01:00 GMT

The Horace Chronicles, #5

September 22

Dear Maya,

For the past couple days we’d been learning about slavery. Mr. Smith had us read about stuff like the Triangular Trade. He explained how slavery was different in North America than it was in South America (apparently North American slaves had it a little better because the weather was better and they got more food – if they managed to survive the trip over). He explained that things in the English colonies got worse for slaves around 1700 than they’d been in 1600 because the slave owners were getting nervous about poorer white people and thought they might keep them from getting too mad by making them feel at least they weren’t black. That whole Bacon's Rebellion thing which I mentioned in my paper.I found this stuff interesting. But I think Carl was getting bored, and some other kids were too. Yesterday I saw more kids staring out the window than I’d ever seen in this class. Almost as bad as English, where we were trudging through The Tempest. I think the idea was to have the English and History doing similar stuff, but it just wasn't working. Ms. Guzman went so slow. I also hated reading the play online, but I wasn't going to pay $5 for it, and I definitely wasn't going to ask my dad.

So I was a little surprised when Mr. Smith called up some poetry on the Smart Board. “OK, kids,” he said, putting down a mug of steaming coffee. “Today I have something for us to read. As you can see, it’s a poem by Phillis Wheatley—’’

“—her name is spelled wrong,” Hannah said. “My great aunt’s name is Phyllis. Shouldn’t this one have a Y in it?”

“She was named after the slave ship that brought her to America.”

“Well it’s still spelled wrong.”

“People were less fussy about spelling in those days,” Mr. Smith said. He picked up his coffee again. Reminds me of a hundred years later, when Andrew Jackson, who some people thought was illiterate, said he couldn’t respect a man who knew only one way to spell a word.” Mr. Smith sipped his coffee. I think he expected people to laugh, but no one did.

He put the mug back down. “Anyway, Wheatley was a slave—’’

“—Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Yes, Deana. As I was saying—“

“—Can I go too?”

“When Deana gets back. Wheatley was a slave—“

“Wait: a poet who was a slave?” This from Danny Kaiser.

I thought Mr. Smith would be mad to be interrupted again. Instead, he smiled. “You got a problem with that, Danny?”

“No. I mean, it’s just . . . it’s just a little weird. I thought slaves did like hard labor.”

“You thought right. As we’ll see, if we can ever get to the poem, that this Phillis Wheatley, no 'y,' was a pretty unusual woman. She was born in West Africa some time around 1730, and came to Boston. She wrote this poem around 1750 when she was about 20 years old. But let’s put aside the details for a moment. What you see here is the whole poem. Who wants to read it?”

Liz Ling’s hand shot up. “All right, Liz,” Mr. Smith said, “go at it.” I shot a look at Jasmin Randall, who is black. I wondered what she was going to make of this. Her face was blank, looking at the board. Lisa read:

'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,

Taught my benighted soul to understand

That there's a God, that there's a Saviourtoo:

Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.

Some view our sable race with scornful eye,

"Their colour is a diabolic die."

Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,

May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.

“That is one messed-up poem,” Danny said.

“How’s that, Danny?”

“She’s saying she’s glad to be a slave!

“Where does she say that?” asked Mr. Smith, reaching for his mug again. He didn’t look at Danny when he asked, which I think made the question seem less in-your-face

“She’s saying it was mercy that brought her here! It’s like she’s been brainwashed or something.

Mr. Smith put the mug down. Deana came in. Michaela went out. “We all agree then? The poet is a messed up, brainwashed slave?”

Silence. I kinda thought Danny was right, even as I suspected he was somehow wrong. Jasmin's face was blank.

“Maybe she’s been brainwashed by Jesus.” It was Hannah. She always seemed to be the one to break the silence, as much out of impatience as anything else.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Smith asked in that even way of his. “How does Jesus figure into it?”

“Well, she says ‘there’s a God and a Saviour too,’ doesn’t she?”

“Yes she does. You think she’s wrong, Hannah?”

“How do I know?”

“Well, how does anybody? She apparently believes that Jesus Christ is her Saviour. Do you?”

“Well, if you’re into that kind of thing, I guess. It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Whether you believe in God or whatever.”

“What I’m asking is whether you do.”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes, Hannah. I’m asking you.”

Hannah seemed confused and annoyed. “I don’t know,” she said. It’s clear she wanted Mr. Smith to stop. I wondered if he would. But then Danny came to her rescue.

“I don’t,” he said. “I’m Jewish. But I don’t really believe in God, either.”

“Well that makes sense, then.”

“What do you mean?” It was Carl. I guess he had decided to follow the conversation. He seemed a little suspicious of what Mr. Smith was saying about Danny.

“If you don’t believe in God or Jesus, then hearing someone say she became a slave was a blessing wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense. Of course, one of the things she’s saying here is that she was once just like Danny. She didn’t believe, either. But now that she does, she’s experienced a ‘redemption’ she neither sought nor knew. What does ‘redemption’ mean?”

“Like in bottles?” It was Deana. I wondered if that was a serious answer, and whether she was thinking of the bottle-cap thing Mr. Smith did on the first day of school, which seemed like a long time ago already.

“Kind of," he said. "What happens when you redeem a bottle at the supermarket?”

“You get a nickel back,” she said.

“Right. You get paid back. You think the narrator of this poem is being paid back?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“With a nickel?”

“No,” Carl said, taking over for Deana. “With heaven.”

“So she believes and she goes to heaven. Belief is a good investment.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Hmmm,” Mr. Smith said, stealing a sip of coffee. “What would the Puritans say about that?”

Liz raised her hand. Mr. Smith nodded.

“They’d say she’s wrong. You’re not supposed to try and get to heaven by believing.”

“Is that what she’s doing, Liz?”

Lisa paused. You could see her thinking. “I guess not. It sort of happened to her. She said she wasn’t looking for it. It just happened.”

“Right. The grace was irresistibly conferred on her, just like the Puritans said it should be. Actually, they said it had to be that way: faith is a gift you receive, not something you just go ahead and take, or decide to go after, for that matter. After all, you can’t make yourself love somebody. It’s something that happens to you. Who knows: maybe faith will be irresistibly conferred on Danny someday.”

“Yeah, right.” But Danny was talking to himself. Mr. Smith had turned his back and was walking back to the Smart Board. He stood next to the poem. “Let me ask you something else,” he said. “Who is this poem addressing? Who is she trying to reach?”

Silence. Mr. Smith offered an answer: “Other slaves?”

“No,” Carl said. “They can’t read.”

“Right. So who, then?”

More silence. I decided to say something. “Well, she says ‘Remember, Christians.’”

“Right. Read that line again, Theo.”

“Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain/May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.”

“What is she saying?”

“She’s saying that Christians should remember that black people can get to heaven too.”

“But are black people Christians?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Even though they’re ‘diabolic,’ which is to say from the devil?”

“Sure.”

“Sure, Theo? Is it really that obvious?”

“To me it is.” Was Jasmin looking at me? I was afraid to check.

“How nice for you.” (That felt like a slap, Maya.) “But what about the people she’s talking to?”

“I guess not.”

“No, it wasn’t obvious. But here’s one other complication. She says Negroes are just like Cain. Who was Cain?”

“I learned about him in Hebrew school,” Danny jumped in. He’s the guy who killed Abel.

“Right. And God condemned him to exile. Just like slaves are in exile in America. Because Cain was a sinner. Like we’re all sinners. Black people and white people alike.” Mr. Smith scanned the room. Then he looked up at the clock.

“One last thing. The poet describes her race as ‘sable.’ Anybody know what ‘sable’ means?”

“My grandfather drives one,” Deana said. “A Mercury Sable. He keeps it very clean.”

“What color is it?” Mr. Smith asks.

“Red."

“***.” Mr. Smith smiled. “ ‘Sable actually means black. It’s a kind of animal with black fur. The fur trade, as you may remember from last week, was a big business in the colonies. So ‘sable’ is a byword for quality, almost a brand like Apple. So she’s describing her fellow people as valuable, which of course they were from an economic standpoint in the slave trade. Do you think that’s what she means?”

Again, no answer. But I think we all understood the answer was no.

“Maybe Danny is right: she really was brainwashed. But whether or not she was, I hope you can also see she was pretty sharp. I hope you agree that there’s a lot going on here, more than we can really get at. Tonight’s homework is on the web page. See you tomorrow.”

It was a good class, Maya. But the thing I kept thinking about was something Mr. Smith said in passing: “You can’t make yourself love somebody. It’s something that happens to you.” Is that all there is to say? Is it really that simple? Not to get carried away, but that seems like another form of slavery. Maybe I should rebel. But I just don’t want to.

Shortcomings

Anonymous — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 12:59:00 GMT

The Horace Chronicles, #4

September 15

Dear Maya,

I paid a visit to Mr. Smith's office on Friday morning. We had a DBQ -- a Document-Based Question -- to write an essay about. All the documents (they were more like little pieces from bigger documents) related to the English colonies in the 1600s. We read the documents for homework, spent a day talking about them, and now we were supposed to write the essay. So much for my weekend.

"C'mon in, Theo," Mr. Smith said as I came into his office. "Glad you came by."

I have to say, Maya, that sounded a little like ***: glad I came by? He didn't seem like a guy who said stuff like that. But I was seeing him outside the classroom. Maybe he's different when he's not teaching. Though I figure he'd be less fake, not more fake.

Since Mr. Smith is the chairman of the History Department, he has his own little cubicle. He's a got a desk with lots of pictures -- his family, I guess, though I couldn't see too much from where I was standing. I also saw a pack of cigarettes. Did he really smoke? There was a chair behind his desk, so I went there and sat down, unslinging my backpack and getting out my laptop.

"So what can I do for you, Theo?"

"Well, I was hoping to get some help with the essay. I think I know what I want to say, but I wasn't sure if it's what you're looking for, this being our first major assignment and all."

"All right, then. Let's hear it." He leaned back a little in his chair, which is fancier than the one in the classroom.

"OK. So the question says, 'Although New England the Chesapeake region were both settled by people of English origin, by 1700 the two regions had evolved into distinct societies. Why did this development occur?'"

"Right."

"So I thought I would say it happened because they were different kinds of people. The New Englanders were like more community based, and the Chesapeake people were individualists."

"Sounds reasonable to me. That's your thesis?"

"Yeah."

"And how do you plan to support that thesis?" He seemed to be in a good mood.

"Well, I was going to use documents like B and C. Document B has the list of people on the ship to Massachusetts, and they're like all different kinds of people -- men and women, young and old, different jobs. Document C has the list of people going to Virginia and they're all young men."

"Right. Single men. We talked about this in class. What else?"

"There's Document F, where John Smith is saying that if the men won't work they don't eat, which means they're having trouble getting along. Document A is where John Winthrop talks about a city on the hill where everybody needs to stick together." Also, Documents G and H talk about Bacon's Rebellion, where the governor is saying he can't help the settlers against the Indians and Bacon is talking about the rich people as sponges sucking up all the money."

"Right. I think he calls them parasites, too. I love that passage. Nathaniel Bacon was one slick customer." Mr. Smith swiveled his chair back to his desk, opened a folder, and brought back some papers before swiveling back. "Well, it sounds like you have your story straight, Theo. So what's the problem?"

"Well, I just want to know if that sounds OK with you."

He nodded yes, but his eyes were looking down and pursing his lips. He was making me nervous. He looked back up at me. "So I take it you like New England better, am I right, Theo?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"If you were born back in the seventeenth century, that's where you'd rather be."

"I mean, yeah. Should I say that?"

"Let me ask you something," he said, almost squinting at me. "Are you buying that line that John Winthrop is selling you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've got the DBQ here," he said, gesturing with the papers. "Listen to this: 'We must delight in each other; make others’ conditions our own; rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work, as members of the same body.' There's a lot of this kind of language here, is there not?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Well, I mean, if I was to say to you, 'You are going to to finish this essay on time, are you not, Theo? And write it in multiple drafts? And check your spelling? You will be careful, won't you Theo?' And you are going to finish this, right?' If I was to say that to you, what would you think?

"You'd be thinking that I might not finish it. That you didn't trust me."

"Exactly. So here's John Winthrop saying over and over again: You better behave, people! Don't screw up! Because if you do, everyone is going to laugh at us. Because if we *** up, we will 'open the mouths of enemies to speak evil of the ways of God.'"

That's right, Maya. He said "***."

But he didn't seem to notice, moving right into his next question: "And what about Document D?"

That's the one about wages and prices?"

"Yes. Where the government is telling people how much they should pay for things. Would you like to live in a society like that? All those busybody Puritans were a bunch of control freaks, don't you think?"

I was getting annoyed. I felt like he was telling me what to think. But I didn't think I should say that. "I guess I should change my thesis."

"No, Theo, I'm not telling you to change your thesis. Your thesis is fine. What I am telling you is to try to think about another point of view when you write an essay like this."

"But won't that weaken it?"

"No. It will strengthen it."

"But won't I be contradicting myself?"

"Not if you do it right."

"So how do I do it right?"

"Well, now, Theo, that's what I want you to try and figure out. But I will say this: It's possible to say you like something, even that you love something, while at the same time noting that it has its shortcomings. A point of view doesn't have to be perfect to be the best one. That's the kind of thing I'd like to see you get the hang of. You think you can do that?"

"I think so." I think that's what he wanted to hear.

"Don't sound so sure," he said, chuckling. "I'm nudging you here a little, Theo. You're stronger than you know. You came here to get reassurance, but you're leaving here with a challenge. Consider that a compliment."

"Thanks?"

He laughed now: I made a joke and he got it.

"Tell me a little about yourself, Theo. Where do you live?"

"Over in Donald Park."

He nodded. "And what do your folks do?"

"My mom, she's a nurse over at St. Luke's. My dad works for Margate."

"Oh yeah? What does he do for Margate?"

"I don't really know. He has something to do with the business side."

"Maybe you should ask him some time. You have brothers or sisters?"

"Nope. Just me." I paused, then I said: "What about you?"

He was surprised. "Me? I have an older sister. She's a lawyer in Boston. My dad was an English teacher and the principal of a high school.

I wanted to ask more, but wasn't sure if I should. Where did he live? Was he married? Why was he a history teacher? But I was afraid of asking the wrong thing.

"Well, Theo, I think you have plenty here to work with. Stick to that thesis you have and try to round it out with counterargument. I think you're in good shape."

He wanted me to go. "Thanks, Mr. Smith. Have a good weekend."

"You too, Theo." He smiled and then swiveled back to his desk. I packed up my laptop. I wanted to say goodbye but I didn't want to interrupt him, so I left without saying anything else.

Later, lying in bed, I thought about that line he said: it's possible to like something, even love something, while saying it has shortcomings. But I never figured out that you had any, Maya. So what was I supposed to do? I would have liked to hear what Mr. Smith had to say about that. But I didn't know how to ask.

Pouring

Anonymous — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 14:27:00 GMT

The Horace Chronicles, #3

in which we see a teacher make an opening move

September 5

Dear Maya,

The first day of school was really long, because it was really hot. By the end of first period I could feel the sweat trickle down the back of the new Beatles vintage Abbey Road t-shirt my mother got me at Target. Mr. Alfonsin took mercy on us for gym, saying it was too humid to try and do much, and let those of us who wanted to throw a basketball around. At lunch Janito and I grabbed a piece of pizza and went outside to the upper field, where a breeze was beginning to blow. By eighth period some really thick clouds began to roll in and you could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. When I went into room H-234 for Mr. Smith’s class big wet drops began sneaking in under the open windows. Storms like this usually came later in the day.

When I got there a couple kids had already arrived, and Mr. Smith was sitting at his desk. He had He had on light brown pants, and a green shirt. His gray hair covered his head, but it was also kind of thin, like a halo rising off it. There was a bottle of water on the desk, a stack of textbooks, and a book he was reading really intently. It was battered and thick and had Post-It notes coming out the sides. I staked out my usual position on the near the front of the room but on the side, close enough to feel those drops.

This was my first time in H-234, which was known as Mr. Smith’s room. There was a lot of stuff tacked to the walls – a yellowed front page from the day after Obama got elected; a picture of Central Park in the snow; postcards from all over the United States. There was also a map of the North America in 1733, a poster of Silence of the Lambs, and another from Gone with the Wind, which surprised me because I thought that was a movie about how great slavery was. There were also lots of index cards with words on them that I couldn’t read from where I was sitting. I’d have a look at them later.

“Fifty two minutes and counting.” It was Carl Shamsky, whose books landed with a thud as he sat down next to me. I saw one of them was American Pageant, a book I was supposed to order online and forgot to. ***. I saw a lot of kids already had it. And my Dad would be ***. “How’s it hangin,’ Theo?”

“Hey Carl.” I never much liked Carl, Maya, but I can’t quite figure out why. Something about the way he always seems to want your attention. But I don’t know if that’s fair. Particularly since I was probably going to need to borrow his book.

“Hey, isn’t Janito supposed to be in this class?” he asked.

“No, he had to switch into Clark because of the jazz band.”

“Oh, that sucks. My sister had Clark. I had Dyson. She was OK. So was Bergmann. Of course anybody is better than Pavlak. I had him for earth science and he was unbelievably . . .”

I tuned Carl out and surveyed the rest of the room. A few faces I recognized, but nobody I’d really consider a friend. Alan Greenberg was there in back, sitting next to Derek Thompson. They looked hot, tired, and wishing they were anywhere else. I also saw Deana Michaelis, Hannah Wise and Lee Agnelli – the Mean Girls of Hudson High – giggling over something, probably making fun of someone. Probably me. On the other side of the room was a girl I knew from English last year, Liz Ling. She said some interesting things in class, but I never talked with her outside class. You’d probably like her, Maya.

Just then a big flash of lightning lit up the sky outside. The Mean Girls shrieked – you could tell they just liked the sound of their own voices. I’m not sure whether it was the light or the noise that led Mr. Smith to look up from his book and look up at the clock at the wall behind me (I always sit with it behind me, Maya – I can’t stand watching it crawl.) He closed the book and stood up, taking us in. Just then a big crack of thunder led the Mean Girls to go off again. Mr. Smith pursed his lips waiting for both to pass without comment. I thought that was interesting, but I wondered it the girls would take it as weakness.

“Hi kids,” he said quietly, walking around to the front of his desk, folding his arms, and waiting for the chatter to subside, as it did. He used his head to gesture the board behind him. “I’m Horace Smith. Welcome to 11^th grade AP U.S. History. As you know, we have a test coming up at the end of the year, and we’re going to have to keep a good pace. In order for that to happen, I’m going to depend on you to do the reading, which we’ll talk about in class. One thing I’m going to avoid doing, as much as I can, is simply reviewing what’s in the book. That will bore the *** out of me, and, more important, that will bore the *** out of you.”

Can you remember a teacher using the word “***” in class, Maya?

“Truth is,” he said, "we have a limited amount of maneuver here. I have a job to do, which is getting you ready for that test, and your job is to prepare for it too. Actually, I suppose you have multiple jobs to do – this course is one of many you’re taking, and you’ve got whatever else you might have going on. The team, the play, whatever. To some extent, our interests overlap – we both want you to do well – and to some degree they don’t. I’m probably going to want more work out of you than you feel is necessary, and at least some of you will figure out loopholes. I, for my part, am not supposed to give every one of you an A, so you’re not only competing against each other but against my professional standards and my memory of the kids who have come before you.”

I stole a glance around the room. Everybody was paying attention, even the Mean Girls. I don’t think they were used to be talked to this way. I bit my lip to hold back a smile I feared would turn into a laugh.

“Anyway.” He dropped his arms to his sides. “I know it’s hot – the rain should help, but I know you’re all tired. Your homework tonight is Chapter One, the whole thing. I figure you’ve had the whole summer off and might as well jump right in.” He looked a little awkward, even apologetic, his hands on his calves. Then, suddenly, he tapped them. “Just one thing I want to go over before I let you go.”

He turned, a little abruptly, and sat again at his desk. He reached over and grabbed his bottle of water. This was the first time he was drinking it – I could hear the cap click.

“I have here an authentic bottle of Poland Spring water,” he said, which sounded a little funny. “You see this?” He held up the cap. “This is one of the new ecologically correct caps that uses less plastic than the old ones. After school today I’m going to take this cap home and add it to my bottle cap collection.”

He paused, his eyes scanning the room for a reaction. Carl’s eyes were furrowed in a what-the-*** kind of look.

“Tell me,” Mr. Smith said, looking down at a piece of paper that I guess what his class list. I think he forgot to take attendance. I saw him silently count the students in the room, make an annotation and look up again. “Deana Michaelis. Where are you?”

“Here?” I turned around to see Deana look startled, then frightened – why was Mr. Smith calling on her? “Tell me, Deana: where you keep your bottle cap collection?”

“My bottle cap collection?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Smith responded, with a touch of impatience. “Your bottle cap collection.” He stood up and started walking toward her.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Deana would have been angry if she wasn’t so scared.

“You don’t know what a bottle cap collection is?”

“No?”

He shifted his gaze. “You: what’s your name?”

“Hannah?”

“You sound about as confident as your pal Deana, Hannah. Want to check and make sure that’s your name?” A few people laughed. I did too, but felt a little guilty. It wasn’t really fair for a teacher to make fun of students like this.

“Well, Hannah, or whatever your name is. Where do you keep yourbottle cap collection? At your beside table, maybe?”

Hannah seemed to decide, without being entirely sure, that this whole thing was a joke. “Um, like, I don’t have a bottle cap collection.”

Mr. Smith looked stunned. “Wait a second,” he said, staring at her, sounding amazed but not entirely serious. “You’re telling me you don’t have a bottle collection?”

Hannah had her confidence back (I was kind of sorry). “Yeah, that’s right. Don’t have one.”

“Wow.” Mr. Smith seemed stunned, unsure what to say or do. Then he turned around suddenly. “What about you?” he said to Carl. “Surely you have a bottle cap collection.”

“Nope.”

“You?” He was looking at me. And, really, Maya, I don’t know where my answer came from. “I sold it on eBay,” I said.

“Whoa,” Mr. Smith said. “Harsh!” But his eyes were dancing. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier about a teacher being happy with me. “Well, tell me something son,” he said. “What’s your name?"

“I’m Theo.”

“Tell me this, Theo. Did your bottle cap collection have one of these eco-friendly Poland Spring caps?”

“Yeah, it did.”

“And one of the older, full size caps?”

“Yes.”

“Any flip tops, like from Dr. Pepper or Pepsico products?”

“Of course.” I was getting into this.

“Yeah, well, my bottle cap collection has one of the old, full-pull off caps from a 1981 can of Budweiser. Don’t even try to tell me you have one of those. And I wouldn’t sell it for a million bucks.”

I didn’t know what to say about that. I did wonder later, though, if tabs were the same thing as caps.

“And what about you?” he asked Dave Trask, who probably smoked a joint at lunch. “Nah, man,” he replied. Don’t save bottle caps. I throw them in the trash.”

“In the trash? You throw them away?”

“Yeah.” Dave wasn’t looking at Mr. Smith. He didn’t seem to know, or care, if Mr. Smith was kidding.

“Don’t you know anything about history?”

Dave looked away, as if he was being hassled, which I guess he was. Mr. Smith walked to his desk and sat down again. There was a long silence. I thought this would bother him. I know I was getting restless.

“What does any of this have to do with history?” Hannah finally asked. I don’t know if she meant to sound jokey/annoyed, but she sounded more mad than funny. “I thought this was AP U.S. history. Why are we talking about bottle caps?”

“Well, now, Hannah, I’m glad you asked. You wonder what bottle caps have to do with history. If we’re going to talk about history what to you think we should talk about?” “I dunno. Books, maybe?"

Mr. Smith didn’t take the bait. “Well, sure. You got one of those. Your homework tonight is reading from a book. I've got a couple extra if any hasn't got one yet. Anything else?”

“I dunno. Like documents?”

“Yes. Documents. Definitely. We’ll be talking about those. But let me ask you something. What if those documents aren’t in English?”

“You could, like, translate them.”

“Yes, though my Spanish isn’t that good. What if they’re in French? Or Chinese?”

Hannah shrugged.

“Or what if they’re in an ancient language that nobody actually speaks any longer? And what if those documents got lost in a fire, or got water damaged, or got used as toilet paper by invading armies?”

“That’s gross,” Deana said.

“Well, maybe. But what then?”

Liz Ling raised her hand. She was actually the first person in the class to do that. “And who are you?” Mr. Smith asked.

“I’m Elizabeth. You could look at their buildings. Or their artwork. You could learn about history that way.”

Mr. Smith nodded. “Yes, Elizabeth, that’s a very good answer. That’s exactly what a lot of historians do.” He paused. “But unfortunately lots of buildings and artwork also perish in fires or end up buried under water. So what do we do then?”

Liz didn’t try to answer that one. Neither did anyone else. Another long pause. This time Mr. Smith broke the silence.

“You over there. What’s your name?”

“Dave.” He answered as if he felt some sacred rule was once again being broken: You just don’t call on people if they don't raise their hand. “I said I don’t know.”

“Oh, but you do know, Dave. Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Trash.”

“Trash?”

“Yes. Trash. That’s what you said you did with your bottle caps. And that’s exactly how some people – they tend to be anthropologists more than historians, but it’s the same idea – learn about what happened in the past. They look through the trash. They figure out what had or hadn’t happened by looking through piles they discovered of what people had thrown away. They figure out when a pile got there by looking at how wide or narrow the pipe stems were that people had used up or that had gotten broken, for example. Pipe stems vary in size. Like the length of girls’ skirts. Sort of a fashion thing. Actually, sometimes what other people thought of as trash we think of as artwork. And vice-versa. Like bottle caps. I think of them as treasure. But Dave here throws them away.” He paused. “And Theo over there, crassly tries to make a buck. Heartless ***.”

Everybody laughed, even Dave, sort of. I did, too.

Mr. Smith stood up again. “In tonight’s reading you’re going to meet lots of people – a lot of them Native Americans – who lived hundreds of years ago. In a lot of ways, they’ll be like you: they worked and played, loved each other and hated each other. But they’ll also be different from you in the things they cared about, the things they saved and threw away. Now they’re gone. We try to remember them, but the record we have is incomplete. And the way we understand them isn’t exactly the way they understood themselves. Sort of like trying to understand you in terms of bottle caps. Not exactly a lie, but probably not the way you want to be remembered. Something worth keeping in mind as you do the reading. See you tomorrow.”

The rain was tapering. I turned around and looked at the clock. Mr. Smith was ending class a few minutes early. “See you tomorrow,” Hannah said as she walked out the door. Mr. Smith nodded. “A couple other kids said thanks as they left.

I was among the last to go. "Could I borrow one of those books you mentioned? I forgot to order it."

"Sure," he said, picking one up off the stack on his desk.

"Do I need to sign it out or anything?"

"Nah. I got a bunch. I kinda collect them. You can keep it as long as you like."

"Really?"

He looked at me for what I felt was the first time. "You want to borrow it for the whole year?"

"Could I? Really?"

"Well, there doesn't seem to be much demand, and I still have a few. So go head, Theo. I know you're good for it."

Thanks!"

"No problem, kid," he said, turning back to the book he was reading. "See you tomorrow."

A few days later Janito and me went to see Riddickat Ridge Hill. After the woman at the entrance to the theater tore my ticket in half, I saw a trash can and was going to throw it away. But then I changed my mind and shoved it in my pocket. When I got home I put in a mason jar on my desk where I keep paper clips and stuff like that. I don’t think my movie tickets are going to be part of any archeological site or anything. But I think I want to keep track of my own history.

Spiral

Anonymous — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 14:02:00 GMT

-->

The Horace Chronicles, #2

in which we see two people trying to balance their books

August 27

Dear Maya,

When I got home after my last shift at the pool, I was surprised to find my dad sitting at the dining room table. He had his laptop open and a calculator at his side, and he was peering at his checkbook. These were not good signs.

“Hi Dad,” I said, dropping my backpack to the floor.

“Hello, Theodore,” he said, not looking up.

I headed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, taking out an apple (there wasn’t much else in there). “You’re home early today,” I said.

“Yeah. Things were slow so I came home.”

I re-entered the dining room. I didn’t want to ask, but I felt I didn’t really have a choice. “Dad, I was talking with Janito today and he said his Mom was going to be taking him to Staples for school supplies. I was thinking maybe I’d go with them.”

“Go with them?” He looked up from his checkbook.

“Yeah. For school supplies.”

His face hardened. “Jesus, Theo, we’re having a rough time here. You think maybe you can find some stuff from last year? An unused notebook or two?”

“Well, not really. I – ”

“Cut it out Frank,” my Mom said, coming down the stairs. I didn’t realize she was home too. “He’s not asking for money to go partying, for God’s sake. We’re talking school supplies. Look at it this way: if he goes with Janito then we don’t have to take him.”

“Alice, you know perfectly well that –”

“Yeah, I know perfectly well. I left my bag upstairs. Give him some money.”

My Dad exhaled a long breath. “Fine.” He pulled his wallet out of the pocket of his navy khakis. He handed me a $20 bill. That wouldn’t go too far.

"C'mon Frank. The boy needs more than $20."

"Fine." He pulled out another and handed it to me.

“Thanks, Dad.”

"See if you can't find something that can give you something that will get you better math grades," he said as his phone rang. “Who the *** is this,” he said, looking its screen. He stood up and turned his back to me. “Sandy,” he said, not sounding to happy to hear from the guy. “How are ya.” He went upstairs. That’s kinda been my dad lately, Maya. Annoyed when he’s with me. Which doesn’t feel all that often.

“It’s been a bad month,” my mother said.

“Seems like we’ve had a lot of those lately.”

“Yeah, well . . . ” her voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry.” I half meant it, and was half-annoyed. But I don’t think she heard that, which I’m glad about.

“Nothing to apologize for,” she said. “I feel bad. Was hoping to get you more in the way of back-to-school clothes, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“I don’t care.” But I did.

“Sometimes, I feel like we’re in a race against time,” she said. “Trying to get you through school, get you to college, get the mortgage paid off, get to retirement. It just seems to keep getting harder. I think we’re going to be okay. I just wish it could be a little … easier.” She smiled. “So what time is Janito picking you up?”

He came about twenty minutes later. I had a list from the school website of things to buy. I skipped a lot. There was nothing on the list about what I’d need for History. I decided to buy a spiral blue notebook and a folder to go with it. Wasn’t sure I’d use either. But I wanted to have it just in case. My dad probably would be *** off. But I wanted to have something new that was my own. Well, not exactly. I know that blue is your favorite color, too. After thinking you would be, you weren’t going to be in the class after all. But I somehow wanted you there with me. When I looked at that book, it reminded me of you, and I felt better. I think.

Starters (a new series at this blog)

Anonymous — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 10:42:00 GMT

The Horace Chronicles, #1

August 20

Dear Maya,

I guess the first time I remember thinking much about Mr. Smith was at the end of last summer when I ran into Sean Catalano at the pool. My shift at the front desk had just ended and I headed over to the snack bar for a cheeseburger when I saw him drinking a coke by himself at one of the tables. Even though we’d been on the baseball team together I wasn’t sure I should say hello – he was a senior and a star of the team, and I was just a benchwarmer second-base sophomore (I’m not going to play again next year). Actually, I wasn’t sure he even knew who I was until he said, “Hey, Theo,” in that kind of flat way he has – he knew who I was but he wasn’t exactly excited about it.

“Hey Sean,” I said, trying to match him. “What you doing here?”

“Waiting for Annie,” he said, motioning with his head over to the far end of the pool. I remembered then that Annie Nunez was his girlfriend. All summer long the guys at the pool had been talking how great she looked in her Speedo. Gotta admit, Maya, they were right. I said so once myself so I sounded like I fit it, but it sounded so fake I was surprised that nobody made fun of me. I avoided doing anything but saying yeah after that.

I looked up at the clock, even though I knew what time it was. “She should be done any minute,” I said. I walked over to the grill and ordered my burger from Max. But then I had to wait. Max was busy with other customers, so I couldn’t talk with him. I didn’t feel like I could just go sit next to Sean, but didn’t know where else to go, fearing that sitting at another table would be even more awkward. I just stood there, feeling stupid.

We were quiet for a minute, but it was getting weird. “So how’s it going?” he asked.

“It’s cool,” I said. “One more week, then I take a week off and then it’s back to school.”

“I leave on Thursday,” he said.

“Oh yeah – right. You’re going off to school. Where, again?”

“University of New Mexico.” Then I remembered: he got a scholarship. “You must be excited. You playing left field?”

“Yeah. And yeah, I’m pumped. It’s primarily a spring sport but we do have fall ball. The starter *** up his knee so I might get some playing time. I'm actually only here for a few days. My dad's birthday is tomorrow.”

I felt like I should ask a follow-up question, but I didn’t know what it should be. Actually, Maya, I always felt like an imposter on the baseball team. I feel like an imposter a lot of time about a lot of things. I don’t think Sean is any great conversationalist either, but he was better than me, and when the silence got awkward again he tried once more. I give him credit for that.

“So,” he asked, “Who do you have this year?”

“Well, “I said, “I’ve got Celli for math. And Sipowicz for physics. And Guzman for English.”

“Good luck with Guzman,” he said. “What about history?”

“Smith.”

Sean nodded, as if I’d made a good choice.

“You’ll do alright with Smith,” he said. “He isn’t a *** like Clark.”

Sean’s eyes focused over my shoulder and he smiled, so I turned around. Annie had a beach towel with some kind of aquatic pattern wrapped around her waist and was wearing plain red flip-flops and dark glasses. She had a backpack slung over her bare shoulder. Gorgeous. Like staring into the sun.

“Hey,” she said to me, for what felt like the first time all summer.

“Hey,” I said back.

“You ready?” Sean asked her.

“Yup,” she responded at exactly the same moment Max said “Cheeseburger!”

“Hey, good seein’ ya,” Sean said as if that was his signal, sliding his arm around Annie’s back. “You’re going to do fine with Smith,” he said like he was giving me a blessing. “I mean, I never gave a *** about history, but that guy was all right.”

“Good luck at school,” I said.

“Yeah, you too.”

“Bye,” Annie said, her voice rising a bit in a singsong kind of way. She was being nice. What’s it like for those girls, Maya?

While I put ketchup on my burger, I thought about Sean and Annie, wondering if they were going to have sex that night and wondering where. But as I headed out to the parking lot, I found myself thinking about Mr. Smith. I knew when I got my schedule back in July that I’d lucked out because I heard he was a good teacher. But I had no real idea what the guy was like in the classroom. I’d see him around school – khakis, plain shirts in dark flat colors, the scuffed brown boots – and I kinda liked the look of him.

I remember walking down H wing one day when he was coming toward me from the other direction. As he walked past a group of seniors one of them asked him in a jokey way, “Mr. C, what’s with the uniform? You think maybe you could wear stripes one day? Polka dots, maybe? How about a new pair of shoes?”

“Naaa,” he said, without stopping. “Bought a new pair of boots once, but they felt awkward when I got into bed. So I switched back.”

He caught my eye as we passed each other and he winked at me, as if I was in on the joke. I hoped I’d have him one day. Because, unlike Sean, I always liked history. Whatever that meant.

Picking up 'Signal'

Anonymous — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 16:47:00 GMT

In The Signal and the Noise: Why So Many Predictions Fail -- But Some Don't, statistician extraordinaire Nate Silver argues for the value of calculation

The following review has been posted on the Books page of the History News Network.

This one that almost got away. Though I was a faithful reader of Nate Silver's 538 blog in The New York Times in the months running up to the presidential election -- like a lot of Democrats it gave me a serenity I otherwise would not have had -- the release of his first book fell through the cracks. I kept meaning to get around to it, partially put off by its length and my numbers phobia, though I bought a copy for my University of Chicago economics-majoring son (Silver is an alumnus of UC). When my son left it behind for me after a recent trip home, I finally got around to it. The Signal and the Noise was published and marketed as a book for the political season, which I'm sure made sense from a publicity standpoint. But it has a vitality and durability far beyond that. The paperback edition appears to be months away; when that moment arrives, I believe it will become a perennial.

As much as anything else, the book is a study of epistemology, and a brief for the necessity and reality of uncertainty in everyday life. That's not because humans are flawed (though of course they are), or because Big Data has limits (it certainly does, as the book is at some pains to explain), but because our world is one of probabilities rather than fixed laws awaiting discovery and decoding. And yet for all the mistakes of recent years -- the failures to predict the financial crisis and 9/11 principal among them -- Silver argues it is possible to think about, and calculate, predictions that have utility in everyday life (poker, weather, athletic events) as well as in broader realms (financial markets, earthquakes, climate change). One can get better at predicting the way that one can get better at playing baseball: great hitters only make it to base a minority of the time, and yet compile a productive of record of consistency that's difficult for others to duplicate. The comparison is not incidental: Silver started his professional career by developing a system of forecasting player performance.

The heart of Signal is an affirmation, and popularization, of the ideas of Thomas Bayes (1701-1761), an English minister and mathematician who developed a formula of prediction that proved highly influential after his death, and which appears to be enjoying a renaissance. The wrinkle in Bayesian reasoning, and a source of ongoing controversy, is factoring in the perceived probability of an event happening before it ever does, a calculation that's hard to make and which is subject to change. For Silver, that's precisely the point: ongoing revision is the essence of the prognosticator's art. Statistics are the tools. He's not so much arguing for a particular methodology as he is a way of seeing the world. Which, given his serial successes in making a living playing cards, scouting ballplayers, and calling elections, hardly seems dreamy in its abstraction.

I'll cheerfully confess that much of what Silver does in this graph-rich book went over my head. But the various excursions he took me on -- in epidemiology, seismology, the real estate bubble, and the intricacies of gambling on te Los Angeles Lakers -- were so skillfully rendered, with so many colorful characters, that I never gave up in despair. His mind is both powerful and marvelous.

Clean execution

Anonymous — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 16:29:00 GMT

In How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia Mohsin Hamid captures the green light -- again.

The following review has been posted on the Books page of the History News Network.

How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia solidifies Mohsin Hamid's claim as a major contemporary novelist. It showcases what have become a familiar set of gifts, among them a compelling voice, a keen feel for structure, and, given his literary sensibility, a surprisingly efficient narrative drive. Like his two previous books, Moth Smoke (2000) and The Reluctant Fundamentalist (2007), this one is brief. And yet in the space of less than 230 small pages he renders an entire life that seems simultaneously rich in detail and resonant as a fable.

Like The Reluctant Fundamentalist -- the film version, directed by Mira Nair, will be released domestically next month -- Hamid pulls off the difficult technique of second person narration. The last time around, it was deployed to implicate the reader, whose uneasiness with the narrator was very much the point (is he, or isn't he, a terrorist? Are you, or aren't you, a racist?). This time, the effect is more lyrical, if one can speak of lyricism in a book of sometimes brutal honesty. But Filthy Rich is also marked by moments of seeming omniscience, as the narrator describes events it is impossible for him to have observed first-hand, a violation of literary convention that works beautifully, contributing to that fable-like character.

Indeed, Hamid seems thoroughly conversant with literary theory -- particularly reader-centered literary theory -- and seems to implement it effortlessly. In what is clearly another meta-narrative device, the novel deconstructs a familiar prose genre: the self-help book, specifically the business self-help guide of the kind that apparently is quite popular in the developing world. He captures its rhythms in his chapter titles, some of which have a puckish air: "Move to the City"; "Get an Education"; "Be Prepared to Use Violence"; "Befriend a Bureaucrat." But the book's chatty air is also gracefully studded with sociological detail that convey vivid depictions of abject poverty and vertiginous modernization.

The plot of the novel can be summed up easily. A boy from an unnamed rural village is lucky in terms of birth order and his arrival in the late twentieth century. (In one more illustration of Hamid's deftness, we know this because in his youth he's a DVD delivery boy; since we're with him to old age, the story must proceed far well into the 21st century, something Hami manages to do credibly without resorting to tinny sci-fi devices). He attends university, leaves some youthful radicalism behind, and founds a bottled-water business empire. This of course requires moral compromises as well as the guile in evading those eager to take away what he has. It also requires a reckoning with the cost of success in terms of his relationships with those around him.

Like The Reluctant Feminist, too, Filthy Rich is also a love story. It centers on an unavailable female whose love (or lack thereof) is at least initially indeterminate. The last time around, the woman was a WASP American. This time she comes from the hometown of the narrator himself -- she's named "the pretty girl." She too finds fortune, but must do so by a different means: leveraging her beauty. Hamid is keenly attuned to the harsh limits imposed on women in his world -- the mother and sister of the narrator are among the more poignantly sketched characters -- and the vulnerability even of those women (including the narrator's wife, who chooses a very different path than the pretty girl) who somehow thread the needle and wrest a life for themselves. He also never fails to humanize even the most brutal of characters, like the assassin assigned to kill the narrator. His portrayal of old age -- something he evidently has not experienced himself -- is notable for its painful, yet generous, clarity.

Hamid's great theme in all his work is social mobility, downward as well as upward. His sense of place (south Asia, with a locus of Pakistan) is unmistakable, and yet there's an elemental drama and deceptive simplicity to his protagonists that evokes the London of Great Expectations or the New York of The Great Gatsby. The United States is never referred to directly in Filthy Rich, though it's perhaps more than ethnocentrism that leads one to suspect that the movies the narrator and the pretty girl love as children involve a vision of success with an American accent. In any case, the book closes with what appears to be an allusion to the conclusion of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself."

How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia pulls no punches in its harsh portrayal of the material world, in the broadest sense of that term. But it is a deeply moving and satisfying tale. That's principally because of Hamid's sense of craft -- a penchant for subtraction in boiling the elements of narrative art down to their essence. His honesty can be hard to take. But you're glad to have him share it with you.