George Orwell's "1984" a best-seller, Snapchat worth billions—any relation? Discuss.

Workshop of Ralph H. Bauer, inventor of the first video game (Smithsonian Institution)

     Snap Inc., the parent company of Snapchat, went public Thursday. By day’s end, its share price jumped 44 percent, making the company worth $34 billion, about equal to General Mills, makers of Cheerios.
     The offering interested me because I use Snapchat, by necessity. Since it is, I suspect, unfamiliar to many readers, I ought to explain it.
     Snapchat is a photo sharing and messaging app. Like life itself, Snapchat is fleeting. The recipient has a set number of seconds — say 10 — to look at the photo being sent. Then it vanishes, irretrievably.
     This has obvious utility if you are, say, sending naked pictures of yourself. Which let me rush to mention is not why I use it. Snapchat also allows messages to be written across the photo sent, and add a variety of comic trappings. If you want to send a photo of yourself as a dog, with floppy ears, snout and lolling tongue, Snapchat will do that.
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Liberals can wear jackboots too

 

Middlebury College

   Middlebury College is a lovely place, nestled in the mountains of Vermont. I visited with my older son in 2013 when we were looking at colleges. They were fiercely proud of their liberal arts heritage, and referred to Robert Frost so often I thought he went to school there. He didn't, but lived nearby.

     The place has less to be proud of after last Thursday, when a student mob disrupted an attempt by Middlebury political science professor Allison Stanger to host Charles Murray, author of The Bell Curve, a highly controversial 1994 book that attempted to show a scientific link between race and intelligence. His attempts to speak were shouted down, and after he was removed to a remote location to conduct his talk via TV link, he and Stanger were attacked, sending the professor to the hospital.
     Here's the Washington Post coverage of the incident.
     I agree with those who find The Bell Curve disingenuous hogwash. Still. Violence is violence. It is unacceptable whether being used to terrorize a religious minority or bully a political scientist whose works you find hateful. There is no justification for it. If you believe in your ideas, if you believe they are true, you should also have confidence they will prevail against somebody whose ideas you find reprehensible. Not because you shouted him down and kept him from ever expressing those ideas. That isn't a free society.  

      College students should know this. But college is also an age of tremendous narcissism, personal drama and lack of perspective.  I was not taken with Middlebury, which has its own private ski slope. "It's a four-year summer camp for rich kids," I quipped. Perhaps their sense of privilege is such that the very idea of other opinions is intolerable. They need to work on that. 

     Totalitarianism is on the march in America. If tomorrow Donald Trump formed the Red Hats, squads of thugs who swagger around, roughing up illegal immigrants and Muslim refugees and liberals, they can now point to Middlebury College as justification. And who could say they don't have a point? Well, I could. It's the worst kind of hypocrisy, to use your erstwhile foes as your moral compass the moment they commit a transgression you would like to try yourself. The way Americans trembling at the thought of sharia law will suddenly point to Saudi Arabia's draconian practices and wish we could do the same. It's rank hypocrisy but then, there's a lot of that going around too. 

    Toleration is meaningless if you only extend it to those whom you agree with. Charles Murray's work might be of dubious scientific value, but it is an argument nevertheless, and those bullying him at Middlebury College did not him, but themselves, a grave disservice, elevating his reputation while undercutting their own. 

Books on the nightstand: "The Unwinding"

     "Books on the night stand" is a heading for a page at the side of this blog where I sometimes write about books I'm reading.
      But times change. And I had to pause whether I could include the book I've been -- well, not "reading," certainly.  And "enjoying" doesn't fit either, it's too sobering. I suppose "listening to," since it's a book on tape, well, except it's on CD ....
    The hell with it. The Unwinding: An Inner History of the New America by George Packer is a haunting, timely epic look at how America got where it is today. To add an extra twist, I was about to drive down to Wayne County in January to talk to the residents there about their overwhelming support for Donald Trump in advance of his inauguration. 
       Packer is a staff writer at the New Yorker, and The Unwinding his 2013 panoramic portrait of what went wrong in the United States over the past 40 years, an crumbling of social, economic, governmental, moral and intellectual bedrock that has left us unmoored and stumbling toward whatever fate -- or doom -- awaits us.  The growing partisanship, cynicism and dysfunction of politicians, their increasing domination by big money interests, the missed opportunity of the banking and real estate collapse of 2009, when the government bailed out the banks and the mortgage lenders but failed to put in controls that might prevent the next crisis. Obama comes off as colluding with the very people he should have sent to jail.
    The book is a bravura act of reportage—a factual version of John Dos Passos' 1930s classic trilogy U.S.A —with a big cast of characters: Tammy Thomas, an African American factory worker in Youngstown, Ohio who becomes a social activist. Dean Price, a North Carolina truck stop owner who gets into bio-diesel. Jeff Connaughton, an ambitious aide to Joe Biden — the future vice president is portrayed as a shallow ambitious phony, one of many famous people salted throughout who, like Napoleon in War and Peace, add glitter and spice up the narrative. Names like Jay-Z and Oprah Winfrey, Colin Powell and Alice Waters pop up. I savored the damning portrait of Newt Gingrich, whose bare-fisted tactics hurried American decline, as well as that of new gilded age tycoon Sam Walton. I'm not sure why Raymond Carver is there, but I welcomed him too. Some I was barely familiar with, like Peter Thiel, the tech billionaire now supporting Trump.
    This is the first non-fiction book I've listened to on an audiobook, and one with so many characters poses some challenges, at least at the beginning. But I've found it also makes me eager to get into the car. The trip to Wayne County gave me a richer sense of the people supporting Trump -- not idiots, certainly, but people with limited range of interests focused on a particular set of local issues.  In one of those echoes that would look trite in fiction, the audiobook I grabbed almost randomly off the library shelf to listen on the way down also expanded and echoed what I'd find when I go there. If we learn one thing from the Right, contempt is easy. Understanding is hard, and anyone trying to figure out how we got in this mess would do themselves well to read it..
    Since audio book readers often get overlooked, I have to give props to award-winning veteran reader Bob Fass, who delivers these tales of suffering with an appealing dry evenness.
    As I was listening to the book, I also found myself thinking about how hearing a book is different than reading it. So it was more perfect timing that I happened upon The Untold Story of the Talking Book, by Matthew Rubery, (Harvard University Press: 2016) drawn by its clean and appealing cover. I've just read the introduction, but am intrigued both by the tidbits of information he assembles—Saint Augustine was dumbfounded to find his teacher, Saint Ambrose, reading silently to himself—and the larger questions Rubery raises:

     What exactly is the relationship between spoken and printed texts? How  does the experience of listening to books compare to that of reading them? What influence does a book's narrator have over its reception? What methods of close listening are appropriate to such narratives? What new formal possibilities are opened up by sound technology? 

     We think of the shifting sands of technology as being something new. But even before the public had heard Edison's phonograph, the press was speculating it might mean the death of books, or their radical transformation, as who would read the words themselves when skilled elocutionists could do it for you?
     I wrote a little about the history of audiobooks three years ago, when Audible brought out my memoir Drunkard in audio form. But I haven't gotten into The Untold Story of the Talking Book far enough to give it more of a full treatment than this. You'll have to wait for a couple weeks. In the meantime, this book actually will be resting on my nightstand.

Why would anyone WANT Trump to visit Chicago?

 

     What's wrong with people?
     I'm reading all this speculation about Oprah Winfrey being maybe interested in running for president. Conversation seems to revolve around her views. Is she sincere? Is it a joke? And the logic seems to be, heck, experience doesn't count for anything, obviously, since Donald Trump was elected president. So why not Oprah? She's a big rich star too!
     Those people are missing the point, entirely. Yes, Trump won. But based on the chaos of his first six weeks of his administration, and the unqualified clown/zealots he's stuffing his cabinet with, his election isn't a template for more of the same. It's a grim cautionary tale, a reminder that while the popular mania might turn on expertise in general and politicians in particular, that electing a president based on lack of government experience is like choosing a surgeon based on scant medical knowledge. Oh, he can put on green scrubs and a paper mask and look the part. And maybe fool some people who judge by appearances. But stick him in front of an open chest cavity and he just stands there, gawping.
     Which is sorta what Trump is doing now.
     The only actual accomplishment Trump can point to is giving himself an "A." The rest is bluster. Which is not the bad part. The bad part is that some people believe him. They assume, he's so smug, so certain, so rich, he must be succeeding, since he says he is. Except he's not. We just aren't used to somebody lying so consistently, so thoroughly. It throws us.
     Yes, there are similarities. Like Trump, Oprah is a giant airship of inflamed ego. The materialism run amok? The close-your-eyes-follow-me-and-your-dreams-will-come-true magical thinking?

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God's substitute for happiness

 Mariusz Kwiecien, as Eugene Onegin, and Ana Maria Martinez as Tatiana
 (Photo by Todd Rosenberg, Lyric Opera of Chicago)

     So I blew off my responsibilities Wednesday afternoon and caught the matinee of "Eugene Onegin" at the Lyric, because seeing "Carmen" for the second time this season Tuesday night obviously didn't satisfying my opera jones for the week. 
    Well, actually, I was told that if I missed it, I would be sorry, and that was correct. Beautiful, strong voices, enigmatic sets. True, I'm more a Bizet man than a Tchaikovsky man—give me the big rolling punches of "Carmen" more than the dolorous loveliness of "Eugene Onegin." But it worked.
   Yes, "Eugene Onegin" is not heavy on plot. He's a scoundrel. One sister is in love with him, writes a letter and is rebuffed, he woos the other sister at a dance, cheezing off her suitor, his best friend. There's a duel -- which means, with all the dueling in "Hamilton," if I can find one more dueling production this season, that would constitute a trend.
    Trying to justify going, I told myself I wasn't just playing hooky, but working, building my base of knowledge regarding opera, always useful when covering Chicago's pressing urban problems. And I was pleased to recognize not one but two performers from previous work: Ana Maria Martinez, who was in "Don Giovani" (sort of carving out a singing-against-the-bad-boy niche for herself) and Iowa's pride, Katharine Goeldner, whom you might remember as stepping into the lead role the last time the Lyric did "Carmen," in 2010/2011 (or, more likely, not. But I sure remember it).
    At intermission the group behind me started debating what language the singers of "Eugene Onegin" might be using. I let them go on but, when resolution didn't seem at hand, Finally, I broke my rule against butting into other people's conversations. 
    "It's Russian," I said, half turning in my seat.
     "It doesn't sound like Russian," a man objected.
     "I studied Russian in college," I said, evenly. "They're speaking Russian words. 'Ya lubloo ti da,' 'Yes, I love you.'" 
    They were still skeptical—this person claiming knowledge on the subject they obviously lacked any experience in whatsoever didn't count. Then one located some corroboration in the the program. "It says 'Russian,'' one lady read, and they were satisfied. 
    Well, you don't go to the opera to socialize with other patrons. It never works out well. Although, heading up the aisle at the same intermission, an 85-year-old woman grabbed my arm and suddenly I was escorting her on my arm. She was apologetic, and I said No, this is exactly how my mother gets around. 
    "Though you really should use a cane," I said, delivering the same lecture I give to my mom at every opportunity. She said she has a man who lives with her and helps her, but he also had to tend to her husband, and couldn't make the four-hour investment going to the opera entailed. I was about to quote Blanche DuBois on the kindness of strangers, but we were in the lobby and she broke free and was gone.
     Not a lot of intellectual challenge going on with "Eugene Onegin." Although. Early on, when two rustically-dressed women are peeling potatoes against a vast orange background with five tall thin birch trees cutting up the stage, one snatch of song was translated as, "Routine brings comfort from distress. God's substitute for happiness."
    Well, that's something to chew on. Damning, yes. I guess to be happy you have to seduce your pal's beloved then kill him in a duel.  Frankly, I'd rather make coffee and walk the dog every single day. Without giving away the ending, I have to say I was one of the few patrons, if not the only patron in the history of music, to laugh out loud, big grin on my face, as poor Eugene was left, miserable and alone in the center of the empty stage, decrying his woe. I had that reaction because I was suddenly thinking of a particular die-hard bachelor friend and wishing he were sitting next to me so I could elbow him in the ribs and say, "Something to look forward to, eh?" And I have to say, as the lights came up, and I jumped to make the 5:25, I was pretty darn happy, even though I was catching the same train I always do.

The Riverwalk: Promenade, jogging path, ramp to a penal colony on Mars

     Oddly, the two things I most meant to say when I set out to write this — how Rahm Emanuel, when he first took office, said he wanted to revitalize the river front, and how the river forms an artificial coast, giving a sweeping vista of skyline — didn't make it through cutting this for size. 

     Sure, Rich Daley wrecked the finances of the city and left behind a ruined economic shell. But Millennium Park, man that's something. And the Bean! I just love the Bean.
     And yes, our current mayor, Rahm Emanuel, doesn't have a clue what to do about the violence convulsing our city. But he did build the Riverwalk, and it's nice.
     Last month, the Riverwalk opened its latest stretch from the Franklin Bridge to Lake Street and that, coupled with the February warm weather seemed to demand an in-depth journalistic investigation.
    One afternoon last week, I crossed the river on the Orleans Bridge, turned right, strode down the concrete ramp, took a hard left, walking to the base of the Lake Street Bridge. I paused, fired up a Rocky Patel, and started to stroll, err, probe.
   I would like to report that the new ramp is a cleverly designed modernistic fantasy of concrete and metalwork. But it's not. It looks like the entrance chute to a penal colony on Mars, a spew of naked concrete and chain link fence. That's the bad news; the good news is, it may not done yet, at least according to the an architect's rendition I noticed in city materials. I phoned the mayor's press office, several times, over a period of days, and emailed, trying to get clarification. They're working on it.

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       I paused to listen to musician Sean Black on the Riverwalk. This is his song, "The One." 

On the nightstand: "The Remains of the Day"

    The state of the country being what it is, it seems increasingly essential to have a good book nearby to lose myself in as need be, or at least to look forward to losing myself in, a respite from the daily stirring of the pot that our president finds useful to keep the public distracted from what he has already done.
     A good friend recommended Kazuo Ishiguro's novel, The Remains of the Day, and I hurried to the library to pick it up.
     The story is a week in the life of Stevens, the aging veteran butler at Darlington Hall, as he drives to Cornwall to meet the manor's long-ago housekeeper, Miss Kenton, now married, though perhaps not happily. It's after World War II, and much has changed—his longtime employer, Lord Darlington, died three years earlier, and was recently replaced by an upstart American businessman, Mr. Farraday. He motors along in his boss's elegant Ford, musing on the past, various revered butlers he has known, his father's decline. 
     The central joy of the book is the tone, the voice, Mr. Stevens always restrained observations on the nature of "dignity," his failed attempts to engage in banter with his new boss.
   Passing a signpost for Murssden, the home of Giffen and Company, makers of "dark candles of polish," a technical innovation "which came to push the polishing of silver to the position of central importance it still by and large maintains today," Stevens sets off on several pages on the importance of well-buffed silver, the highlight being:
    "I recall also watching Mr George Bernard Shaw, the renowned playwright, at dinner one evening, examining closely the dessert spoon before him, holding it up to the light and comparing its surface to that of a nearby platter, quite oblivious to the company around him."
     Either you get that or you don't. The book is one slow reveal, and the less said, the better. The ending also offers up a steaming dollop of philosophy that I know I'll value as the darkness gathers. Or try to anyway.  
    Though the peril of escaping from the daily headlines in a book is that the news follows you there. I don't think I'm revealing too much to say as The Remains of the Day clicks along like a hall clock, Lord Darlington's politics don't hold up well. In the mid-1930s, Lord Darlington comes under the sway of British fascists, leading to this:

     "I've been doing a great deal of thinking, Stevens. A great deal of thinking. And I've reached my conclusion. We cannot have Jews on the staff here at Darlington Hall."
     "Sir?"
     "It's for the good of this house, Stevens. In the interests of the guests we have staying here. I've looked into this carefully, Stevens, and I'm letting you know my conclusion.
     "Very well, sir."
     "Tell me, Stevens, we have a few on the staff at the moment, don't we? Jews, I mean."
     "I believe two of the present staff members would fall into that category, sir."
     "Ah."
     His lordship paused for a moment, staring out of this window.
     "Of course, you'l have to let them go."
     "I beg your pardon, sir?"
     "It's regrettable, Stevens, but we have no choice. There's the safety and well-being of my guests to consider. Let me assure you, I've looked into this matter and thought it through thoroughly. It's in all our best interests."

     That word—"safety"—just glowed on the page. Sound familiar? Though now we'd say "security" and the parties that our best interests demand be kept at a distance are now Muslims. But the logic, or rather, the illogic, is exactly the same.