On the left side of the car’s rear bumper was a sticker reading, “Share the road with bicycles.” On the right side was a sticker reading, “Who is John Galt?”
Taking the shortest possible historical view, David Brooks writes:
The Bob Corkers of the [Republican] party are leaving while the Roy Moores are ascending. Trump himself is unhindered while everyone else is frozen and scared. As a result, the Republican Party is becoming a party permanently associated with bigotry.
(“A Philosophical Assault on Trumpism,” New York Times print edition 3 October 2017, p. A27)
Mr. Brooks’s verb phrase “is becoming” is in the present progressive tense. But wouldn’t an accurate grammar of the past require the historical record to include, at the least, Richard Nixon, Strom Thurmond, Rush Limbaugh, and Lee Atwater and his Gadarene pigpen of Republican operatives? Shouldn’t Mr. Brook’s sentence therefore be in the present perfect: “The Republican Party has become a party permanently associated with bigotry”?
Or even with an intensifier — “The Republican Party has long since become a party permanently associated with bigotry”?
A Larry Clark archive is at
A William Gedney archive is at
Forty years ago, the prophetic photographs were silent and still. We thought they were archaeologies of civilizations relegated to the archive. Now they pass among us in color and motion, telling us in their dead language what we have become and retweeting the corpus in the language of the undead. We are joining them in the archive.
Before the arrival of the house painters, four decisions in front of an emptying bookshelf and a filling wastebasket:
— A photoreduced edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, acquired as a premium for joining a now dead twentieth-century institution, the Book-of-the-Month Club. I’ll keep the nice big magnifying glass that came with it, and at my age I still very much use my multi-volume full-size edition of the original, picked up from the express agency on the same day (April 9, 1968) that I took delivery of my late beloved 1968 Mustang. A book still makes for the best browsing experience, reading in the rising smell of mildew. Obviously, though, the new database OED can do things that are all but impossible with ink on paper. So goodbye, intermediate technology reducing every four pages of the word-hoard to one page to make room on the shelf for one more book a month. The old printed books that remain and the new printed books that will arrive are equally antique now. My wife the librarian says not even the Friends of the Library would want you.
— A book club edition of An American Tragedy, saved from a colleague’s discard pile for the sake of its introductory essay by H. L. Mencken. The book has a place in literary history. Its author, Theodore Dreiser, was historically a man of both the nineteenth and the twentieth century, and he bestrode the boundary.
For a while during the twentieth century it appeared that the passage of time might have rusted naturalism’s cruelty and Dreiser’s ignorant greatheartedness together and created something interestingly historical, like the Antikythera Mechanism brought up from lightless depths in a fisherman’s net. But with Social Darwinism resurgent in the twenty-first century, the naturalist mechanism may now be powering itself back up, and I’m finding that thought heartbreaking. I think it anyway, though — partly because I am alive during the current events of a Republican administration but partly too just because I am alive. When the mechanism is carried into a studio, given a light-name, A Place in the Sun, and bathed in George Stevens light, its movements fascinate us into attending to the play of natural forms that they inscribe in space.
And then the film begins respeaking Dreiser’s clumsy words to us in movie-star voices articulately immortal. Having experienced that transition from the page to the double track of video and audio, I doubt that I’ll ever need to read the book again. But I think I may nevertheless remember something life-and-death tragic about its words the next time I hear the sound of a Republican noise like “jobkillingregulations” gabbling itself out in a single forced electric-chair exhale.
— James Merrill, The Changing Light at Sandover. Once again I stopped reading after the first few pages, but when I closed the book this time it was probably forever. This time, under a Republican administration, I had to acknowledge that the flip side of religious whimsy is death by coathanger abortion.
— Two volumes of plays by Sam Shepard. As of 2017, I seem to have been deserted by whatever once induced me to read the words of men in cowboy hats whose creator spelled their second-person pronoun ya’, with a Republican apostrophe.