Dave Eggers, author of A HeartÂbreakÂing Work of StagÂgerÂing Genius, has a new book comÂing out in earÂly OctoÂber, The CirÂcle, a novÂel about “a young woman who goes to work at an omnipoÂtent techÂnolÂoÂgy comÂpaÂny and gets sucked into a corÂpoÂrate culÂture that knows no disÂtincÂtion between work and life, pubÂlic and priÂvate.” BreakÂing with traÂdiÂtion, The New York Times has placed the novÂelÂ’s covÂer on the covÂer of its own SunÂday MagÂaÂzine. It has also printÂed a lengthy excerpt from the book. Read it online here, or lisÂten right below (or on iTunes) to a readÂing of the excerpt by actor Don GraÂham. It runs 46 minÂutes.
We’re smack in the midÂdle of Banned Books Week, and one parÂticÂuÂlar case of book-banÂning has received a lot of attenÂtion lateÂly, that of Ralph Ellison’s clasÂsic 1952 novÂel InvisÂiÂble Man, which was cenÂsored by the RanÂdolph CounÂty, NC school board last week. In response to one parent’s comÂplaint, the board assessed the book, found it a “hard read,” and votÂed 5–2 to remove it from the high school libraries (promptÂing the novel’s pubÂlishÂer to give copies away for free to stuÂdents). One board memÂber statÂed that he “didn’t find any litÂerÂary valÂue” in Ellison’s novÂel, a judgÂment that may have raised the eyeÂbrows of the NationÂal Book Award judges who awardÂed ElliÂson the honÂor in 1953, not to menÂtion the 200 authors and critÂics who in 1965 votÂed the novÂel “the most disÂtinÂguished sinÂgle work pubÂlished in the last twenÂty years.”
After wideÂspread pubÂlic outÂcry, the RanÂdolph CounÂty reversed the deciÂsion in a speÂcial sesÂsion yesÂterÂday. In light of the book’s newÂfound notoÂriÂety after this stoÂry, we thought we’d revisÂit a Paris Review interÂview ElliÂson gave in 1954. The interÂviewÂers press ElliÂson on what they see as some of the novel’s weakÂnessÂes, but describe Ellison’s masÂterÂwork as “crackÂling, brilÂliant, someÂtimes wild, but always conÂtrolled.” Below are some highÂlights from this rich conÂverÂsaÂtion. This interÂview would not likeÂly sway those shameÂfulÂly unletÂtered school board memÂbers, but fans of ElliÂson and those just disÂcovÂerÂing his work will find much here of merÂit. ElliÂson, also an insightÂful litÂerÂary critÂic and essayÂist, disÂcussÂes at length his intenÂtions, influÂences, and theÂoÂries of litÂerÂaÂture.
On his litÂerÂary influÂences:
ElliÂson, who says he “became interÂestÂed in writÂing through incesÂsant readÂing,” cites a numÂber of high modÂernist writÂers as direct influÂences on his work. T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land piqued his interÂest in 1935, and in the midst of the DepresÂsion, while he and his brothÂer “huntÂed and sold game for a livÂing” in DayÂton OH, ElliÂson “pracÂticed writÂing and studÂied Joyce, DosÂtoyevsky, Stein, and HemÂingÂway.” He espeÂcialÂly liked HemÂingÂway for the latter’s authenÂticÂiÂty.
I read him to learn his senÂtence strucÂture and how to orgaÂnize a stoÂry. I guess many young writÂers were doing this, but I also used his descripÂtion of huntÂing when I went into the fields the next day. I had been huntÂing since I was eleven, but no one had broÂken down the process of wing-shootÂing for me, and it was from readÂing HemÂingÂway that I learned to lead a bird. When he describes someÂthing in print, believe him; believe him even when he describes the process of art in terms of baseÂball or boxÂing; he’s been there.
On litÂerÂaÂture as protest
ElliÂson began InvisÂiÂble Man in 1945, before the CivÂil Rights moveÂment got going. He drew much of his sense of the novÂel as a form of social protest from litÂerÂary sources, claimÂing that he recÂogÂnized “no dichotoÂmy between art and protest.”
Dostoyevsky’s Notes from UnderÂground is, among othÂer things, a protest against the limÂiÂtaÂtions of nineÂteenth-cenÂtuÂry ratioÂnalÂism; Don Quixote, Man’s Fate, OediÂpus Rex, The TriÂal—all these embody protest, even against the limÂiÂtaÂtion of human life itself. If social protest is antiÂthetÂiÂcal to art, what then shall we make of Goya, DickÂens, and Twain?
All novÂels are about cerÂtain minoriÂties: the indiÂvidÂual is a minorÂiÂty. The uniÂverÂsal in the novel—and isn’t that what we’re all clamÂorÂing for these days?—is reached only through the depicÂtion of the speÂcifÂic man in a speÂcifÂic cirÂcumÂstance.
On the role of myth and folkÂlore in litÂerÂaÂture:
ElliÂson adapts a tremenÂdous amount of black AmerÂiÂcan folkÂlore in InvisÂiÂble Man, from folk tales to the blues, to give the novÂel much of its voice and strucÂture. His use of folk forms springs from his sense that “Negro folkÂlore, evolvÂing withÂin a largÂer culÂture which regardÂed it as infeÂriÂor, was an espeÂcialÂly couraÂgeous expresÂsion” as well as his readÂing of ritÂuÂal in the modÂernist masÂters he admired. Of the use of folkÂlore and myth, ElliÂson says,
The use of ritÂuÂal is equalÂly a vital part of the creÂative process. I learned a few things from Eliot, Joyce and HemÂingÂway, but not how to adapt them. When I startÂed writÂing, I knew that in both “The Waste Land” and Ulysses, ancient myth and ritÂuÂal were used to give form and sigÂnifÂiÂcance to the mateÂrÂiÂal; but it took me a few years to realÂize that the myths and rites which we find funcÂtionÂing in our everyÂday lives could be used in the same way. … PeoÂple ratioÂnalÂize what they shun or are incaÂpable of dealÂing with; these superÂstiÂtions and their ratioÂnalÂizaÂtions become ritÂuÂal as they govÂern behavÂior. The ritÂuÂals become social forms, and it is one of the funcÂtions of the artist to recÂogÂnize them and raise them to the levÂel of art.
On the moral and social funcÂtion of litÂerÂaÂture:
ElliÂson has quite a lot to say in the interÂview about what he sees as the moral duty of the novÂelÂist to address social probÂlems, which he relates to a nineÂteenth cenÂtuÂry traÂdiÂtion (refÂerÂencÂing anothÂer famousÂly banned book, HuckÂleÂberÂry Finn). ElliÂson faults the conÂtemÂpoÂrary litÂerÂaÂture of his day for abanÂdonÂing this moral dimenÂsion, and he makes it clear that his intenÂtion is to see the social probÂlems he depicts as great moral quesÂtions that AmerÂiÂcan litÂerÂaÂture should address.
One funcÂtion of seriÂous litÂerÂaÂture is to deal with the moral core of a givÂen sociÂety. Well, in the UnitÂed States the Negro and his staÂtus have always stood for that moral conÂcern. He symÂbolÂizes among othÂer things the human and social posÂsiÂbilÂiÂty of equalÂiÂty. This is the moral quesÂtion raised in our two great nineÂteenth-cenÂtuÂry novÂels, Moby-Dick and HuckÂleÂberÂry Finn. The very cenÂter of Twain’s book revolves finalÂly around the boy’s relaÂtions with NigÂger Jim and the quesÂtion of what Huck should do about getÂting Jim free after the two scoundrels had sold him. There is a magÂic here worth conÂjurÂing, and that reachÂes to the very nerve of the AmerÂiÂcan consciousness—so why should I abanÂdon it? …PerÂhaps the disÂcomÂfort about protest in books by Negro authors comes because since the nineÂteenth cenÂtuÂry, AmerÂiÂcan litÂerÂaÂture has avoidÂed proÂfound moral searchÂing. It was too painful and besides there were speÂcifÂic probÂlems of lanÂguage and form to which the writÂers could address themÂselves. They did wonÂderÂful things, but perÂhaps they left the real probÂlems untouched.
“[FreÂund] was an earÂly adapter to colÂor, in 1938, and her first exhiÂbiÂtion was in fact a proÂjecÂtion of colÂor porÂtraits givÂen in Monnier’s book shop,” Knorr writes. She goes on to describe anothÂer exhiÂbiÂtion, in 2011, that “simÂiÂlarÂly projects the porÂtraits withÂin its mock bookÂshop, turnÂing the show into a guessÂing game since some of those phoÂtographed have enorÂmousÂly famous faces,” while othÂers “are a lot of French intelÂlecÂtuÂals that most young French peoÂple today would not recÂogÂnize.” While we natÂuÂralÂly assume that you, as an Open CulÂture readÂer, recÂogÂnize a fair few more French intelÂlecÂtuÂals than the averÂage gallery-goer, we can’t help but focus on the fact that so many of the writÂers of whom FreÂund’s eye saw the definÂiÂtive images — not just Joyce, BenÂjamin, and Woolf, but BeckÂett, Eliot, Hesse, the list goes on — became the definÂing writÂers of their era. FreÂund herÂself had just one quesÂtion: “Explain to me why writÂers want to be phoÂtographed like stars,” she wrote, “and the latÂter like writÂers.”
Born 117 years ago today in St. Paul, MinÂnesoÂta, F. Scott FitzgerÂald, that someÂwhat louche denizen—some might say inventor—of the “Jazz Age,” has been immorÂtalÂized as the tenÂder young man we see above: PrinceÂton dropout, writer of The Great GatsÂby, boozy comÂpanÂion to beauÂtiÂful SouthÂern belle flapÂper ZelÂda Sayre. Amidst all the glamÂorÂizaÂtion of his best and worst qualÂiÂties, it’s easy to forÂget that FitzgerÂald was also the father of a daughÂter, Frances Scott FitzgerÂald, who went on to have her own sucÂcessÂful career as a writer. Unlike the chilÂdren of some of Fitzgerald’s conÂtemÂpoÂraries, Frances thrived, which must be some tesÂtaÂment to her father’s parÂentÂing (and to Zelda’s as well, though she allegedÂly hoped, like Daisy Buchanan, that her daughÂter would become a “beauÂtiÂful litÂtle fool”).
We get more than a hint of Fitzgerald’s fatherÂly charÂacÂter in a wonÂderÂful litÂtle letÂter that he sent to her in August of 1933, when Frances was away at sumÂmer camp. FitzgerÂald, renowned for his extremes, counÂsels an almost EpiÂcureÂan midÂdle way—distilling, perÂhaps, hard lessons learned durÂing his decline in the thirÂties (which he wrote of canÂdidÂly in “The Crack Up”). He conÂcludes with a list of things for his daughÂter to worÂry and not worÂry about. It’s a very touchÂing misÂsive that I look forÂward to sharÂing with my daughÂter some day. I’ll have my own advice and silÂly in-jokes for her, but FitzgerÂald proÂvides a very wise litÂerÂary supÂpleÂment. Below is the full letÂter, pubÂlished in the New York Times in 1958. The typos, we might assume, are all sic, givÂen Fitzgerald’s penÂchant for such errors:
AUGUST 8, 1933 LA PAIX RODGERS’ FORGE TOWSON, MATYLAND
DEAR PIE:
I feel very strongÂly about you doing duty. Would you give me a litÂtle more docÂuÂmenÂtaÂtion about your readÂing in French? I am glad you are hapÂpy– but I nevÂer believe much in hapÂpiÂness. I nevÂer believe in misÂery either. Those are things you see on the stage or the screen or the printÂed page, they nevÂer realÂly hapÂpen to you in life.
All I believe in in life is the rewards for virtue (accordÂing to your talÂents) and the punÂishÂments for not fulÂfillÂing your duties, which are douÂbly costÂly. If there is such a volÂume in the camp library, will you ask Mrs. Tyson to let you look up a sonÂnet of ShakeÂspeare’s in which the line occurs Lilies that fesÂter smell far worse than weeds…
I think of you, and always pleasÂantÂly, but I am going to take the White Cat out and beat his botÂtom hard, six times for every time you are imperÂtiÂnent. Do you react to that?…
Half-wit, I will conÂclude. Things to worÂry about:
It comes as no surÂprise that Roald Dahl, author of CharÂlie and the ChocoÂlate FacÂtoÂry, posÂsessed a sweet tooth. HavÂing dazÂzled young readÂers with visions of CavÂiÂty-FillÂing Caramels, EverÂlastÂing GobÂstopÂpers, and snozzberÂry-flaÂvored wallÂpaÂper, Dahl’s canÂdy of choice was the more pedesÂtriÂan Kit-Kat bar. In addiÂtion to savorÂing one daiÂly (a luxÂuÂry litÂtle CharÂlie BuckÂet could but dream of, priÂor to winÂning that most goldÂen of tickÂets) he inventÂed a frozen conÂfecÂtion called “Kit-Kat PudÂding.”
The origÂiÂnal recipe is, approÂpriÂateÂly, simÂple enough for a child to make. Stack as many Kit-Kats as you like into a towÂer, using whipped cream for morÂtar, then shove the entire thing into the freezÂer, and leave it there until solÂid.
Book pubÂliÂcist and self-described litÂerÂary fanÂgirl Nicole VilÂleneuve does him one betÂter on Paper and Salt, a food blog devotÂed to the recipes of iconÂic authors. Her re-imagÂined and renamed Frozen HomeÂmade Kit-Kat Cakeadds bitÂterÂsweet chocoÂlate ganache, replacÂing Dahl’s beloved canÂdy bars with high qualÂiÂty wafer cookÂies. It remains a pretÂty straight-forÂward prepaÂraÂtion, not quite as decaÂdent as the MarÂquis de Sade’s Molten ChocoÂlate EspresÂso Cake with PomeÂgranÂate, but sureÂly more to Dahl’s likÂing than Jane Austen’s Brown ButÂter Bread PudÂding Tarts would have been. (The author once wrote that he preÂferred his chocoÂlate straight.)
VilÂleneuve spices her entry with hisÂtorÂiÂcal conÂtext and anecÂdotes regardÂing earÂly 20th-cenÂtuÂry canÂdy marÂketÂing, Dahl’s hatred of the CadÂbury Crème Egg, and his dog’s hanÂkerÂing for SmarÂties. Details such as these make Paper and Salt, which feaÂtures plenÂty of savories to go with the sweet, a deliÂcious read even for non-cooks.
Writer and artist AlisÂtair GenÂtry once proÂposed a lecÂture series he called “One Eyed MonÂster.” CenÂtral to the project is what GenÂtry calls “the cult of James Joyce,” an exemÂplar of a largÂer pheÂnomÂeÂnon: “the vulÂture-like pickÂing over of the creÂative and mateÂrÂiÂal legaÂcies of dead artists.” “UntalÂentÂed and nonÂcreÂative peoÂple,” writes GenÂtry, “are able to build lastÂing careers from what one might call the TalÂentÂed Dead.” Gentry’s judgÂment may seem harsh, but the quesÂtions he asks are inciÂsive and should give pause to scholÂars (and blogÂgers) who make their livÂings combÂing through the perÂsonÂal effects of dead artists, and to everyÂone who takes a speÂcial interÂest, pruriÂent or othÂerÂwise, in such artiÂfacts. Just what is it we hope to find in artists’ perÂsonÂal letÂters that we can’t find in their pubÂlic work? I’m not sure I have an answer to that quesÂtion, espeÂcialÂly in refÂerÂence to James Joyce’s “dirty letÂters” to his wife and chief muse, Nora.
The letÂters are by turns scanÂdalous, titÂilÂlatÂing, romanÂtic, poetÂic, and often downÂright funÂny, and they were writÂten for Nora’s eyes alone in a corÂreÂsponÂdence iniÂtiÂatÂed by her in NovemÂber of 1909, while Joyce was in Dublin and she was in TriÂeste raisÂing their two chilÂdren in very straitÂened cirÂcumÂstances. Nora hoped to keep Joyce away from courÂteÂsans by feedÂing his fanÂtasies in writÂing, and Joyce needÂed to woo Nora again—she had threatÂened to leave him for his lack of finanÂcial supÂport. In the letÂters, they remind each othÂer of their first date on June 16, 1904 (subÂseÂquentÂly memoÂriÂalÂized as “BloomsÂday,” the date on which all of Ulysses is set). We learn quite a lot about Joyce’s predilecÂtions, much less about Nora’s, whose side of the corÂreÂsponÂdence seems to have disÂapÂpeared. Declared lost for some time, Joyce’s first reply letÂter to Nora in the “dirty letÂters” sequence was recentÂly disÂcovÂered and aucÂtioned off by Sotheby’s in 2004.
I do not excerpt here any of the lanÂguage from Joyce’s subÂseÂquent letÂters, not for modesty’s sake but because there is far too much of it to choose from. If those prudÂish cenÂsors of Ulysses had read this exchange, they might have dropped dead from grave wounds to their sense of decoÂrum. As far as I can ascerÂtain, the letÂters exist in pubÂliÂcaÂtion only in the out-of-print SelectÂed LetÂters of James Joyce, editÂed by pre-emiÂnent Joyce biogÂraÂphÂer Richard EllÂmann, and in a someÂwhat trunÂcatÂed form on this site. AlisÂtair GenÂtry has done us the favor of tranÂscribÂing the letÂters as they appear in Ellmann’s SelectÂed LetÂters on his site here. Of our interÂest in them, he asks:
Does anyÂone have the right to read things that were clearÂly meant only for two speÂcifÂic peoÂple…? Now that they have been exposed to the world’s gaze, albeit in a fairÂly limÂitÂed fashÂion, does anyÂbody except these two (who are dead) have any right to make objecÂtions about or exerÂcise conÂtrol over the manÂner in which these priÂvate docÂuÂments and records of intiÂmaÂcy are used?
QuesÂtions worth conÂsidÂerÂing, if not answered easÂiÂly. NevÂerÂtheÂless, despite his critÂiÂcal misÂgivÂings, GenÂtry writes: “These letÂters stand on their own as brilÂliant and, dare I say, arousÂing Joycean writÂing. In my opinÂion they’re defÂiÂniteÂly worth readÂing.” I must say I agree. Joyce’s brothÂer StanisÂlaus once wrote in a diary entry: “Jim is thought to be very frank about himÂself but his style is such that it might be conÂtendÂed that he conÂfessÂes in a forÂeign language—an easÂiÂer conÂfesÂsion than in the vulÂgar tongue.” In the “dirty letÂters,” we get to see the great alchemist of ordiÂnary lanÂguage and expeÂriÂence pracÂtiÂcalÂly revÂel in the most vulÂgar conÂfesÂsions.
We don’t often talk about the hobÂbies (othÂer than drinkÂing, anyÂway) of respectÂed twenÂtiÂeth-cenÂtuÂry writÂers. But do you know a sinÂgle Nabokov readÂer, or even an aspirÂing Nabokov readÂer, ignoÂrant of the lepÂiÂdopterÂist leanÂings of the author of LoliÂta, The Gift, and Pale Fire? The man liked butÂterÂflies, as any of the wideÂly seen phoÂtographs of him wieldÂing his comÂiÂcalÂly overÂsized net can attest. But when his eyes turned toward these strikÂing, delÂiÂcate insects, he didÂn’t necÂesÂsarÂiÂly put down his pen. Nabokov’s wife Vera, accordÂing to a BookÂtryst post on the sale of his book and manÂuÂscript colÂlecÂtions, “treaÂsured nature, art, and life’s othÂer intanÂgiÂbles more highÂly than mateÂrÂiÂal posÂsesÂsions, and Vladimir knew that for ChristÂmas, birthÂdays and anniverÂsaries” — in MonÂtreux in 1971, IthaÂca in 1957, Los AngeÂles in 1960, or anyÂwhere at any time in their life togethÂer — “Vera appreÂciÂatÂed his thoughtÂful and delÂiÂcate butÂterÂfly drawÂings much more than some trinÂket. She delightÂed in these drawÂings in a way she nevÂer did for the landÂscapes he used to paint for her in earÂliÂer days.” For the woman closÂest to his heart, Nabokov drew the creaÂtures closÂest to his heart.
“From the age of sevÂen, everyÂthing I felt in conÂnecÂtion with a recÂtanÂgle of framed sunÂlight was domÂiÂnatÂed by a sinÂgle pasÂsion. If my first glance of the mornÂing was for the sun, my first thought was for the butÂterÂflies it would engenÂder.” This he declares in his autoÂbiÂogÂraÂphy Speak, MemÂoÂry. “I have huntÂed butÂterÂflies in varÂiÂous climes and disÂguisÂes: as a pretÂty boy in knickerÂbockÂers and sailor cap; as a lanky cosÂmopoliÂtan expaÂtriÂate in flanÂnel bags and beret; as a fat hatÂless old man in shorts.” Despite the pasÂsion with which Nabokov purÂsued lepÂiÂdoptery, it seemed, in his lifeÂtime, his accomÂplishÂments in the field would remain mostÂly non-proÂfesÂsionÂal; he began one book called ButÂterÂflies of Europe and anothÂer called ButÂterÂflies in Art, but finÂished neiÂther.
But in 2000, out came the 782-page Nabokov’s ButÂterÂflies, which colÂlects, as its co-ediÂtor BriÂan Boyd writes in the Atlantic, “his astonÂishÂingÂly diverse writÂing about butÂterÂflies, whether sciÂenÂtifÂic or artisÂtic, pubÂlished or unpubÂlished, careÂfulÂly finÂished or roughÂly sketched, in poems, stoÂries, novÂels, memÂoirs, sciÂenÂtifÂic papers, lecÂtures, notes, diaries, letÂters, interÂviews, dreams.” And in 2011, a hypothÂeÂsis he had about butÂterÂfly evoÂluÂtion had its vinÂdiÂcaÂtion under the RoyÂal SociÂety of LonÂdon. But to underÂstand how much butÂterÂflies meant to him, we need look no furÂther than the title pages of the volÂumes he gave his wife.
In an excerpt from her memÂoir pubÂlished in Salon last month, Najla Said—daughter of litÂerÂary critÂic and PalesÂtinÂian-AmerÂiÂcan politÂiÂcal activist Edward Said—recalls her father’s legaÂcy:
To very smart peoÂple who study a lot, Edward Said is the “father of postÂcoloÂnial studÂies” or, as he told me once when he insistÂed I was wastÂing my colÂlege eduÂcaÂtion by takÂing a course on postÂmodÂernism and I told him he didn’t even know what it was:
“Know what it is, Najla? I inventÂed it!!!”
I still don’t know if he was jokÂing or seriÂous.
Most likeÂly Said was only half seriÂous, but it’s imposÂsiÂble to overÂstate the impact of his 1978 book OriÂenÂtalÂism on the genÂerÂaÂtions of stuÂdents and activists that folÂlowed. As Najla writes, it’s “the book that everyÂone reads at some point in colÂlege, whether in hisÂtoÂry, polÂiÂtics, BudÂdhism, or litÂerÂaÂture class.” Said’s “postÂmodÂernism,” unlike that of FranÂcois Lyotard or many othÂers, avoidÂed the pejoÂraÂtive bagÂgage that came to attach to the term, largeÂly because while he called into doubt cerÂtain ossiÂfied and perÂniÂcious catÂeÂgorÂiÂcal disÂtincÂtions, he nevÂer stopped believÂing in the posÂiÂtive intelÂlecÂtuÂal enterÂprise that gave him the tools and the posiÂtion to make his criÂtiques. He stubÂbornÂly called himÂself a humanÂist, “despite,” as he writes in the prefÂace to the 2003 ediÂtion of his most famous book, “the scornÂful disÂmissal of the term by sophisÂtiÂcatÂed post-modÂern critÂics”:
It isn’t at all a matÂter of being optiÂmistic, but rather of conÂtinÂuÂing to have faith in the ongoÂing and litÂerÂalÂly unendÂing process of emanÂciÂpaÂtion and enlightÂenÂment that, in my opinÂion, frames and gives direcÂtion to the intelÂlecÂtuÂal vocaÂtion.
In that same prefÂace Said also writes of his aging, of the recent death of two menÂtors, and of “the necÂesÂsary diminuÂtions in expecÂtaÂtions and pedÂaÂgogÂic zeal which usuÂalÂly frame the road to seniorÂiÂty.” He does not write about the leukemia that would take his life that same year at the age of 67, ten years ago this month.
For the interÂview above, howÂevÂer, Said’s last, he speaks canÂdidÂly about his illÂness. FitÂtingÂly, the video opens with a quote from Roland Barthes: “The only sort of interÂview that one could, if forced to, defend would be where the author is asked to articÂuÂlate what he canÂnot write.” Said tells interÂviewÂer Charles Glass that his main preÂocÂcuÂpaÂtion in the past few months had been his illÂness, someÂthing he thought he had “masÂtered” but which had forced him to conÂfront the inconÂtroÂvertÂible fact of his morÂtalÂiÂty and sapped him of his will to work.
Said, as always, is articÂuÂlate and engagÂing, and the conÂverÂsaÂtion soon turns to his othÂer preÂocÂcuÂpaÂtions: the sitÂuÂaÂtion of the PalesÂtinÂian peoÂple and the polÂiÂtics and perÂsonÂal toll of livÂing “between worlds.” He also expressÂes his disÂapÂpointÂment in friends who had become “mouthÂpieces of the staÂtus quo,” bangÂing the drums for war and WestÂern ImpeÂriÂalÂism in this, the first year of the war in Iraq. One susÂpects that he refers to ChristoÂpher Hitchens, among othÂers, though he is too disÂcreet to name names. Said has a tremenÂdous amount to say on not only the curÂrent events of the time but on his entire career as a writer and thinker. Though he’s givÂen dozens of impasÂsioned interÂviews over the decades, this may be the most honÂest and unguardÂed, as he unburÂdens himÂself durÂing his final days of those things, perÂhaps, he could not bring himÂself to write.
Thanks to Stephanos for sendÂing this video our way.
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