Deepanjana Pal at The Atlantic:

When Sridevi rose to prominence in the Hindi film industry, Bollywood, in the 1980s, it was at its tawdriest. The auteurs had left the building and a new, intensely commercial Hindi cinema had taken root. Appealing to the lowest common denominator became the industry mantra as more theaters cropped up around India and films became more profitable. Heroines were mostly cast for their sex appeal and paid much less than male counterparts. Their contributions were usually limited to romantic song sequences and weeping piteously when grabbed by the villain. Actresses would regularly be slapped and raped onscreen and groped offscreen.

Out of this emerged Sridevi, shining brighter than the hundreds of rhinestones and diamantes on her (sometimes) terrible outfits. Against all odds, she became the first modern, female superstar Bollywood has known and would remain one of its favorite actors over five decades.

On February 24, at age 54, Sridevi was found dead in her Dubai hotel apartment bathtub. According to the forensic report, she drowned accidentally. This summer, her daughter’s debut film will be released.

more here.

Kevin Jackson at Literary Review:

For a book that is crammed with adulteries, alcoholism, betrayals, broken friendships, deportations, deprivation, drug addiction, executions, humiliation, illicit abortions, imprisonment, murder, Nazi atrocities, starvation, torture chambers (on the avenue Hoche, passers-by could hear the screams coming up from the cellars’ air vents), treason and worse, Agnès Poirier’s Left Bank is a remarkably exhilarating read.

Above all, it has a terrific cast, with, as leading players, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus and Maurice Merleau-Ponty. The novelist, jazz musician and pataphysician Boris Vian, Samuel Beckett and the resident aliens Picasso and Giacometti also feature, as do brilliant African-American musicians and writers such as Miles Davis, James Baldwin and Richard Wright, the vehemently anti-communist Hungarian writer and wife-beater Arthur Koestler and, among the occupiers, the sinister but fascinating German Ernst Jünger, aesthete, entomologist and polymath.

Left Bank is an enchanting account of how these exceptionally talented and original people not merely endured these harsh years but also found pleasure, and even a kind of joy, in creating small pockets of private utopia.

more here.

Lauren Michele Jackson at The Point:

Beyoncé sang “Resentment” the first time I ever saw her in concert. It was not the first time I ever heard the song, but it may have just as well been. She wore a white jumpsuit and a white headdress with a white veil and white stilettos and sat on a second stage separated by a matter of a hundred feet or so from the main stage upon which she’d stomped, jumped, grinded and sweated my life out for the last hour or maybe two or three (time became hard to track in her presence). She was very still now. My seat was not good enough to make out her expression without the assistance provided by the two Jumbotrons behind her on the main stage. I hated them as mediators of my spiritual experience much as I was thankful for a closer look. I could see her sway, see her hair and veil lift and fall with the wind or maybe a fan placed just out of sight. And I could hear. Boy, could I.

“Resentment” is slow but not patient, sentimental but resigned, demanding—vocally—but without the dramatics that turn ballads into karaoke hits. The narrative is straightforward and regular: the speaker, “I,” Bey, or Beyoncé in White, has been cheated on by her lover, “you.”

more here.

Unnamed

Once, there was no word
for blue. To aborigines,
the sea was green
like cypress, like so many
species of locust.
And the moon
was the face of a clock
set in a forest night.

So what is the word
for us? For the sky
when it opens itself up
to the gold flash
of a bird, to the black
silhouette of a palm
frond? For that moment,
after so many moons,
when two people are culled
from their far, dark
corners of woods
to a pinpoint
on this grid of earth?

What do I call it—
this place we inhabit?
After roaming that terrain
of root and smoke,
to arrive, our feet
caked in dirt, eyes
full of green—
to the flash of the gold bird,
that piece of flame
in a blue sky?

by Ja'net Danielo
from 2River View
Fall, 2016

Heidi Ledford in Nature:

Researchers have combed through the genomes of more than 1,700 tumours, representing more than 20 different kinds of childhood cancer, to unearth potential drug targets and a better understanding of how cancer arises in the youngest patients. The work, published by two teams on 28 February in Nature^1,2, is part of a growing movement to harness genomics against childhood cancers. Around the world, researchers are banding together to share genomics data, techniques and cell lines that can be used to study these diseases. The efforts are generating a long list of genetic alterations that might be important in triggering cancer. But it will take considerable work to determine which of these genetic clues are pointing to the best drug targets. “It’s not just a matter of picking through genomics data,” says Susan Weiner, founder of the Children’s Cause for Cancer Advocacy in Washington DC. “There’s also the question of the validity of the targets.”

…A surprising number of childhood tumours showed signs of a possible defect in DNA repair, similar to the effects seen in adult cancers with mutations in the genes BRCA1 and BRCA2. In adults, such cancers are increasingly being treated with a class of drugs called PARP inhibitors, which target cells with abnormal DNA repair. The latest studies suggest that it may worth exploring whether these drugs work for some children.

More here.

Julia Felsenthal in Vogue:

There’s a thing that happens when you look at certain paintings by the young portrait artist Jordan Casteel. You take note of her subject, usually a black man. You look again, closer this time, and only on second glance do you recognize that his skin tone doesn’t actually resemble skin at all, but is instead blue, or green, or pink, or orange, or chalky white. You may question why you didn’t notice at first. You may marvel at Casteel’s clever palette, her ability to rationalize figure against ground, to hide a person the color of, say, the Hulk, in plain sight. If you’re thinking the way she hopes you’re thinking, you may wonder why you were so quick to clock his race. Maybe you wonder what other judgments you jumped to in the process.

“Which I love!” Casteel says when I describe it as a sort of magic-eye trick. “That was very intentional.” The artist, 29, is lanky and long-limbed, with a boyish haircut and the easy, funky style—’80s jeans, white Nikes, colorful socks, oversize glasses—of a very cool fifth grader. We’re sitting side by side on a sofa on the lower level of the Casey Kaplan gallery, where this fall Casteel mounted a much buzzed-about exhibition of paintings, “Nights in Harlem.” “I was interested in the fact that people were going, ‘Oh, you’re painting black men.’ And then they would be like: ‘Oh, actually, he’s green.’ I loved witnessing the externalization of that internal process.”

More here.

Sean Carroll in Preposterous Universe:

So here’s something intriguing: an observational signature from the very first stars in the universe, which formed about 180 million years after the Big Bang (a little over one percent of the current age of the universe). This is exciting all by itself, and well worthy of our attention; getting data about the earliest generation of stars is notoriously difficult, and any morsel of information we can scrounge up is very helpful in putting together a picture of how the universe evolved from a relatively smooth plasma to the lumpy riot of stars and galaxies we see today. (Pop-level writeups at The Guardian and Science News, plus a helpful Twitter thread from Emma Chapman.)

But the intrigue gets kicked up a notch by an additional feature of the new results: the data imply that the cosmic gas surrounding these early stars is quite a bit cooler than we expected. What’s more, there’s a provocative explanation for why this might be the case: the gas might be cooled by interacting with dark matter. That’s quite a bit more speculative, of course, but sensible enough (and grounded in data) that it’s worth taking the possibility seriously.

Let’s think about the stars first. We’re not seeing them directly; what we’re actually looking at is the cosmic microwave background (CMB) radiation, from about 380,000 years after the Big Bang.

More here.

Yuval Noah Harari in The Guardian:

Animals are the main victims of history, and the treatment of domesticated animals in industrial farms is perhaps the worst crime in history. The march of human progress is strewn with dead animals. Even tens of thousands of years ago, our stone age ancestors were already responsible for a series of ecological disasters. When the first humans reached Australia about 45,000 years ago, they quickly drove to extinction 90% of its large animals. This was the first significant impact that Homo sapiens had on the planet’s ecosystem. It was not the last.

About 15,000 years ago, humans colonised America, wiping out in the process about 75% of its large mammals. Numerous other species disappeared from Africa, from Eurasia and from the myriad islands around their coasts. The archaeological record of country after country tells the same sad story. The tragedy opens with a scene showing a rich and varied population of large animals, without any trace of Homo sapiens. In scene two, humans appear, evidenced by a fossilised bone, a spear point, or perhaps a campfire. Scene three quickly follows, in which men and women occupy centre-stage and most large animals, along with many smaller ones, have gone. Altogether, sapiens drove to extinction about 50% of all the large terrestrial mammals of the planet before they planted the first wheat field, shaped the first metal tool, wrote the first text or struck the first coin.

The next major landmark in human-animal relations was the agricultural revolution: the process by which we turned from nomadic hunter-gatherers into farmers living in permanent settlements. It involved the appearance of a completely new life-form on Earth: domesticated animals. Initially, this development might seem to have been of minor importance, as humans only managed to domesticate fewer than 20 species of mammals and birds, compared with the countless thousands of species that remained “wild”. Yet, with the passing of the centuries, this novel life-form became the norm. Today, more than 90% of all large animals are domesticated (“large” denotes animals that weigh at least a few kilograms).

More here.

I'm Just a Thief

I am not a poet;
I am a bad tempered man
I quarrel with all those around me for the most trivial reasons
And am impelled to assault and accuse them wrongly
Amidst the guffaw of the foolish, recidivists and word suckers.
I show my ingratitude even to those to whom I owe everything
and look down on their favours.
I don’t know who led one like me to poetry,
I’ve been lying all this while using deaf words.
Poetry is a poor dumb thing,
It’s unable to get rid of bandits,
What can metaphors do
Against a flunky with stolen medals.
I am just a thief
I pillaged the heritage of the very best poets of the earth who worked so hard
To embrace the tree of life and say
“Good morning, O world”
To birds, flowers and memories that blossom at sunrise.
I bribed the Interpol police
And bargained with the associations of critics who wear thick glasses
I traded their postmodern deconstructive tools
With sale revenue from institutions for the disabled
And placed my potential enemies under house arrest.

I'm just a thief,
A very dangerous thief and an accomplice of the Arab regimes
I am a threat to the security of the world. I disturb its sleep with the shouts of my apocalyptic allegations.
I feel no shame or regret for what I’ve done so far.
I don’t understand what morals and laws say throughout the day
In order for me to repent and stop giving the obscene finger;
For I have no conscience.
As soon as the dark starless night falls
My nails, abscesses, and my hair spread out
My garment also lengthens dragging my sins behind me.
Here I am a poet with ashen time hunger
Lost in nightmares
Thinking the sky a gas engine
Wherein burn nameless entities
while thousands of hoarse poems
And flocks of white sea-birds
Writhe under rusty spears.

I'm just a thief,
Just a cretinous and gloomy dictionary
Trying to get away with damned words
And the sorrow of the world.

by Abdellatif El Ouarari
from Poetry International, 2018
translation: Norddine Zouitni

Read more »

Parul Sehgal in The New York Times:

The world’s first transorbital lobotomy was performed in 1946 by Walter Freeman, in his Washington office. Using an ice pick from his own kitchen, he went through the eye sockets into the brain of his patient, a 29-year-old severely depressed housewife, and cut into her frontal lobes. Then he sent her home in a cab. The history of mental illness treatments reveals medicine at its most inventive, desperate and disturbing. There have been awe-inspiring discoveries — of the healing properties of lithium, for example, a soft, silvery metal produced in the first 20 minutes after the Big Bang. But remedies generally seem to have run a narrow gamut from the unpleasant (Cotton Mather’s prescription for depression: “living swallows, cut in two, and laid hot reeking unto the shaved Head”) to the outright sadistic. Aside from Freeman’s lobotomies, there is a long tradition of poisoning patients or inducing comas to “reset” the brain. In one notorious treatment, turpentine was injected into a patient’s abdominal wall in the hope of encouraging a fever high enough to burn away her hallucinations.

We’re lucky to live in more evidence-based, scientific times. Or do we? In “Blue Dreams,” a capacious and rigorous history of psychopharmacology, the psychologist and writer Lauren Slater looks at the fact that despite our ravenous appetite for psychotropic medications (about 20 percent of Americans take some psychotropic drug or other), doctors don’t really understand how they work or how to assess if a patient needs them. In the case of antidepressants, two-thirds of patients taking an S.S.R.I. (Prozac, Zoloft, Celexa, etc.) would improve on a placebo alone.

More here.

More here. (Note: Throughout February, at least one post will be dedicated to honor Black History Month)

Amitava Kumar in The New Yorker:

I am trying now to remember when it was that I stopped thinking of myself as a new immigrant.

Was it after three years? Five? Fifteen?

I have a narrative in my mind that is teleological—I think the word for this, from my graduate-student days, is “Hegelian”—and it culminates in my becoming a writer. A writer of immigritude. I cannot put a date to it, but I suspect that the rawness of always feeling out of place, of not belonging—that fighting sense I had of forever being on edge—diminished or even disappeared once I reached the understanding that I no longer had a home to which I could return. This went hand in hand (and this is part of the Hegelian schema I’m inhabiting here) with my finding a home in literature.

I arrived in the U.S., for graduate study, in literature, in the fall of 1986. I was twenty-three. After a year, I began to paint, even though I had come to the U.S. intending to become a writer. I painted small canvases, abstract forms that sometimes had words, often in Hindi, written on them. Why did this happen? Maybe because one day, in the college bookstore, I had seen a coffee-table book that had the word “India” printed on it in large letters.

More here.

Julia Belluz in Vox:

Exactly 20 years ago this month, an esteemed medical journal published a small study that has become one of the most notorious and damaging pieces of research in medicine.

The study, led by the now discredited physician-researcher Andrew Wakefield, involved 12 children and suggested there’s a link between the measles, mumps, and rubella vaccine — which is administered to millions of children around the world each year — and autism.

The study was subsequently thoroughly debunked. The Lancet retracted the paper and Wakefield was stripped of his medical license. Autism researchers have shown decisively again and again that the developmental disorder is not caused by vaccines.

Still, public health experts say the false data and erroneous conclusions in that paper, while rejected in the scientific world, helped fuel a dangerous movement of vaccine skepticism and refusal around the world.

Since its publication, measles outbreaks have erupted in Europe, Australia, and the US in communities where people refuse or fear vaccines. Vaccine refusal has become such a problem that some countries in Europe are now cracking down, making vaccines mandatory for children and fining parents who reject them.

But there’s more to the story.

More here.

From the New York Review of Books:

The United Nations says it has run out of words on Syria, but we, the undersigned, still have some for the governments, parliamentarians, electorates, and opinion leaders of the powers upon whom the international legal order has hitherto depended.

The world is a bystander to the carnage that has ravaged the lives of Syrians. All has happened in full view of a global audience that sees everything but refuses to act.

Through Russian obstruction and western irresolution, the UN Security Council has failed to protect Syrians. To the extent that it has been able to pass resolutions, they have proved ineffectual. All they have done is provide a fig leaf to an institution that appears moribund. Perhaps conscious of the stain this might leave on its legacy, the UN has even stopped counting Syria’s dead. After seven years, these nations appear united only in their apathy.

It will be redundant to list the nature and magnitude of all the crimes that the Assad regime has committed against Syrians, aided by local and foreign militias, by Iranian strategic and financial aid, by Russian airpower and mercenaries—and by international indifference. The world that watched and averted its eyes is its passive enabler.

More here.

A Certain Slant of Sunlight

In Africa the wine is cheap, and it is
on St. Mark’s Place too, beneath a white moon.
I’ll go there tomorrow, dark bulk hooded
against what is hurled down at me in my no hat
which is weather: the tall pretty girl in the print dress
under the fur collar of her cloth coat will be standing
by the wire fence where the wild flowers grow not too tall
her eyes will be deep brown and her hair styled 1941 American
will be too; but
I’ll be shattered by then
But now I’m not and can also picture white clouds
impossibly high in blue sky over small boy heartbroken
to be dressed in black knickers, black coat, white shirt,
buster-brown collar, flowing black bow-tie
her hand lightly fallen on his shoulder, faded sunlight falling
across the picture, mother & son, 33 & 7, First Communion Day, 1941–
I’ll go out for a drink with one of my demons tonight
they are dry in Colorado 1980 spring snow.

by Ted Berrigan
from Selected Poems
Penguin Poets, publisher

Jane Smiley at The Paris Review:

Willa Cather was not a flashy stylist, and though she was ambitious in her work, she did not attach it to a publicity-worthy life like some of her contemporaries, such as Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Cather’s first book of poetry came out in 1903, when she was twenty-nine; her first book of stories followed a couple years later, when she was thirty-one. Her last novel appeared in 1940, and a volume of three more stories was published in 1948, shortly after she died. Forty-five years is a long career for a novelist, but she possessed an intensity of observation and a curiosity about human psychology, especially as it relates to nature, that never waned. My Ántonia is one of her best-loved books, and it displays all the characteristics that make Cather both elusive and fascinating even as it depicts a world that vanished almost as soon as the novel was published.

Willa Cather was born in an interesting spot in the mountains of Virginia, near Winchester, on the banks of a tributary of the Potomac, Back Creek. The family properties (one owned by her grandfather, another given to her father by her grandfather) were about ninety miles from Washington, D.C., and fifty miles from prosperous plantation regions like Loudon County.

more here.

Lidija Haas at the LRB:

Born in 1922 to Russian Jewish parents who had left Ukraine 16 years earlier, Grace Goodside (originally Gutseit) grew up in the Bronx, hearing Russian and Yiddish and all the clamourings of New York City. Her parents were socialists and so was she, although she notes in the first essay collected here that, after her mother made nine-year-old Grace pull out of a play her youth group were doing on account of her awful singing voice, ‘in sheer spite I gave up my work for socialism for at least three years.’ She did all kinds of jobs and at 18 studied at the New School with W.H. Auden, who did her the great favour of encouraging her to write the way she talked. She married Jess Paley in 1942, in her late twenties had Nora and a son, Danny, and in her thirties began to write fiction and take part in the political activism that would continue to absorb much of her time and energy until her death in 2007. The Vietnam War, nuclear proliferation, US actions in Central America, the Israeli occupation of the West Bank and Gaza, and eventually the war in Iraq: she protested and organised against them all, and those fights marked her fiction. Her last collection has characters disagreeing about Golda Meir and discussing Mao. She taught writing at various universities from the mid-1960s onwards and, after separating from Jess Paley, married the writer Bob Nichols. She also published three books of fiction, though the novel her publishers hoped for never materialised. It seems fair to say that the short story was her form. The talent for nonchalance and compression that allows her to stretch out a brief chat to encompass several lives might be wasted if it extended much further. As it is, in her work possibilities proliferate rather than narrow. Paley often reuses the same narrator, but that person never needs to have learned from or remembered what seemed to define her last time round.

more here.