Saturday, January 26, 2013

Our Peculiar Institutions





The similarities are so depressing.  When John C. Calhoun reported on abolition petitions to the Senate in 1837, he struck an indignantly self-righteous pose: “The peculiar institution of the South that, on the maintenance of which the very existence of the slaveholding States depends, is pronounced to be sinful and odious, in the sight of God and man; and this with a systematic design of rendering us hateful in the eyes of the world, with a view to a general crusade against us and our institutions.”   The peculiar institution of slavery, like the peculiar institution of almost completely unregulated gun ownership, distinguished us from the rest of the civilized world.  But our "southern" compatriots, when confronted with the fact that our society lay outside the bounds of the normal, insisted all more hysterically on their right to be “sinful and odious, in the sight of God and man.” Their eyes went red with fury; they bellowed: “As if the mere fact that being reviled by the rest of the first world could cause us to examine ourselves." Just as today they bellow: "As if the fact that the calling on ‘Congress today to act immediately to appropriate whatever is necessary to put armed officers in every single school in this nation’ is interpreted by our counterparts in the rest of the world as lunacy is bad thing. Indeed!”  

Like the antebellum southern senators, the NRA-delusionals view themselves as persecuted minorities threatened by encroachment.  John C. Calhoun and his friends adhered to the “creed” that “teaches that encroachments must be met at the beginning, and that those who act on the opposite principle are prepared to become slaves. In this case, in particular, I hold concession or compromise to be fatal. If we concede an inch, concession would follow concession compromise would follow compromise, until our ranks would be so broken that effectual resistance would be impossible.”  So monotonously familiar. 

Do we really have to be hamstrung forever by these people and their modern-day counterparts?  Why did we not let them leave in 1861?  Why must they remain a part of our country today?  Why do we not have two countries, one inhabited by business people, farmers, teachers, builders, technicians, professional athletes, doctors, lawyers, ministers, whatever, committed to a society that gives equal opportunities to all and takes care of its less-fortunate members, something we can surely afford to do, and one inhabited by heavily armed unemployed itinerates foraging to scrape a living together who spend all of their spare time trolling the internet with hate-mail to their more enlightened former countrypeople?  Two countries, one committed to excellent public schools, the other to science-free schools patrolled by armed guards (volunteers because there are no taxes to pay them)?  Two countries, one with a well-maintained infrastructure, one of dilapidated cities and impassable roads? Two countries separated by a heavily defended wall?    

Friday, January 11, 2013

Why I love Elizabeth Wurtzel

So Elizabeth Wurtzel is catching scorn again, this time for a meandering assessment of her life as a gorgeous and brilliant unmarried woman of forty-something unprepared for retirement, published as a serious bit of journalism in the New York Magazine. A word dump, complains one blogger. For another, the piece induces winces; its author is someone who refuses to grow up, even though she is alienating her former fans. Still another describes it as a dishonest piece that never addresses its stated purpose, a discussion of the the author's financial crash. If only Wurtzel had written about her messy finances, like she promised she was going to do. Still one more blogger, while only marginally more positive (the piece, she opines, is embarrassing although compulsively readable), gets closer to what I think the thing is really all about: to its cultural significance and what gets missed in all the trashing. As this blogger explains, the piece is not a call to action, a way of making readers grasp the political significance of their personal problems. Rather, its purpose is to make all of us readers feel like the bevy or losers that we are while recognizing how unique Elizabeth Wurtzel is. Yes. I say, yes. This is precisely the purpose of the piece. But my perspective differs from this blogger's in that this is what I value in the piece. Put another way, I love Wurtzel's literary persona because it is the closest thing that we have to a female Jack Kerouac, whose purpose in writing was of course to make his readers feel like pathetic clowns.

Maybe you have to love Kerouac to care about Wurtzel, and I suppose that not everyone finds his solipsistic rambles through his drunken trips to Big Sur and his complete breakdowns as uplifitng as I do. Certainly William F. Buckley didn't - he didn't even bother to conceal his smug disdain during his interiews of the inebriated writer. But all you have to do is watch the interview to understand exactly what Wurtzel is thumbing her nose at and the place from which she draws her strength: the knowledge that at least she will never be the smirking female equivalent of William F. Buckley. Back to Kerouac: that gorgeous nutty tirade where we learn that we are all a pack of sad clowns articulates for me like nothing else the central mystery of life. We are all just yelling into the great nothingness: the only question is whether we do it with bravado and style or Prufrock-like stiltedness. My perduring chagrin regarding Kerouac has always been that he has no female equivalent - where is there a female literary persona who is alcoholic, incoherent, marginal, disorderly, and yet brilliant and, most of all, desirable, a permanent rock star?

And yet, she is there: you just have to switch genres. We have to look to that weird sort of semi-fictitious journalistic thing that pretty much everybody is doing today, the “memoir” essay. Wurtzel could not sell a novel, not in a million years. But neither could Kerouac today. Wurtzel’s genius is to have glommed on to the one genre by means of which she can sell her work. She, like Kerouac, IS her work. And thus she has given us our female Kerouac. I love her, every idiotic, puerile scream of rage. Every piece, major or minor, reminds us that she is out there incarnating the being whose absence I so regretted as a teenager reading the male “greats,” those loutish drunken buffoons (Hemingway, Mailer) who did whatever they wanted and still remained sexy. So I send out my sincerest thanks to Wurtzel. Wouldn’t actually want to be her (and she certainly wouldn’t want to be me), but I need her.

http://nymag.com/thecut/2013/01/elizabeth-wurtzel-on-self-help.html.

http://www.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2013/01/07/elizabeth_wurtzel_in_new_york_magazine_confessional_writing_hits_bottom.html.

http://www.rolereboot.org/culture-and-politics/details/2013-01-a-difficult-woman-why-elizabeth-wurtzel-is-a-narciss.

http://www.tnr.com/blog/plank/111690/elizabeth-wurtzels-shocking-discreetness.

http://thinkprogress.org/alyssa/2013/01/08/1412101/elizabeth-wurtzel-in-new-york-magazine-confessional-writing-and-feminism/?mobile=nc.