Men marry younger women and women prefer to marry older men, in general. But is it culture, genetics or the environment that drives such a choice—and is there an optimal age difference? New research shows that, at least for the Sami people of preindustrial Finland, men should marry a woman almost 15 years their junior to maximize their chances of having the most offspring that survive.
“We studied how parental age difference at marriage affected [families’] reproductive success among Sami people who married only once in their lifetime[s],” says ecologist Samuli Helle of the University of Turku in Finland. “We found that marrying women 14.6 years younger maximized men’s lifetime reproductive success—in other words, the number of offspring surviving to age 18.”
Charles Taylor reviews Dinesh D’Souza’s The Enemy at Home: The Cultural Left and Its Responsibility for 9/11 in Dissent.
DINESH D’SOUZA’S The Enemy at Home is a declaration of common cause with people who have declared themselves against the basic concept of democracy. It doesn’t much matter that D’Souza is courting “traditional Muslims,” the phrase he uses to denote those who don’t share the radical Muslim belief in terrorism. His vision is of America as the altar of a West-East theocracy that would root out any American who doesn’t share its values. D’Souza, he is careful to point out, does not support terrorism. The question The Enemy at Home leaves you with is, why not?
In The Enemy at Home, D’Souza claims that the American left makes up a “domestic insurgency.” (Going Joe McCarthy one better, he helpfully supplies a list of names.) In this reactionary romance, the left, hating Bush more than Osama bin Laden, wants to see the president defeated. Understanding that Muslims, given the chance at democratic elections, will establish states ruled by the traditional morality they despise, the left wants to halt the potential for democracy in the Middle East.
Meanwhile, D’Souza dreams of halting democracy at home. He posits the depraved, atheistic values of the American left as the source of Muslim anger toward America and concludes that terrorism can’t be defeated abroad unless the left is defeated at home. To achieve this, D’Souza, seeing what he believes is an obvious alliance, ominously calls for the American right to “convince traditional Muslims that there are two Americas, and that one of these has a lot in common with them.”
D’Souza shares the Islamic radicals’ disgust with contemporary America, which he sees as a sewer of unutterable depravity. He respects the radicals for their commitment to a strict “traditional” moral code—none more so than Osama bin Laden, whom he dotes on in passages that suggest a schoolboy crush: “Just about everyone who has met bin Laden describes him as a quiet, well-mannered, thoughtful, eloquent, and deeply religious man . . . it is remarkable that a man born into a multimillion-dollar empire, a man who could be on a yacht in San Tropez with a blonde on one arm and a brunette on the other, has chosen to live in a cave in Afghanistan and risk his life for his beliefs.”
It is ironic, to say the least, that the emblem of opera in the popular imagination is a fat, blonde-haired woman wearing a two-horned helmet. The image comes, by way of cartoons and parodies, from Wagner’s Ring, but Wagner himself would have been the last person to view his great work as the essence of opera. He thought what he was building in this eighteen-hour, four-evening piece was precisely not opera, but a rebellion against opera as he knew it—a fresh form that required a new name (something along the lines of “music drama”) and that could not be performed in a standard opera house, but needed its own special festival setting. That Bayreuth in particular and Wagnerism in general have hardened into the strictest of operatic traditions is an irony which would not have been lost on the composer, for the oppressive and finally triumphant power of rules, even or especially in the face of the deepest individual desire to break them, is one of the Ring cycle’s central themes.
The Enigma of Arrival is a work of extraordinary originality and achievement that not only wears down the reader’s resistance (groaning initially at how so much traveloguing impressionism can be served up as art), but which ultimately contains such gravity and truth that it illuminates and moves the reader so much that he or she is likely to think ever after that any objection that can be brought to its author, on the grounds of his personality or his prejudices, his incidental vices or frailties, is like the trivia of scholars who take a dim moral view of Shakespeare because of the supposed niggardliness of his business transactions.
And, yes, it is a documentary novel, if it can be described as a novel at all, set by and large in the English countryside where the author (ostensibly identical with his biographical self) is apparently adjusting to the rigours of middle age. Having made the arduous, uncertain journey from Trinidad to Oxford more than 30 years earlier, he finds himself at home in Britain, renting a cottage on the estate of some landed gent.
From 1974 until he died, Warhol squirrelled away the daily accumulations and detritus of his day in what he called time capsules. Over those final 13 years, he filled 570 cardboard boxes, 40 filing cabinets and one large trunk with the surface contents of his desk, leaving behind an archive that must rank as the most extensive collection of the incidentals of any artist. Another way to think of the Warhol time capsules would be as a giant, three-dimensional diary.
The collection is held at the Warhol museum in the old steel town where he was born and raised, Pittsburgh. The boxes are stored in air-controlled rooms, lined up neatly like funeral urns. Only 91 of the 611 capsules have been opened, and only 19 have been fully analysed and recorded.
The museum now has the chance to finish the job. It was recently awarded a $650,000 grant by the Andy Warhol Foundation to complete the digital cataloguing of the entire collection. Three full-time archivists will spend the next three years painstakingly opening up and going through all the remaining boxes.
John Updike on Gustav Klimt in the New York Review of Books:
The Gustav Klimt exhibition, which opened on October 18, 2007, will fill the Neue Galerie until the end of June next year. Its attention-riveting center is Klimt’s 1907 portrait of the prominent Viennese society figure and art patron Adele Bloch-Bauer, executed in oils, silver, and gold—a radiant example of his so-called Golden Style, which was inspired by the artist’s two visits, in 1903, to Ravenna, where he saw the Byzantine mosaics in the church of San Vitale.
He was especially taken, Renée Price tells us in her commentary on the painting, by the mosaic image of the Empress Theodora, “glittering before an abstract gold background.” These were “mosaics of unprecedented splendor,” he wrote to his friend Emilie Flöge. But Byzantine mosaics were not the only influences tugging this portrait toward decorative abstraction: Russian icons also embedded faces in a plane of gold; Egyptian art, which fascinated Klimt, is echoed in the hieroglyphic eyes dominating Adele’s strapped dress; and Japanese woodcuts, Janis Staggs writes in her catalog essay on Klimt’s relation to Emilie Flöge, “typically schematize the hu-man body hierarchically: the face and hands are depicted with painstaking verisimilitude, whereas other physical attributes—as well as clothing and elements of nature—are rendered more abstractly.” Horizontal eyes and vertical half-moons in the sitter’s garments both suggest vaginas, indicating another of the painter’s interests and doing nothing to discourage persistent but unproven rumors of a romantic connection between the artist and his subject.
You are more bacteria than you are you, according to the latest body census.
Melinda Wenner in Scientific American:
We compulsively wash our hands, spray our countertops and grimace when someone sneezes near us—in fact, we do everything we can to avoid unnecessary encounters with the germ world. But the truth is we are practically walking petri dishes, rife with bacterial colonies from our skin to the deepest recesses of our guts.
All the bacteria living inside you would fill a half-gallon jug; there are 10 times more bacterial cells in your body than human cells, according to Carolyn Bohach, a microbiologist at the University of Idaho (U.I.), along with other estimates from scientific studies. (Despite their vast numbers, bacteria don’t take up that much space because bacteria are far smaller than human cells.) Although that sounds pretty gross, it’s actually a very good thing.
The infestation begins at birth: Babies ingest mouthfuls of bacteria during birthing and pick up plenty more from their mother’s skin and milk—during breast-feeding, the mammary glands become colonized with bacteria.
Think today’s movies suck? Imagine the ones that never get made. Read some of Hollywood’s all-time worst pitches, then submit your own to guest judge Harvey Weinstein.
Neel Shah in Radar:
Given the fare that makes it into theaters these days, it’s hard to imagine any film or TV idea too dumb to see the light of day. Turns out, you just weren’t trying hard enough. Radar asked a number of leading producers, agents, and writers to share the worst pitches they’ve ever had to endure.
Wheels The Pitch:Jerry Maguire in a wheelchair. The Premise: “A hotshot sports agent parks in a handicapped spot and gets sentenced by a judge to spend a month in a wheelchair,” recalls a creative exec at a major production house. “Which is fine, until he falls for a woman with a real disability, but doesn’t explain that he isn’t actually handicapped. How’s that for a third-act complication, motherfucker?!” Suggested Tagline: You had me at paraplegic.
Homeless Friends The Pitch: Like Friends, except everyone’s homeless. The Premise: “The cast was supposed to be young and good-looking; they just happened to live on the streets,” recalls a prominent TV agent. “The conceit was that everyone would hang out in Central Park instead of Central Perk. The guy really thought we could sell it to NBC.” Suggested Cast: Michael Pitt (Chandler), Courtney Love (Rachel), Gary Busey (Joey), Pete Doherty (Ross), Natasha Lyonne (Phoebe), Mary-Kate Olsen (Monica).
They say aging is one of the only certain things in life. But it turns out they were wrong. In recent years, gerontologists have overturned much of the conventional wisdom about getting old. Aging is not the simple result of the passage of time. According to a provocative new view, it is actually something our own bodies create, a side effect of the essential inflammatory system that protects us against infectious disease. As we fight off invaders, we inflict massive collateral damage on ourselves, poisoning our own organs and breaking down our own tissues. We are our own worst enemy. This paradox is transforming the way we understand aging. It is also changing our understanding of what diseases are and where they come from. Inflammation seems to underlie not just senescence but all the chronic illnesses that often come along with it: diabetes, atherosclerosis, Alzheimer’s, heart attack. The idea that chronic diseases might be caused by persistent inflammation has been kicking around since the 19th century. Only in the past few years, though, have modern biochemistry and the emerging field of systems biology made it possible to grasp the convoluted chemical interactions involved in bodywide responses like inflammation.
When you start to think about aging as a consequence of inflammation, you start to see old age in a different, much more hopeful light. If decrepitude is driven by an overactive immune system, then it is treatable. And if many chronic diseases share this underlying cause, they might all be remedied in a similar way. The right anti-inflammatory drug could be a panacea, treating diabetes, dementia, heart disease, and even cancer. Such a wonder drug might allow us to live longer, but more to the point, it would almost surely allow us to live better, increasing the odds that we could all spend our old age feeling like Jim Hammond: healthy, vibrant, and vital. And unlike science fiction visions of an immortality pill, a successful anti-inflammatory treatment could actually happen within our lifetime.
Among white Americans, the average IQ, as of a decade or so ago, was 103. Among Asian-Americans, it was 106. Among Jewish Americans, it was 113. Among Latino Americans, it was 89. Among African-Americans, it was 85. Around the world, studies find the same general pattern: whites 100, East Asians 106, sub-Sarahan Africans 70. One IQ table shows 113 in Hong Kong, 110 in Japan, and 100 in Britain. White populations in Australia, Canada, Europe, New Zealand, South Africa, and the United States score closer to one another than to the worldwide black average. It’s been that way for at least a century.
Remember, these are averages, and all groups overlap. You can’t deduce an individual’s intelligence from her ethnicity. The only thing you can reasonably infer is that anyone who presumes to rate your IQ based on the color of your skin is probably dumber than you are.
So, what should we make of the difference in averages?
Fear of terrorism was the chief political asset of the Bush administration during its heyday. Now that the Democratic party and environmentalism are in the ascendant, is a right wing politics of fear being succeeded by a left-liberal politics of fear? Can progressive politics appeal to our hopes and desires rather than our nightmares? Or are the threats we face—including global warming and energy scarcity—so ominous that a politics of fear is the only credible kind left?
Elizabeth Hardwick, the critic, essayist, fiction writer and co-founder of The New York Review of Books, who went from being a studious Southern Belle to a glittering member of the New York City intellectual elite, died Sunday night in Manhattan. She was 91.
Her death, at a Manhattan hospital, was confirmed today by her daughter, Harriet Lowell.
Known mainly as a critic, and credited for expanding the possibilities of the literary essay through her intimate tone and her dramatic deployment of forceful logic, Ms. Hardwick nevertheless resisted easy classification. Although born into a large Protestant family in Lexington, Ky., she had her eye on New York City and its culture from an early age.
“Even when I was in college, ‘down home,’ I’m afraid my aim was — if it doesn’t sound too ridiculous — my aim was to be a New York Jewish intellectual,” she told an interviewer in 1979. “I say ‘Jewish’ because of their tradition of rational skepticism; and also a certain deracination appeals to me — and their openness to European culture.”
When President Robert Mugabe came to power in 1980 the country was thriving. Its health and education services were the envy of the region and, thanks to a first-class infrastructure and a healthy economy, the future looked bright. It doesn’t look like that now.
Last Friday the ritual queuing began at first light in the centre of the capital, Harare. As dawn broke, two separate lines intertwined on the corner of Lake Takawira Street. The longest was motivated by a rumour that circulated around the city overnight that there was bread in town. Up and down the line people were on mobile phones, texting and calling friends to give them the latest information. Yet many people walked away empty-handed. When bread and flour do come on the market, they are often bought up in bulk and sold on at inflated prices on the black market, which is the real market.
It’s not just bread. Those who have the purchasing power buy what they can maize, cooking oil or beans often at government-subsidised prices. Instead of supplying the domestic market, they export the goods to neighbouring Mozambique or Botswana to earn precious foreign currency, although the poorest in Zimbabwe can barely afford one meal a day.
“If I don’t get the bread today, who knows, maybe I won’t be able to afford it tomorrow,” a woman in the bread queue told me. She was probably right. Within a month inflation, which already stood at 7,900%, the highest in the world, was widely reported to have jumped to 14,000%.
Why then are candidates for the presidency never presented with a few simple puzzles to help the electorate gauge their cognitive agility? The same goes for interviewers who ask the same dreary, insipid questions time after time and accept the same dreary, insipid non-answers time after time.
These puzzles shouldn’t be difficult since, after all, the primary job of the president is to enforce the Constitution, ensure an honest and open administration, and, in some generalized sense, make things better. For this task, judgment and wisdom are more essential than the ability to solve puzzles. Nevertheless, I think some non-standard questions like the following would help winnow, or at least chasten, some of the candidates…
1. Scaling. Imagine a small state or city with, let’s say, a million people and an imaginative and efficient health care program. The program is not necessarily going to work in a vast country with a population that is 300 times as large. Similarly a flourishing small company that expands rapidly often becomes an unwieldy large one. Problems and surprises arise as we move from the small to the large since social phenomena generally do not scale upward in a regular or proportional manner.
A simple, yet abstract problem of this type? How about the following (answers on page 4): A model car, an exact replica of a real one in scale, weight, material, et cetera, is 6 inches (1/2 foot) long, and the real car is 15 feet long, 30 times as long. If the the circumference of a wheel on the model is 3 inches, what is the circumference of a wheel on the real car? If the hood of the model car has an area of 4 square inches, what is the area of the real car’s hood? If the model car weighs 4 pounds, what does the real car weigh?
Volume three of John Richardson’s A Life of Picasso has now appeared and, like the first two installments of the biography,[*] it is a work so rich with information and insight that it will forever change our understanding of the artist. The book opens in 1917 when Picasso was thirty-five and closes in 1932 when he was fifty-one; it was during this span that he became the richest and most famous painter on earth. Yet the volume’s subtitle, “The Triumphant Years,” refers more to his sustained artistic success than to his worldly prosperity.
Throughout this period, in a rush of ceaseless creativity, Picasso devised and explored one new experiment in style after another, shifting back and forth between many different modes of representation at a rate of speed and with a measure of confidence unmatched in the history of art. It was for Picasso a time of innovation nearly as bold and original as that of the first Cubist period that began with Les Demoiselles d’Avignon in 1907, but the very diversity of his experiments has made them difficult for historians to grasp or explain. Revealing himself to be a master of criticism as well as of biography, Richardson not only casts new light on each of the innovations Picasso discovered, he also shows, better than anyone has before, how the various experiments were interrelated.
Tolstoy is the great novelist of physical involuntariness. The body helplessly confesses itself, and the novelist seems merely to run and catch its spilled emotion. A friend of the novelist’s, the critic Aleksandr Druzhinin, ribbed him about it in a letter: “You are sometimes on the point of saying that so-and-so’s thighs showed that he wanted to travel in India!” The old patriarch Prince Bolkonsky, for instance, loves his son, Andrei, and his daughter, Marya, so fiercely that he cannot express that love in any form except spiteful bullying, yelling in the presence of his spinsterish daughter, “If only some fool would marry her!” His hands register “the still persistent and much-enduring strength of fresh old age,” but his face occasionally betrays suppressed tenderness. As he says farewell to his son, who is going to war, he is his usual self, gruffly shouting “Off with you!” Yet “something twitched in the lower part of the old prince’s face.”
Tolstoy can seem almost childlike in his simplicity, because he is not embarrassed to do the kind of thing beloved of children’s and fairy-tale writers when they read the emotions on the face of a cat or a donkey. When Prince Andrei’s wife dies in childbirth, her dead face appears to say to the living, “Ah, what have you done to me?”
A heavy morning mist lifts to reveal sweeping meadows above the riverside town of Foca in Eastern Bosnia: receding mountain ridges and nestled hamlets surrounded by haystacks. But what the emergent sun does not illuminate is the whereabouts of the man believed hidden in this vast landscape, with its closed doors and its impervious inhabitants: Radovan Karadzic, former leader of the Bosnian Serbs.
Karadzic – for 12 years fugitive from a supposedly rigorous search effort by the intelligence services and soldiers of the West. Karadzic – with his military counterpart, General Ratko Mladic – indicted and wanted for genocide and a bloody litany of war crimes against innocent civilians during the tempest of mass murder, massacre, mass rape, concentration camps and ‘ethnic cleansing’ (a term Karadzic himself devised) they unleashed against the Bosnian Muslims and Croats in 1992. A tempest that continued for three years until the Srebrenica massacre of 8,000 men and boys over five days in 1995.
A particularly cunning seven-year-old chimp named Ayumu has bested university students at a game of memory. He and two other young chimps recalled the placement of numbers flashed onto a computer screen faster and more accurately than humans. “It’s a very simple fact: chimpanzees are better than us — at this task,” says Tetsuro Matsuzawa, a primatologist at Kyoto University in Japan who led the study.
The work doesn’t mean that chimps are ‘smarter’ than humans, but rather they seem to be better at memorizing a snapshot view of their surroundings — whether that be numbers on a screen or ripe figs dangling from a tree. Humans may have lost this capacity in exchange for gaining the brainpower to understand language and complex symbols, says Matsuzawa.
Men marry younger women and women prefer to marry older men, in general. But is it culture, genetics or the environment that drives such a choice—and is there an optimal age difference? New research shows that, at least for the Sami people of preindustrial Finland, men should marry a woman almost 15 years their junior to maximize their chances of having the most offspring that survive.
