I have a friend who takes other people’s suffering as her own, and almost physically. When she visited Babyn Yar — the place where Kyiv’s Jews, thirty-three thousand men, women, and children, were shot in the fall of 1941 — she described being torn by excruciating pain. Her experience reminds me of Simone Weil, who…
A.D. My unchristian ancestors: for a lifetime they got along without God. Though something always happened that they had not foreseen. Two world wars, the downfall of their city, diseases, or what it is like to lose everything — freedom stripped from them, twice in a row. When unchristian beings (Hitler, Stalin) took this only…
What is the Enlightenment, for us? Are we its heirs, its continuers, its defenders? Or should we acknowledge our distance from it, and try to imagine a different sort of connection to this now-distant past? At the present moment, the temptation to identify with the Enlightenment is almost overwhelming. In dark times, after all, few…
In memory of Albert Murray I am what might be called an integrated black man. Many of my friends are white, and I live in a mostly white neighborhood; my long marriage is an interracial one, my grown children are biracial. I offer these facts neither as a lament nor as a boast. They are…
Thousands of minutes and hours, deeds and words, specifications, delusions, mistakes without end, longing, flesh — it takes so much to create a single person — that he be, that he survives, that he feels a hand on his shoulder, that others say to him “It is you.” And it is so easy for him…
It is well known that over the years the evaluation of Haydn underwent a number of changes. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, no one would have hesitated to call him the greatest of all composers. According to the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung in 1802, “The inexhaustible spirit of his masterpieces is admired from Lisbon…
Would you rather see the world in black and white or live without music? This is one of my favorite questions. Most people tell me that they would give up color before giving up Bach and the Beatles and so on — except kids, who usually make the opposite choice. I’m with the kids, and…
after Manet Smudge of ivory cameo (another lady’s face, but anonymous) lists from black ribbon. To her, she offers a petite bundle of lilac. The African grey contemplates a beyond beyond its empty dish, no droplet or seed to hold its attention. This is discipline. The blue velvet hair bow and red (parted, kempt) complement…
Born from pastel clouds and blushed as health, each a painted infant, gessoed and reaching. Kin to Monet’s faraway “Jar of Peaches,” seeded into the clay spectacular to commune and dream and flower, achieving at the center the divided brain of human nature: split between the orchard’s timetabled logic and the sumptuous urge toward art,…
How long had it languished, erotic in the stalls of oil paintings and furs cryptic as the decrepit hutch where rabbits are generations gone? How well hid in the warrens of the flea market, then deeper as if back into the camera’s aperture, suddenly abloom as a daisy in the cemetery dirt that nurtured it….
Sculptural swan, left behind earring sworn to the garden, as after an encounter on a carpet, risen then into a different person. When a thing alights, its missingness elevates prettiness into art. All of life in the sunset-fired contours. Your life poured into looking.
