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I am an author and a contributing writer at the New York Times Magazine. This website contains information about my books and includes various magazine articles in full. My tendency is to look at things from the roots, so whatever the subject my work usually ends up being history of some sort. But while I go along with James Baldwin's line "People are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them," I also feel that grim wisdom is trumped by the observation of P.G. Wodehouse's creation Bertie Wooster: "What a queer thing life is! So unlike anything else, don't you know, if you see what I mean." |
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Recent work: “A masterpiece of storytelling and first-rate intellectual history” -Wall Street Journal
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I have the cover story on this week’s (June 29) New York Times Magazine, with a piece on the low birthrates in Europe. The basic argument is that while Europeans are having fewer babies than ever before, and most observers agree that this has vast economic and social consequences, the crucial point is the north-south divide. The situation in countries like Spain and Italy points to a particular and underappreciated dilemma facing not only those countries but many others around the world. Here’s the link: No Babies? - Declining Population in Europe - NYTimes.com And here are some reactions to the piece.
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who's in charge 04 30 08 |
Only these several bundles of years, tied into units, stacked it took to reach this height of sudden sniffing some new air, like a nose stuck into a cloud's heart and wow that moisture's scent cleansed of the past, the earth and its heavy heavy time way down. Today is as good as a walk straight up a hill, never mind the row after row of vinyl clapboard units flanking us as we, the dog and I, step our lively presence cut the dawning evening like a knife and don't know this one second that sadness and all that crap roar like lions because we right now know this is a zoo and we the keepers
Don't Tell Me 03 31 08 About clouds Bruising up and settling In among us, glooming The hollow day: I Invented the things. Sun is where You hang your hat, A peg of yellow That blots out After you’ve stepped Into the room And removed your wet things And everyone blames you Probably, And I guess You spend the rest Of your era wondering Where the warm life Went or maybe secretly, self- Hidden, you know you Killed it yourself. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce You to my good friend, Steady rain. The fact Is it isn’t What you think Because you think Emotionally. The day Has no feeling in itself And if it has for you You know only the memory Of an event or two Long past and so empty like Wet lines Scarring the carpet In the shape Of a shoe Ghosts that live In your brain only Or convince you They do. My wisdom Therefore: give Until a crack sounds, Until you smell Something opening up In the earth, dirt-alive. Take that damp cloth And wipe your forehead Clean. Obey precepts From ancient authorities. Abjure drizzle. Sigh. Sleep. Wake. Worry. Dread. Sweat. Now go.
hour after moment 03 31 08 This is what I call clean living: waiting For a spy to touch the sand that crevices Around a face and letting the pregnant Pause eat a new definition of silence For shame to wander like someone dark On a street tired from rain. Endless Shall be the day you were born and end- Less the time for longing for some sweet Touch or fragrance, flower grown from Sunshine, I know this sparkle flies fast From the face of the sun but no one can Promise too much lest unseen dark- Ness envelope us and who to blame Who to give what to grant why wonder The point but you do don’t you or wait For a peek of sun and think it’s what I asked you for all those lonely days Full of sadness fat with life heavy From the task of waking bathing Drinking in the light the very air.
ice and cement 01 26 08 If weather changes we know it changes Again so we don’t set our bones Hardening but keep limber and expect New things on other mornings. This Is not about weather. Sometimes Curtains are made of steel or skull Material and something opening Or clamping down doesn’t leave A gap though (and this is the trick) It could take half a lifetime to figure That out and still, shallowly breathing Our last, refusing to sip food, we Fail to consume and digest the Fact that life altered forever On a very particular day. Is this sad or lucky? Please answer In words and pictures, use the Internet to aid you but verify And doublecheck your sources: Handle trust like a delicate blade That might be of grass or steel, That might grow and die or cut.
Amsterdam 01 26 08 Is this Fate or just a walk On a windy day in a city Full of wind? I waited For myself to answer And keys to open any- Thing that struck Me as needing a passage And someone (does it Matter who?) came and Blocked it just perfectly A hall with a door and Window and gate A shelf with holes for Falling down onto The next level of what You thought you wanted To keep
Nonconform 01 07 08 I beg you please don't give These stars individual names Or let tigers grow some- Thing other than stripes I want the same right to praise Rainfall for blessing us; let Silence be something And never stand shaking Hands and limbs like dark Winds blowing but live With wonder as water we Drink from the stony well I am as content as you Will ever be and consider That all your relatives fly angels For kites in private heavens That gives these stars rights They have no right to claim But who will sue or raze Who will give blood for water Exchange this wind of noise For the peace that pleases And let it all drop to death?
We Will Wait 12 01 07 Silence will drift-sway, leaflike, feather- Falling, this way and then the other, Descent happening to us. And you think You have it rough. There is no luck On this planet anymore. Give breaks To those who need them including Not me but someone I know or will. Let’s get drugs or eat coffee beans and Die until we’ve reopened the old wounds And I will forgive you even though The fault was apparently mine all along Because you are so in need of help in The short run but where do I stand years From now as the suns rub more rays Into the creases and my fingers sigh Open on the neck of the bottle or Dwarf yielding to the pressure that Has been here ignored somehow some Years but I knew it would hit some Sudden day like bullets and the panic Flush the skin wet. I wish I Had noonlight to study my dark Eyes.
requiem 11 22 07 There is nothing like the sun for making us Hunger for summer and like blood for turning Meat to poison and reslanting rain back Toward heaven. I honestly do not know my Own mind: there's the truth found in sacs All along the insides of this packet I Have no choice but to associate with myself. Give me: my downfall is in that phrase; I expect and wait, I lounge, bide, shuffle. Some stride and take like villains and they Live the right kind of life, I guess, but I live The other kind, which is okay. I know you Won't forget me. It was nice. People each Of us know lived for a while in this space Between. It was great to watch the square dance As if we two were an Oklahoma town charged With dust and human fluids and that I'll forever Cry was just grand as was all the rest. It was sweet and good and some things Go on seemingly forever and others just End. Here I sit in dirt scratching making My peace with a stick, some signs ancient But actually I just made up: this one you, Another me and the others fade Into complications because that's how The rest of it was, which says it all.
i'll do just what you say and then turn bitter 11 11 07 Hellofa start to a fineday rainslant And I dont give prizes to winners but stay alone off To the side abiding mice and tundras never Mind what the surprise of a peek Of sun can do for sudden skipping fever and never Were organ grinders pet concerns catered To under the old system but we survived And got strong as thunder against every bet They laid on the table and believe me They did Sureyourway is best there's no contest I don't stand on legs only break What passes for fever and sweat allbymy Self because jeez guess what This was rigged from the beginning Who knew that besides everyoneinvolved Don't give me you told me so I am theone Who insisted on grand lines like Hamlets And such dear Ophelia you know just About everybloody thing and that makes Two of us who live in caves poked by Fingers in the sides of craniums temple Hermits holed up for pentecostalcatastrophe The sun grows on youyou like to say which Is a patented lie we all forgive inorder To maintain what this thing was whatever We forgot to call it and don't elaborate today Because it's almost somebody's birth Day god forbid the applecartcrashes leaving Survivors who can be honest about Something in black and white which Embarrasses really both of us and leaves No strong smell or stain but can't blanket This kind of night because it is simply and finally Too dark
read the news 10 23 07 “Now comes the mass-market Video game festival, perhaps A surprising latecomer to North America.” Give up and play Until the morning mist disperses And you can dream for five Minutes of fruit trees with twisted Wood next to a decaying Farmhouse in Umbria or some Like spot that makes you feel Anything. Anything but what Passes for blood running Through veins when you know It is money or some low hollow Liquid that makes you go jerk- Jerk-jerk and feel good or at Least different and you decide That is what good is and let It go at that and don’t forget What is always on your mind: Those other minds, always A problem, which can’t let Go of you because hey they Are only trying to get by, cling To rocks, wanting to play With friends at school and get Some cool things as presents And don’t need the shit but know Apparently somehow that it’s What’s behind the curtain and on The screen when the projector Starts and you never thought To have to make up an ending But assumed the motes in The cone of light would amuse.
oh so light 10 3 07 There was a bunch of fire That afternoon, and sails spun Away in the double-blue Where anyway I couldn’t see And goats or rams clung To their hot high crags lipped With tufty grass and I didn’t And don’t give a damn because I am lost and nobody knows It better or pretends the day Is longer or stops trucks By marching in front prostrating On asphalt: This is not my Problem, I would like to take This opportunity to shout—it Belongs to the dark behind My unlooking gaze, which Is fairly expert if I do say so. The problem is I want what You cannot give and you want What I have no intention Or desire even so who expects Besides blind people that The road would not end in Anything but a sudden stop. And yet surprise after surprise It continues, another bend or turn And here we are, more trees or Whatever rocks gravel a pin Or pen cap and dusty sun air Giving us problems headache You want a rub and I oblige As why not for the touch gives Reward and living free this Second forgetting every dance And day and complication Does not in the end please The boss or his minion his People or tent or obscure Longing in the alley I know And you don’t belong And that is just fine Let it fall and I’ll Pick it and dance Because I dance I am a dancer Don’t you Fly anymore Or Give Me What you think I need that only makes Matters worse
Lark Song 9 16 07 Go ahead and encourage the government to forbid Flowers and love and end the connivance partners Take for granted over coffee. See if it matters for Summer grains between toes and the lessening of Solstice nausea and rain gear dripping less slick of Light purpose. Wait at the corner for twenty-five or So minutes and if I don’t show up you’ll know it’s Lamptime in the barrow with orangy glow on brass And plenty of corner shadows for mice or others to Hide. Veer clear of the trap of heartwarmed song. Trying to purposes, standing outside the hotel school Holding balloons that say happy graduation, if you Can imagine such activities that must be nice I guess But I doubt it with all the hearts in my belly. Some- One says there has to be sense for nonsense to have Meaning but it’s clearly an unsupportable assumption. -------------------- Fifties Melodrama 9 14 07 And tell us, please: How Are you feeling this morning: Frustrated, sorrowful, convinced, With a sudden brush of rainy wind, That life is a bowl of dust or Something? Give us all Your deep stuff. Shine in sweat On our template and let us man- ufacture a reflection that suits The unique charm of your in- Most self and presents you As an offering of human grace That could rightfully inhabit A communion host. We’ll fashion You into sanctity, or no, that Happens anyway, doesn’t It?, all you have to do is smell Something fresh and wild On the day’s wind as you Pop around the corner. I Want you to know what’s inside Your heart or the earth’s core Or at least the pocket you forgot When you changed clothes. Contrary to what the news Suggests I don’t crave poverty For your soul, I want rather Richnesses to unfold and to let Go of baggage and give Bees a chance to do The sweet sticky job they love.
-------------------- Cul de Sac 9 12 07 Bitterness or whatever apparently swivels like a telescope. And now it’s trained this way: toward the light that shines In my eyes and pays out a line of sudden indifference, Like sleep in a wave cresting. I search myself as if For missing keys, patting here and there and find nothing. I am slow as a clam, but steady like the sand it sucks and spits, Valving with an old rhythm: on this you can depend, or could. For there is no white moon this night, nothing romantic. I’m told turkeys and ruminants dodge the inevitable in Similar ugly fashions and I don’t feel for their death. Animals all. Let the games be dead. Forget me and I ’ll mosey off down this salt trek between cudgels and Fevers, observe the traffic, be good or bad, not finding Much difference that comes bouncing back either way. -------------------- Boss 9 11 07 Forget expecting them to answer And forget the way snow feels melting Away on your hot tongue. And the skin Of a dead animal rubbing Against your leg thickened With money. And let this Be a lesson to you. Ho hum, you are out Of school and forced to draw up Your own lesson plans and grade your own Stuff and find a suitable piece of tree when You are bad and strip it and give Yourself a few as punishment and make yourself Cry and apologize and sincerely Say you’ll never do whatever it was again And know you don’t mean it not That you are false but you get people and this includes you. -------------------- The Landscape an Animal 9 11 07 I remember the lake and them Going out for a pass, it bounced Off the dock and far Into the water and the boys, your Cousins?, running diving in after but They went too far and it was the dog That plopped in four-pawing and got It and as it turned back I turned To my right and saw rearing Up from the surface as Big as a whale a polar bear, mountain Of cold animal from deep inside becoming The landscape and then behind The wave rose to the sky, a mile straight Up and I lay back then and closed My eyes to brace for its hit: good Bye. It never came. I often admire Someone like Allen Ginsberg Who let feelings ride up and down, Rose with those waves and didn’t drown but bobbed, or else didn’t Notice much the drowning. This is an odd goal, desiring Lacking, hungering for no food And filling up on it, searching For a zero to round off the number. If I had this goal and fulfilled It I would stop chattering my teeth And let the wind carry me up And that would be the start. So they say. I question Whether I value such a number Highly or whether anyone Does who has done this thing. Anyway, the bear, there, here. In this world with me, and life goes On. --------------------- Hundred Vacancies 9 3 07 This is not what I had in mind. Days fly like they're someone else's. Life takes a turn now and then: tell Your children this, in order To prepare them. But hey, by now They get it. There are faces In dreams and on book covers. A parade of them, bobbing Like apples at your own childhood Events, pretending to you the simplicity of It all when even at seven you know The sham inside. But you’re good At ducking shams, denying truths, Omitting details, falsifying records, Being a spy and counterspy when Very young. I like honesty in Children better than, say, playfulness. It hurts less, means more, gives some- Thing back, welcomes no one, for- Gives nothing, ends fights, launches Wars, buries hatchets, struggles back To the surface with luggage in tow And welcomes everyone with jouncing Movements, like we’re all dancing At somebody’s fiftieth birthday Party and the sky is falling and All drunk as heavy lords sway and touch Each other as if such flirty flits rivet Us to the living and the day and To earth. Give me what shit You have and I am here to take that Stuff and give some of my own: this Is after all adulthood isn’t it? Or so My parents taught me. Thank god For lessons learned. Hereby I bequeath Something to someone I don’t know And never will: let that suffice to reckon What I give up on, what I won’t give In on or resubmit to and forget forgetting About all that happened or crystally Remembering it for that matter. You go Into that good night how you will And I’ll stand in the hall awaiting The results of the tests, as if I care, for I’m past caring and beyond the need Of forms of transportation: I will catch No train or bus and I forgive Myself nothing and let no one off The hook. -------------------- scar 8 28 07 Like oil on the surface the anger There has burned off leaving gleaming Metal that feels soft when air hits It. Lots of pools still below, I know but this is nice. I wish I knew myself as well as the face Of anger but apparently it’s lying Behind several masks or rows of Bottles or something. I miss A scar. Once upon a time there was a Black cat that peed inconsolably as if It missed its mother. My father ’s father knew a thing or two: how To load dice, who to buy, and this Was my father’s cradle. What if what Lies behind the anger is more Anger like a mirror facing a mirror, How do I proceed and come to terms With what I know full well so I May touch that scar and in Touching tell it what it means To me? -------------------- For Sale 8 27 07 Volkswagen Jetta Lots of mileage. Memories. My small people smaller. Real mad joy flowing from questioning tension. In very good condition— I wish The heat of the summer Had meaning that could Flow direct, give strength. You like Things, and people, and everyone Knows how good that is. Glow, glow, glow, glow. What is this low heavy stuff and sigh, Day and night, but the balance For that glow? Let Me understand the years’ Meaning—I swear I’m ready, can take It, take anything, have taken, will act, won’t I? The a/c needs repair.
-------------------- prayer 8 25 07 I dreamed a good dream last night. The walls were the color of skin And held me well, not too tight or loose, But with natural pressure. I realize now After all these years that I never budge Only because nothing does. We all of us— Bees, their honey, abandoned newspapers, Kids, gun barrels, the lot—float just Here, hour after brightest hour, Until there is no more brightness. I’m not going anywhere. And that’s a good thing Yet I tell myself to realize that by now I might be left To my own devices: but isn’t that Always the fact? There’s my lesson, I guess, my nugget, my sad self ways, yours Too, whatever your name and days. Scales fall, skin sheds, newness like A sun opens but hey guess what it’s The same center, hard and steady And as familiar as the throb In my neck and chest. Much grinding of the machine in My case for precious little In thick slow stingy drops, wisdom, like Those bees and their honey, yet maybe With some sweetness. The twig that manages bids Or rather buds Makes its own flowers, sweetens with sun The sky surrounding. My prayer Goes thus: Don’t let Me with un- Gainly footfall step or crush What goodness grows. I wouldn’t mind Some strength though strength Is rarely what they say. Let some sun Or other glow on all of these and This, the nature I seem to have Spawned.
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