Note: This narrative was created from three true stories. Each character is a combination of more than one real person. I changed names and story elements to preserve the privacy of individuals.

Part 1 of this story can be found HERE.

The story so far

My nephew, Samuel Anders, was arrested, at gun point, on a charge of domestic violence. His wife, Kara Thrace, called 911 after she was pushed by Samuel and fell over a chair. The 911 dispatcher asked if there was a firearm in the house. She answered, “Yes,” but didn't say that the pistol was hers, and that Samuel did not know where she hid it, under lock and key. The introduction of a firearm into this situation resulted in six police cars and a dozen officers surrounding the house and calling for Samuel to come out with his hands raised in the air.

Samuel was going to plead guilty, enroll in an anger management class, get counseling, be placed on probation for a year, and pay a fine. He called me to borrow $550 for his fine. When he described the events to me, it was clear he committed no crime. Kara overreacted to Samuel's leaving the house to avoid an argument with her. She ran up to him, blocked his exit, and thrust herself in his face while shouting insults. Samuel, reacting involuntarily and instinctively, threw up his hands. Kara was unhurt, locked herself in her bedroom, and called the police.

Following Samuel's release from jail, Kara went to the Assistant County Attorney, Cassandra Misandre, and asked that the charges be dropped. Kara explained she overreacted. She told of being emotionally distraught over her sister's death, she was depressed, and had been in severe pain from an anal fissure, for three weeks, at the time of the pushing incident. Misandre would not drop the charges.

I found a lawyer for Samuel and told him I would take care of all the legal bills. I retained Huntsville, Alabama attorney John Hunt “Thunderbolt” Morgan.

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Song Behind a Rear-Tined Tiller

They believed consciousness resided in the heart

Aristotle believed this, and the Egyptians
who scooped out dead Pharaoh's brain
through his nose with a spoon
and stuffed his skull with rags assuring
he would not be thinking in the other world
to which he'd travel by long boat
being wrapped in cloth, speechless, supine in gold,
embarked with a breathless retinue of slaves
through the hole at the end of the earth
to a place far in imagination

Here and now the sun climbs a trellis of trees
along a rail line on which, at irregular intervals,
a freight comes dragging coal behind three engines
or hauls ladened boxcars labeled J.B. Hunt,
or pulls chains of chemical tanks and steel containers
heavy with the inventions of consciousness
some inscribed with graffiti sprayed by
a deft hand in letters bold and color-nuanced
arranged with a master's touch
tuned to the songs of heart or brain
while the smell of blue-grey diesel
sparks a synapse between beats
and one step follows another
behind a rear-tined tiller
as I urge a throttle

Who knows who sings
through what instrument
–did Aristotle?

by Jim Culleny, 4/22/10

By Maniza Naqvi

A puck planted on the right ear a pucch pressed in on the left. The sound still explosive in my head, I close my eyes as the full body search begins.

Arms stretched, legs apart, I assume the first step for the warrior pose. And now there lodged behind my eyes like an invisible stowaway Beyla’s kiss rings like a needling alarm, like a drill which draws a sharpened line, splitting my mind. Beyla’s bangles, white from wrist to shoulder, still jangle in my memory. I remember the sight of her skin cracked by searing sun as though it were ancient parchment covered in scripture and stretched over her bones: x-ray thin.

Stand still I am told. I shield myself inside that memory of bright sunlight, and shades of yellow, indigo, magenta and burnt earth. The kiss in my head undistilled, a discomfiting disturbance still. I think as I drift away: It’s a slim word. Still, a strong word. A good word. Even so. Even now. Quiet. Calm. Serene. Motion less. Breeze less. Yet. And so. Continuing. Continues.

Now, at the scanner machines I watch as the stuff sorter in a private security uniform wearing translucent disposable gloves, fishes out of my large handbag, a travel alarm clock, batteries, earphones tangled in so many keys— car, apartment and to the mailbox full of bills. An earring and a sheaf of papers appear next. A frangipani blossom, still moist, pressed inside a small black notebook flops out. There is a Spanish fan. She opens the fan, with both hands, unfurls it using her thumbs and sets it aside—painted geese against a dark blue sky—like the ones visiting Karachi from the frozen Siberia every winter. On the handle Espana painted in golden letters. A made in China, fan. I reach for the fan to show her how it’s done, the ratatat sudden sound of the unfurling, instant, with just one flick of my wrist—a trick I learned long ago in Manila, inflicts, in her, fear. Startled, she stops me—though I am done, “Don’t touch anything!” All I own—off limits to me, now weapons under her scrutiny and prying fingers—till she has judged them as benign; till her opinion has sterilized them; made them permissible to go on; all my stuff cleansed by a cleared and approved approver, till the next check point. She clucks her disapproval at the blossom—separates it out for disposal in a large trash bin which reminds me of the delete symbol on my email. In all this I give my head a vigorous shake, hoping to discard the ringing but it clings in there, undetected. She plucks up the imam zamin.

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by Bilal Tanweer

HOSHRUBA—The Land & the Tilism (Book One)
By Muhammad Husain Jah
Translated with Introduction and Notes by Musharraf Ali Farooqi
516 pages, Urdu Project
ISBN: 978-0978069551
Price: US $25

www.hoshruba.com

Can you think of a book you’ve read that begins with a warning? This is probably a first, for its exuberance if nothing else:

[This tale] has consumed whole generations of readers before you. And like all great tales, it is still hungry—ravenous, in fact—for more. You may not return from this campaign. Or come back so hardened you may never look at stories in quite the same way again.

It might seem an exaggeration, but here are the facts: this yarn was spun by two generations of storytellers and it is spread over eight thousand pages in its original Urdu language. At the height of its popularity in North India, it attracted legions of followers all the way from the aristocratic class down to the ordinary folk of the bazaar. In other words: this is a bloody carnival of a book, and everyone is invited.

Reading it, you immediately think of Borges’ remark on The Thousand and One Nights: “one feels like getting lost in [it], one knows entering that book one can forget one’s own poor human fate; one can enter a world, a world made of archetypal figures but also of individuals.”

That sums it up, really. Except, during the course of this narrative, our poor fate is in the hands of five tricksters, who are the heroes of the tale: they are spies, assassins, chameleons, and commandoes all rolled into one and their tricks usually involve elaborate plots to overcome the astounding magic of enemy sorcerers. But they aren’t your regular Bond-style smart guys; they are much flatter – types, as Borges puts it. And that’s how the narrative also goes: focused entirely on action and rooted firmly in absolute notions of good and evil, beauty and ugliness, love and loyalty, it lacks every nuance of psychology or empathy with the ‘other’ that you may think of. It is a tumbling, rollicking war machine that lusts after the triumph of good and will settle for nothing less than a thorough devastation of evil that is the enchanted Land of Hoshruba and its ruler, Emperor Sorcerer Afrasiyab.

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Pharaoh Khufu intends to secure his riches beyond the grave, and into the afterlife. He captures the greatest architect known in his kingdom, and forces him – through a threat to his entire people – to build him an impenetrable tomb: a Pyramid no thief can plunder. The architect sets to work, knowing that upon completion of the tomb he himself will be sealed inside with the dead Pharaoh. How is it possible to build the most secret catacomb, a labyrinth impossible to breach, without passing on its secret through the workers who build it?

In the classic Hollywood film, Land of the Pharaohs, such a conundrum is posed. The architect needs a team of workers that Khufu can trust, to construct the mechanism by which the tomb will close itself off to eternity. The Pharaoh has the solution: the workers he gives the architect have had their tongues cut out. In exchange for their devotion the slaves will accompany the architect and Khufu to the afterlife. No secret will pass their lips.

How do we pass on a message in a world with impenetrable borders? And in turn, how do we determine its secure transmission? The codes we devise become useless at certain horizons: if the slave cannot speak, he cannot exchange; if a being from another land does not know our language, it cannot understand us; if a message is encrypted, one must also pass on the method to crack it.

Sometimes the codes we devise to enslave, become apparatus in their own demise.

The tongue-less slave is still a liability in a literate society; in turn, a literate slave is a still liability in a digitised society. At every stage in the development of communication technologies human subjects have been relinquished power of one kind, only for a power of another kind to evolve and liberate them once again. The human body is the central locality for all information exchange. Even today, with our writing technologies, our radios, computers and nano-particles, it is the human form that dictates all particulars of scale and substance. What matters now is not the tongue – an organ reduced of its power by hieroglyphics and alphabets – yet in order to silence, corrupt regimes and over-zealous governments still effectively mutilate their subjects. In the West, information monoliths such as Google and Wikipedia help us mediate the space between discrete, complex reams of data. It is as if, in the modern age, to spite its people all China needed to do was cut off the equivalent of their tongue, building up around them a labyrinthine firewall that determines their silence; that reduces their identities to the status of tongueless slaves.

Sometimes to properly conceal something, one must devise a better way to encode it.

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David Sheppard is the author of On Some Faraway Beach: The Life and Times of Brian Eno, the first and only biography of rock music's foremost intellectual “non-musician,” producer and cultural theorist. The book covers Eno's early life growing up in England listening to early soul records, his formative period in art school, his entrance into the public eye as the synthesizer player with Roxy Music and his career's subsequent fragmentation across the cultural landscape, into the realms of visual art, ambient music, record production (for the likes of U2, David Bowie, Talking Heads and Coldplay), writing and futurology. Colin Marshall originally conducted this conversation on the public radio program and podcast The Marketplace of Ideas. [MP3] [iTunes link]

This is a question coming from one Brian Fan to another, and it's one I've always had difficulty with: what is the concise answer that you give — say, when you were working on the book and they asked you want it was about and they didn't know who Brian Eno was, so they asked “Who's Brian Eno?”, what did you say?

I've yet to come up with the pat sentence that actually answers that, as indeed has Brian. I mention in the intro to the book that he got so fed up with trying to answer that question at dinner parties, explaining this enormously complex dilettante artist, cultural theorist, etc., etc. job description that he instead just said he was an accountant, which made people go away very, very quickly.

How did your own history with the enjoyment of Brian Eno's work begin? What was your introduction to him?

I came across him as a sort of callow youth, listening to punk rock records. He got all the mentions in the margins. I was aware of him in Roxy Music, but I was a bit too young for that, so it was a kind of ethereal presence initially. He got mentioned in dispatches by all sorts of people in punk rock. When I first got to hear his music, which in any serious capacity would have been about '78, what I heard sounded nothing like what I expected. I expected something far more severe and metallic.

Obviously I knew things like Low, the David Bowie record he'd worked on, and I'd never really associated his involvement in those records with the more calm and ethereal elements. Somehow I imagined him to be more Velvet Underground and less lift music — to be honest, when I first heard ambient music I, like many others, didn't fall immediately in love with it. I did think it was rather bland.

My initial reaction to Brian Eno was one of disappointment — one which quickly turned around. Something happened very shortly after that. I think it was just part of my growing up, actually. A light went on somehow, and it all suddenly made enormous sense. The more I investigated it, the more sense it made.

You mention this intro was in the late seventies, when Brian was in the process of inventing and releasing the first ambient albums. For those in the audience who might not know, how did Brian enter the public eye? What things was he first famous for?

His introduction to the masses would have been through playing synthesizers with Roxy Music, certainly in the U.K. This was this very strange pop group, even for a time of very strange pop groups. Bryan Ferry was the lead singer and Brian Eno was this guy, a self-confessed non-musician, who played synthesizers and actually played a lot of the instruments in the band, more traditional, guitars and so forth, and filtered them through his electronic effects. This was a revolutionary thing to be seen in pop music in 1972, which is when they struck. They went swiftly to the top of the British charts. I think they took a bit longer to penetrate America.

That would've been Eno's calling card to the world, but he was only actually with Roxy Music for two albums. By 1973, he was off on his own. He'd fallen out with Brian Eno — with, uh, Bryan Ferry, rather, the singer. Probably less confusing with two Brians in the band, for one thing, but they had a conflict of interest over where the band was going. Bryan Ferry, I think, was always looking to be a more orthodox pop star, and was moving in that direction. Eno comes from an art school background, and wanted to pursue music that reflected that more. Ultimately, that's when he struck out on his own. But it would've been Roxy Music that first awakened the world to Brian Eno.

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Text and Photos by Jill McDonough

The first time I saw her, May 2, 1999, I felt like I had just been plunked down from a future in which we’d been together for decades, and I had to convince her it was me. The first time I heard her name felt like the first time I effortlessly understood overheard conversation in another language. Josey. Of course. Now everything made sense.

I won her over by writing her a poem called “Ghazal for Josey.” Every month when I repay some MFA tuition I feel smug about what a bargain I got.

An open relationship, quickly closing: only nobody you know, only out of town, only one time, only on jury duty, only sequestered, forget it.

When we had been together for six weeks I went to my friend Sudha’s wedding and got drunk and called Josey saying I want you to marry me and I think we should have a big Indian wedding like Sudha’s.

We are neither of us Indian.

On one of our first dates we were in the glass-bricked tunnel of Back Bay Station, on the Orange Line in Boston. And she sang the “O Mio Babbino Caro” aria from Gianni Schicchi because she liked the acoustics there. Mother. Fucker. Strangers cried out Brava!

We got civilly united in Vermont, had all the clerks of North Hero in tears. Party A Name: Josephine Alice Packard. Party B Name: Jill Susann McDonough. Josey made the skirt I wore out of an antique kimono.

I am married to the most competent person I have ever met, good at everything she has ever tried including teaching me how to use a drill, a dremel, a table saw, a jigsaw, a circular saw, a miter box, a powder actuated nail gun, a nail gun, a pneumatic stapler, a putty knife, a trowel, plaster, spackle, grout, wood filler, window glazing, drywall screws, perforated washers, a Boston shaker, a julep strainer, a Hawthorne strainer, a Tap-Icer, and a Lewis bag.

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by Ahmad Saidullah

Javier Marías. Your Face Tomorrow. Translated from the Spanish by Margaret Jull Costa. London: Serpent’s Tail. Vol. I: Fever and Spear. 2005. 387 pp. Vol. II: Dance and Dream. 2006. 341 pp. Vol. III: Poison, Shadow and Farewell. 2009. 546 pp.

Javier Marías’ Your Face Tomorrow, a novel in three parts rather than a trilogy, according to its creator, reads like Henry James with the hiccups. Phrases are repeated in Edwardian cadences and counterposed as in fugues, sentences run on for several pages, and actions are cut out of time, their meanings opened to conjecture. Although Face has been compared to Remembrance of Things Past, it is not so much a roman-fleuve of mémoire involuntaire reaching into the recesses of time as an active speculation on ethics and history, less Erlebnis, more Erfahrung, to use Walter Benjamin’s distinctions between the immediate lived experience of an event and the fund of community memory one can draw upon to understand it.

The lessons from history are viewed from different angles. Marías is taken with secrecy, trust, truth, with limning the “face” one shows in making choices in life, and with betrayals that wear the mask of friendship. He remembers those whose fates rested on their friends, neighbours, enemies and state authorities during the Spanish civil war and World War II, including George Orwell, Andreu Nin i Pérez, the Catalan POUMiste leader said to have been flayed to death by the Nationalists in Spain, and Marías’ own relatives and acquaintances. He reproduces photographs, posters and documents in evidence to blend the personal and historical with fiction like WG Sebald who called him a “twin writer.”

Like most of Marías’ titles, this comes from Shakespeare — a modern gloss on “what a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name, or to know thy face tomorrow,” words Hal uses to renounce his fellow carouser Poins. Marías borrows the contrasting lives of his father Julían, a philosopher and student of Ortega y Gasset, who appears as the narrator’s father Juan Deza, and Sir Peter Russell who is called Sir Peter Wheeler in the book. Betrayed by a close friend to Francoist authorities and accused of writing for Pravda and consorting with the Red Dean of Canterbury Hewlett Johnson, Julían Marías spent years in exile but chose to face life without rancour. The Russell-Wheeler character, an unmarried modern-language don at Oxford, wartime intelligence officer and Julían Marías’ friend, once saved an enemy agent from certain death. He is scarred, however, in the book by the memory of his “wife” who had killed herself when she found out she had unwittingly betrayed a friend’s husband’s Jewish origins to the fascists.

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Last month I got a new Facebook friend, my daughter. Later this month I’m going to my children’s school to talk to the 4th-8th graders (including my daughter) about the perils and opportunities of Social Media. This week, the New York Times published an article, “Teaching about the Web Includes Troublesome Parts” that addresses this very topic. This confluence of events has spurred me to articulate the reasons that we allowed her to get a Facebook account because these reasons go to the heart of what I believe about education and parenting.

There’s no doubt that the Internet can be a scary place to let children roam. Clearly, the growing prevalence of young people with cell phones and access to computers, while not the cause of bullying, makes it even easier to engage in and is often more devastating to the victim. Equally, the Internet doesn’t create pedophiles but it does mean that they often don’t have to leave the comfort of their living rooms to find innocent children. But the truth of the matter is that, as with all things involving parenting, wrapping children up in cotton wool and not allowing them a degree of freedom, even when there are potential risks involved, is usually not the answer to raising curious, self-confident, independent young people.

My feelings about the Internet in general and Social Media in particular are akin to my feelings about letting my daughter go into the movie theater with a friend while I wait outside in the mall, or letting her walk the quarter of a mile down the road to our neighbor’s farm with her sister; as a parent I am nervous, maybe even terrified, but I know that she has to learn how to interact with the world without me holding her hand every moment. We talk to her regularly about talking to strangers and inappropriate touching and behavior from adults and the need to tell us if anything in that vein ever happens, and now we have added to those talks discussions about the dangers of the online world. We arm our children with information, warn them frankly of the dangers, closely monitor their activities as far as we can, talk to them regularly about what’s going on in their lives and try to intervene early on and forcefully when situations do arise, before they get out of hand.

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No One in Particular

Are you looking at me? I say to the mountain
which moves as I run the tiller down the row.

But it may not be the mountain I address.

Are you talking to me? I say to the pale moon
which hangs in the blue sky like a ghost ball.

But maybe the moon is not the ghost in this conversation.

The Briggs & Stratton snorts. The Troy's deep-treaded
rubber turns. The Buddha in the engine barks. The tines
lift clumps of the secret earth buried under hard sod.

Are you censuring me? I say to the crow
who stands off like an incriminating shadow.

But the crow may not be the shade to whom I speak.

Soon spinach will be sprouting in these rows.
The prints I leave in the soil behind the tiller
will have been smoothed over by a rake.

Are you rattling my cage? I say to no one in particular
who is mute as the scent of dark humus overturned.

by Jim Culleny, 4/10/10

The news this week titillated chemists. And science aesthetes everywhere—those lovers of beauty, harmony, and order—should be just as excited that the periodic table has added its 117th element, ununseptium. But be prepared for disenchantment.

For those of us that write about the periodic table for a living, the gap at 117 was doubly galling. First, every element through 116 had already been discovered, as well as element 118. (To be accurate, the elements through 92 had been discovered, and the elements after that created, in a lab, since the days of getting your fingernails dirty looking for new elements in nature ended about 1930. The ultra-heavy elements never existed before people created them, unless in the labs of alien scientists somewhere distant.) Anyway, the gap at 117 violated a sense of order, since we like things to start at 1 and progress to N without skipping around. That for technical reasons it’s easier to create even-numbered elements like 116 and 118 couldn’t salve our aesthetic sense that something was somehow wrong with there being a gap for ununseptium.

Second, the gap was galling because the periodic table was just one box short of completing its seventh row. Because of the way electrons stack themselves inside atoms, the table always has eighteen columns; but the number of rows changes, and grows fractionally longer with each new element. And it was frustrating (at least for some of us) to be sitting on 6.96875 rows (6 and 31/32) for years, so close to 7.00000. Ununseptium fulfills the table, squares off the bottom row. It just looks better now.

We can find even more satisfaction because the beauty here isn’t arbitrary human beauty. The tidiness doesn’t depend on our senses or our accidental circumstances on Earth. For example, it’s human convention to celebrate turns of millennia or 100th wedding anniversaries because we like to see zeroes. Really, that’s just an accident of our base-ten counting system, because numbers like 200 and 2,000 look good in that system—those pleasingly geometric circles (or at least ovals) stacked at the end, and the sense they give of having turned from one era to another. But if we had seven fingers, 100 would be written as (in base-seven counting) “202”; 1,000 would be “2626”. Had we thirteen fingers, they’d respectively be “79” and (because we’d need more digits than 0 to 9 in a 13-digit system) “5BC”. So there’s nothing inherently special about those numbers, just the numerals.

The beauty of the periodic table isn’t constrained by our metatarsals. Everywhere in the universe, the basic periodic system is exactly the same. Perhaps not jotted down in the castles-with-turrets shape we humans have come to favor, but in every civilization that ever discovered the periodicity of atomic structure, the spiral or chart or hologram or whatever would naturally pause after 118 elements, would rest as a cycle completes itself. No matter how someone counts or reckons, 118 is a special number among elements, a millennial anniversary built into nature, as universal as π.

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Brian Reynolds Myers is contributing editor to the Atlantic and professor of international studies at Dongseo University in Busan, South Korea. In his new book, The Cleanest Race: How North Koreans See Themselves and Why it Matters, he examines North Korean propaganda meant for both internal and external consumption and through it constructs the closed country’s view of itself, its relationship to other countries and the Kim dynasty that has controlled it for 60 years. Colin Marshall originally conducted this conversation on the public radio program and podcast The Marketplace of Ideas. [MP3] [iTunes link]

It's easy for a Westerner to get the impression that everything a North Korean citizen might see or read or hear, every piece of culture they might encounter — paintings, stories, sitcoms — is, in some way, propaganda. How true is that notion?

I think it is true. Of course, the information cordon that used to isolate the country from the outside world has deteriorated steadily since the mid-1990s, when North Koreans began to leave the country to look for food. You have a lot of people who are smuggling into the country things like South Korean DVDs or Chinese TV sets — even cellphones, which can be used to call people outside the country. Average citizens now have some access to unorthodox sources of culture and information, but for the average North Korean on a daily basis, everything they encounter really is propaganda.

Is it all, in some sense, state-produced, or is it simply subject to the state's sensibilities and thus going to conform to them?

It is actually state-produced. You could contrast it, say, to South Korea under the military dictatorships, when you did have private people creating culture which was then subject to very strict censorship. In North Korea, on the other hand, everything is conceived by the party, so to speak commissioned by the party, and then it has to go through another rigorous censorship process anyway. By the time it gets into the hands of individual citizens, the regime has made very sure that there's nothing in there that contradicts the view it wants to spread.

One of the most fascinating angles you take in the book is to explore a somewhat unexplored facet of this, which is that the propaganda the North Korean state gives to its own people and the propaganda it designs for outside consumption are different, and substantially so. What is the core of that difference?

The main difference is that North Korea has always tried to convey the impression to the outside world that it is a kind of communist state which seeks integration into the world community, which is very fearful of its own security on the world stage, which wants nothing more than a peace treaty with the United States so that it can get back to its own business of improving the standard of living for its people.

Now, the impression given to the North Korean people themselves, the propaganda they get which most people in the outside world never really learn about, gives a very different impression: that North Korea is a country that will forever be hostile to the United States, which some day will wreak revenge on America — a country that is not afraid of any other country in the world. Rather, the rest of the world is terrified of North Korea. You can read books, for example, about North Korean diplomats barging in on U.N. officials, laying down the law, telling the U.N. what to do and so on. In other worlds, North Korea's depiction of itself is strikingly close to, say, the American right wing's depiction of North Korea as a rogue state.

[By the way, welcome to our new Reddit readers. We love Reddit too. Check out our About Us page, and come back to visit often. Or subscribe to our RSS Feed here.]

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By Evert Cilliers (aka Adam Ash)

Just because Martin Luther King and Jesse Jackson were trail-blazing agents of progressive passion who could stir red blood with a goodly speech, people took one look at Barack Obama and thought: here comes another one.

Turns out he's a non-ideological pragmatist, and now progressives are disappointed. Madly, mightily, miserably: right down to their sternums at the innermost center where herpes viruses go to hibernate — like a Sartrean disillusioned with Heidegger because he was a Nazi, or a Catholic stricken that the Pope — God's Embodiment on Earth — could ever have enabled the hallowed priestly tradition of mass child rape.

If you're progressive, you shouldn't be disappointed in Obama. You should be disappointed in yourself.

Because you've been blinder than Oedipus. Your high hopes were built on cocoa puffs. Not ONCE in his entire political life has Obama taken any position that wasn't totally and triangulatingly Clintonesque. In fact, he's such a triangulator, he likes giving the impression he's almost sorry to be doing something his enemies don't want him to do. Look at him still coddling the Republicans, like some Big Mama nursing a bawling infant. If he were Hillary, he'd call them a bunch of lying loudmouth braindead rightwing conspirators on their way to oblivion, and be done with them.

Sure, Obama seemed to sport progressive cred because he was against the Iraq War. But remember, this is what he said: “I'm not against all wars. I'm just against dumb wars.” You didn't have to be a genius progressive to be against the Iraq war; it was a plain-to-see dumb Vietnam War Two. As the burliest bully among nations, we're dumb enough to think our patriotism is best expressed in killing foreigners. We are a naturally war-like people, like the Mongols or the Zulus. Being anti-war in America doesn't make you progressive. It just means you're not a total oaf. It means you're slightly out-of-tune with most Americans, who think our troops are heroes, when all they are is misguided, poor youngsters trained to be serial killers.

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At the City University of New York's Graduate Center, a friend of mine named Lydia Hazen is testing subjects to see whether they have greater perception of certain colors or shapes after reading poems by Wallace Stevens. She's engaged in what the New York Times recently dubbed “neuroscience lit crit,” in an article wondering whether it's “the next big thing” in literary studies. (?)

Exciting – but hardly the “new thing”; it should more accurately be called an experimental trope on the oldest traditions of modern literary criticism and philosophy in the work of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834). The infamous English Romantic – opium addict, plagiarist, long-winded talker and poet of fragments – was also a metacognitive theorist far ahead of his time, who now appears to me a startlingly contemporary figure.

Today, we have blogs, text-messages, FaceBook updates, Twitter. Coleridge had his notebooks. He'd keep at least five in his pockets at all times, while walking for days through the Cumbrian mountains or Quantock foothills, or dazed in a laudanum mist, and scribbled indiscriminately into them everything that popped into his head – which was considerable. He had over 200 notebooks in all, spanning 40 years of his life from 1794 onward, and after his death, many became scattered among his admirers in the British Isles and America, seeding the American Transcendentalists, late Victorians like Gerard Manley Hopkins, and British Modernists like Virginia Woolf. Then they were re-collected, collated, edited and annotated over a period of 50 years by Kathleen Coburn at the University of Toronto.

She completed the project in 1996.

What emerged was an astounding record of a mind overwhelmed by the collision of ideologies – moral, natural-philosophical, cultural and political, during the volatile French-Revolutionary and Napoleonic years at the height of English empirical philosophy as the Enlightenment metamorphosed into the Industrial Revolution – and trying to contend with them, and reconcile them, in real time. Specifically, from around 1796 to about 1808, Coleridge was incessantly burying into four related questions: how does perception work; how does the mind think; what is the Imagination; and how does perception become thought become action?

In other words, the questions that neurobiologists and cognitive psychologists are contending with today, Coleridge was wrestling with in the early 19th century via minute observations of his own mind in the process of thinking and perceiving. The similarities are sometimes startling.

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by Colin Marshall

1. The most immediately notable quality of Jacques Rivette's La Belle Noiseuse, and what that quality hints to us that we're missing

A movie under 60 minutes is “a short.” A movie under 90 minutes is just “short.” A movie over 150 minutes is “long.” A movie over about 200 minutes is, often, “epic.” Maybe you have quibbles with my specific points of demarcation, but surely you agree that, popularly speaking, that's how it tends to break down. By this set of labels, La Belle Noiseuse is, at 237 minutes — breathing distance from the four-hour mark, nearly 45 minutes longer than, say, Schindler's List — an epic and then some. Despite giving off a whiff of self-indulgence, its length turns out to be necessary in all sorts of different ways, and ultimately raises a torturous question for any cinephile: what other works of cinematic art require such an unconventional length, and how many have been denied their very existence because of it?

And I'm not just talking about “very long” films, or even the super-“epics” in La Belle Noiseuse's film-feet league. (And those aren't even the upper limit; we probably need another category for movies like Rivette's own Out 1, whose canonical cut clocks in at a staggering 773 minutes.) Just about exactly one hour is a famously awkward film length, since it doesn't meet the common 80-minute festival floor for feature length but breaks most commonly accepted ceilings for shorts. The business of film distribution and exhibition, in perhaps in an ad hoc manner but one now deeply entrenched, has established these categories, and it's easy not to grasp their restrictiveness unless a creator deliberately steps outside them and shows you.

I submit to you that, while some stories are indeed best told in 90- to 120-ish-minutes, most others, by pure logic of probability — are not. I submit that some material is only cinematically realizable in 61 minutes, or in 773 minutes, or, indeed, in 237 minutes. La Belle Noiseuse — also available in a 125-minute cut called La Belle Noiseuse: Divertimento which is by all accounts nothing more than a two-hour trailer for The Real Deal — wouldn't have worked if substantially shorter, nor would it have worked if substantially longer.

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Speaker, writer, blogger and entrepreneur Seth Godin, having already built a large body of published work on the nature of ideas, how they’re conceived, how they’re spread and how they’re executed, has expanded his intellectual purview with his new book Linchpin. Extending the thoughts and observations he applied to marketing in books like Purple Cow and All Marketers are Liars, his latest work examines how individual human beings, not corporations or organizations, can most fruitfully practice their art in the transforming information economy. Colin Marshall originally conducted this conversation on the public radio program and podcast The Marketplace of Ideas. [MP3] [iTunes link]

I read Linchpin in kind of a strange way: I spread it out so whenever I was reading it, I was also reading another Seth Godin book. What I noticed doing that is that Linchpin just feels different, in a visceral way, than your other books. I heard in another interview with Merlin Mann, a former guest on this show, that you said Linchpin was the hardest book you've ever had to write. Are these two things related?

For sure. Most of the books that I've written, other than probably The Dip, have been written to organizations, written to people who are doing strategy, written to people who are working at the bloodless act of spreading an idea. This book is personal. It's not personal in that it's about me; it's personal in that it's about you. That's a pretty different responsibility for the author. The argument I'm pushing forward is frightening to people, so I had to handle it in a way where I was pushing hard enough to make an impact, but I was treating your fears and skepticism with respect. Otherwise it becomes a jeremiad and isn't very helpful.

How much of the difficulty comes purely from having to switch the whole way you think about your audience? You said you write to organizations, to idea-spreaders — now it's to living, breathing humans, in a sense. Was a lot of the difficulty simply changing your own mindset?

Not really. For me, there is a revolution going on, and I've been lucky that I've been able to carve out a niche by chronicling that revolution and talking about some of the elements of it. The death of the industrial age is the most important historical shift of our time. A lot of people don't see it happening, even though it is changing their lives every day. For me, then, the purpose of this book is to bring home what that death is going to mean to everyone, and what the opportunity it creates means to everyone.

But when I'm writing, I'm not visualizing what the reader looks like. Judging from my inbound e-mail, there is no way to characterize anything about my readers: where they live, how old they are, what their gender is, what their race is, what they do for a living. They don't have anything in common other than the fact that they don't have anything in common.

You have a bit of an angle in the book — I don't know how deliberate it was — it seems like you're somewhat angry that the death of the industrial age, as you've called it, has resulted in a bit of a bill of false goods being sold to a lot of people. Have I characterized that right?

Well, there is no angle. I'm a big fan of gimmicks, but this book doesn't have one. Yeah, I'm angry, and what I'm angry about is that the bill of goods was sold to us ten, twenty, thirty years ago, and it is that if we do what we're told and are compliant, we will be rewarded. It bothers me when I see a bank, which has more power and insight, take advantage of someone, and the person loses their house. It bothers me when I see someone work somewhere for twenty years, doing what they think they're supposed to do, and then lose their job when it's not their fault. It bothers me when we organize schools to create ever more compliant workers for ever more mediocre factories.

I think we need to stop burying our potential and instead start embracing the fact that there's this huge opportunity here, even thought it makes people uncomfortable to tell them the truth.

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By Namit Arora

A review of a memoir by an ‘untouchable’ starting in the 1950s in rural Uttar Pradesh, India.

(This review won the top award in the 3 Quarks Daily 2011 Arts & Literature Contest. Read more about it here.)

I grew up in the central Indian city of Gwalior until I left home for college. This was the 70s and 80s. My father worked as a textile engineer in a company town owned by the Birla Group, where we lived in a middle class residential quarter for the professional staff and their families. Our 3-BR house had a small front lawn and a vegetable patch behind. Domestic helpers, such as a washerwoman and a dishwashing woman, entered our house via the front door—all except one, who came in via the rear door. This was the latrine cleaning woman, or her husband at times. As in most traditional homes, our squat toilet was near the rear door, across an open courtyard. She also brought along a couple of scrawny kids, who waited by the vegetable patch while their mother worked.

My mother often gave them dinner leftovers, and sometimes tea. But unlike other domestic helpers, they were not served in our utensils, nor did the latrine cleaners expect to be. They brought their own utensils and placed them on the floor; my mother served them while they stood apart. When my mother turned away, they quietly picked up the food and left. To my young eyes this seemed like the natural order of things. These were the mehtars, among the lowest of the so-called ‘untouchables’. They worked all around us, yet were ‘invisible’ to me, as if part of the stage props. I neither gave them much thought during my school years, nor recognized my prejudices as such. I, and the kids in my circle, even used ‘untouchable’ caste names as playful epithets, calling each other chamaar and bhangi.

It’s possible that I first reflected on the idea of untouchability only in college, through art house cinema. Even so, upper-caste Indian liberals made these films and it was their viewpoint I saw. It is hardly a stretch to say that the way even the most sensitive white liberals in the United States knew and described the experience of black Americans is partly why one had to read Frederick Douglass, Zora Neale Hurston, Ralph Ellison, Richard Wright, James Baldwin, and other black authors. A similar parallel holds for Native Americans, immigrants, and women, as well as the ‘untouchables,’ now called Dalits (‘the oppressed’), numbering one out of six Indians. For some years now, they have been telling their own stories, bearing witness to their slice of life in India. Theirs is not only a powerful new current of Indian literature, it is also a major site of resistance and revolt.

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