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BOOKS:

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, by Haruki Murakami {A Japanese detective story/war novel/Kafka rip-off. It's great.}

Love, Poverty, and War: Journeys and Essays, by Christopher Hitchens {First drafts of history, second thoughts on received wisdom, versatile meditations on great works of literature -- all by a man who can write about anything.}

The Code of the Woosters, by P.G. Wodehouse {The Rise and Fall of the "Black Shorts," and the best of Bertie and Jeeves. You'll need Wodehouse in your life eventually. Start here; you've 89 or so more to go.}

The Prophet Armed: Trotsky 1879-1921, by Isaac Deutscher {Magnificient biography finally back in print, along with Volumes II and III. But better start before the revolution -- and Deutscher's conscience -- was betrayed.}

Satan: His Psychotherapy and Cure by the Unfortunate Dr. Kassler, J.S.P.S., by Jeremy Leven {A sorely forgotten modern classic. Leven has since swapped the galley for the camera, directing such keepers as Don Juan Demarco and The Legend of Bagger Vance. Satan has relapsed.}

Colossus, by Niall Ferguson {Why the U.S. can't hack neo-imperialism, much to Niall's chagrin.}

Reflections on a Ravaged Century, by Robert Conquest {Don't even try to have an opinion about the twentieth century without reading him.}

Scoop, by Evelyn Waugh {One of the funniest books, ever. Shrinks the remainder of the "innocent abroad" genre to the vanishing point.}

Put Out More Flags, by Evelyn Waugh {Lapidary prose on the frisson between the wars. Basil Seal riding low before he rides again; Auden and Isherwood lampooned as "Parnsip and Pimpernell."}

The Complete Stories of Evelyn Waugh, by E.W. {Nasty, brutish and short, in short form.}

The Origins of Postmodernity, by Perry Anderson {Terrific writer from the London Review of Books and New Left Review, who ought to be more famous than he is, tackles lucidly the abstruse bloodhound gang -- from Habermas to Jameson -- of Theory.}

Saul Bellow: Novels 1944-1953: Dangling Man, The Victim, and The Adventures of Augie March, [Library of Congress Hardcover Edition] {Look: it's his world, we all just live in it.}

The Counterlife, by Philip Roth {How Portnoy learned to stop complaining and write a brilliant postmodern novel.}

Rise of the Vulcans, by James Mann {Probably the only low-blood pressure source on Bush's brain trust. Valuable for charting the progression of neo-neo-conservatism, and how Cheney and Rumsfeld and Wolfowitz contravened, and then dismantled, the Kissinger realpolitik foreign policy machine.}

Money, by Martin Amis {Forget Bonfire and Psycho. It took the English author of The Moronic Inferno: And Other Visits to America to effectively chew up the Reagan era -- largely by reminding us that it was also the Thatcher era. A fine lesson in history repeating, too: Di and Charles were TV's original Ben and J. Lo; the Self-on-Massi sex tape is where Paris (if she can read) might have learned her stuff; and the cavalier cash flow in this soft-boiled checkbook who-dun-it tale rivals that of any West Coast dotcom monkey a decade later.}

The War Against Cliche and Experience, by Martin Amis {If Amis kept on doing what he did in his award-winning collection of critical essays, James Wood would lose more hair. It's saying quite a lot that his non-fiction exceeds his fiction. Experience is by far the best memoir to appear in the last decade: a more muscular Speak, Memory, it's a midlife nostalgia trip pureed out of chronology, though somehow more cohesive than a stream-of-consciousness hodgepodge. Guaranteed to pluck at the coronary sinews for anyone dealing with the loss of a father.}

Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis {A comic genius on academia, Amis is the pitch-perfect representative of postwar male rage. None of that Angry Young Man, stuff, though. His apoplexy is hilarious at any age. The faces: "crazy peasant," "sex life in ancient Rome," "shot-in-the-back." Moo, by Jane Smiley, The Straight Man, by Richard Russo and everything by David Lodge seem impossible without this Platonic key ring to rule them all, and on the campus, bind them.}

The Letters of Kingsley Amis, edited by Zachary Leader {Pay close attention to the letters to Philip Larkin -- together with Larkin's Collected Letters (try eBay, sorry), these constitute the documentation of one of the most rewarding and hilarious literary friendships to date. Amuse yourself by guessing the exact page number where Kingsley abandons Communism.}

The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov, by V. Nabokov {I'm way underqualified, with my mean years on the planet, to state critical opinion. Still in larval adulation, which I understand is a longterm afflication. Read Anthony Lane's review in Nobody's Perfect. And M. Amis on Nabokov in toto in the prenominate War Against Cliche. And get a dictionary.}

The Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, edited by Leon Wieseltier {The style is dated and stilted, but the insights are not. Especially worthwhile: the Orwell essay, the Mansfield Park burn, and "The Situation of the American Intellectual at the Present Time" (i.e. "What Do They Know of America, Who Only the Upper West Side Know?"}

The Irresponsible Self: On Laughter and the Novel, by James Wood {The bling to Dale Peck's blah.}

A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace {Self-indulgence and the consequences of a missing-in-action editor never had it so good. The state fair, cruise ship and TV pieces are the best. But also read the Lynch essay: it'll make you want to re-watch Blue Velvet, which you can conveniently buy below.}

Collected Poems, by Philip Larkin (edited by Anthony Thwaite) {Poetus mirabilis and, after Auden, the occupant of a near empty Hall of Metrical Wonders in the Postwar Anglophone wing of the museum. Master ironist and curmudgeon you least want to bludgeon.}

Paris 1919: Six Months That Changed the World, by Margaret Macmillan {A dryly told account of global dust-settling after what was then myopically known as "the Great War." Explores the follies of Wilson, Lloyd George and Clemenceau, which helped bring about WWII.}

Doomed, Bourgeois, In Love: Essays on the Films of Whit Stillman, edited by Mark Henrie {Discreet charms of the bourgeoisie given the scholarly treatment by the kinds of New Criterion-y people who liked Grosse Pointe Blank because John Cusack's assassin refused to unionize. Don't let the pedantry taint your judgment of Stillmania, though.}

Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, by Azar Nafisi {A beautiful paean to Western literature from an Eastern scholar living under Islamic statism; the Gatsby trial and Jane Austen dance chapters are particularly enjoyable.}

The Persian Mirror: The Elusive Face of Iran, by Elaine Sciolino {For those with short odds on the next war of choice.}

Nobody's Perfect: Writings from The New Yorker, by Anthony Lane {He needs to stop it with the creepy drooling over Natalie Portman, but Lane is still the best around for losing it at the movies.}

The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl {Adult stories, less like his childrens stuff than what O. Henry would have been like if his ironic plot twists had involved wife-swapping, cannibalism, or turning infants into superhuman bee-monsters. Might be fun for the kid who never reads, actually.}

The Chicago Manual of Style, by the University of Chicago Press Staff {and the ghost of Allan Bloom.}

The Brothers Karamazov, by F. Dostoevsky, translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky {Incest! Murder! Theodicy!}

Collected Non-Fictions, by Jorge Luis Borges {A prose impresario short-winded enough to keep beside the toilet -- especially if your john is in a labrynith that transcends spacetime.}

Love and Hydrogen: New and Selected Stories, by John Shepard {Stories narrated by John Ashcroft, John Entwistle, Nazi rocket riders, the creature from the black lagoon, and others.}

My Life and Hard Times, by James Thurber {Think of David Sedaris, in turn of the century Columbus, Ohio. And without the gay schtick, or even a pretense at respect for his family.}

ALBUMS:

You Are the Quarry, by Morrissey {He's back! And almost paid off the deficit incurred by Maladjusted. A few gripes: "America Is Not the World" never fulfills the promise of its title. It's an unwieldy blunderbuss, not a rapier -- and the use of "hamburger" as synecdoche for our national obesity problem is a new hackneyed low for the Oscar Wilde of the microphone. "I Have Forgiven Jesus" ultimately works, but I can't help but feel that that one was just too easy.}

Weightlifting, by The Trashcan Sinatras {Remember them from your college radio daze? A brisk homecoming track, appositely named "Welcome Back" ("Everyone survived / Everyone's alive!" -- well, thank goodness) kicks off this highly accomplished return to musicmaking for an alt-pop band that shouldn't have stayed away so long.}

Strange Bird, by Augie March {With a name like Augie, it has to be good. It is. Analogs fail me.}

Evergreen, by Echo and the Bunnymen {Best 80's Band Comeback Album. No contest.}

Mermaid Avenue, by Billy Bragg and Wilco {A fucking classic. Ukanian bloke Billy Bragg manages to capture the rhythms of dustbowl Americana better than Dylan -- the obvious disciple/witch doctor to perform a Woody Guthrie resurrection -- ever could do. All lyrics by Guthrie, music by Bragg and Wilco.}

Don't Try This at Home, by Billy Bragg {Most people who hear Mermaid Avenue invariably want more of the man who brought it to them. This is Bragg's most "accessible" solo album, though not without the politics that's defined his career. "Accident Waiting to Happen" is a punk snarl against cultural fascism.}

Galore, by Kirsty MacColl {May this earth angel charm the knickers off the winged principalities. MacColl died a few years ago in a boating accident, but I can only imagine how well-attended her funeral must have been by the panoply of musicians guilty of "sampling" her Celtic nightingale voice. This album consists mainly of covers, but that's more than all right for someone generous enough to never ask for top billing, despite consistently stealing the show.}

These Are the Vistas, by the Bad Plus {"Smells Like Teen Spirit," the jazz standard. No kidding. Comes off not just better than you'd expect, but brilliantly.}

SMiLE, by Brian Wilson {Reviewed here. Check to the right.}

The Soft Bulletin, by the Flaming Lips {And the hard singing voice to take, but worth it anyway.}

It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back, by Public Enemy {More complicated rhymes and denser loops than have been on the radio before or sense, plus the guy with the big clock.}

Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?, by the Unicorns {Morbid, tinny, wildly innovative and beautiful.}

Loaded: Fully Loaded Edition, by the Velvet Underground {Funny, Lou Reed doesn't usually look this happy. Must be Laurie Anderson's doing.}

Traitor In Our Midst, by the Country Gazette {What you always thought bluegrass was supposed to sound like.}

The Modern Lovers, by the Modern Lovers {Speaking of Lou Reed, remember the guy with the guitar who gets shot in Something About Mary? Imagine that guy redoing "White Light/White Heat," but with lyrics about aging with dignity and eschewing drugs. That sounds like a snark, but its actually the SAM guy, and John Cale produced.}

The Queen Is Dead, by The Smiths {I can't believe you don't own this already. The summa of the Moz/Marr collaboration.}

The Boatman's Call, by Nick Cave {The Prince of Darkness may have been afraid to board a plane after 9/11, but this "New Testament" sound is proof of moisture's sustainability in Hell. "Into My Arms" is sweet enough to play your girlfriend on Valentine's Day, leaving the oldie-but-dreary "Deanna" to blast at her when she dumps you.}

No Cities Left, by The Dears {The lead singer cried when Morrissey asked the band to open on the "You Are the Quarry" tour. That kind of gone-to-pieces sentimentalism can only lead one place: straight down. Get 'em while they're new and good.}

The Boy With the Arab Strap, by Belle and Sebastian {Might as well order that black V-neck sweater, Rimbaud's Collected Poems, while you're at it. "Theoretical" bisexuality not a requisite, despite what angry twee detractors say.}

FILMS & TV:

Cannibal! The Musical. {Trey Parker's college thesis, a feature-length movie musical about the only American ever convicted of cannibalism. Not for all markets, but better than most of his later stuff.}

Before Sunset, directed by Richard Linklater {The sequel that doesn't feel like one. Why thirtysomethings who chat are more interesting than twentysomethings who do likewise. Some sluggish moments, but all made up for by a luminous final scene that made me fall in love with Julie Delpy once more. Bet it made Anthony Lane "spill [his] Sprite" again, too.}

Collateral, directed by Michael Mann {Tom Cruise has always been a hard-working, as opposed to naturally gifted, actor. This part was his pension come early. Michael Mann is the Richard Avedon of the moving Los Angeles image. And Jamie Foxx ain't too shabby, either.}

The Unbelievable Truth, directed by Hal Hartley {Surreal-ish debut from a master indy filmmaker and satirist. Yes, that is Edie Falco as the diner waitress.}

Henry Fool, directed by Hal Hartley {Hartley's masterpiece. Probably the only movie about writers that's ever worked. Barton Fink, anyone?}

Metropolitan, directed by Whit Stillman {Downwardly mobile 60's college jet set. Making a film about this demographic is like trying to play matchmaker to a Republican leper in Northampton, Mass. That the dialogue (and it's all dialogue) stays liquid-tongued is a monument to Stillman's talent... dare I say, genius?}

Barcelona, directed by Whit Stillman {Anti-Americanism when it was more funny than scary. The "subtext" speech belongs in Bartlett's. The DVD commentary is, as someone from the earlier film might say, "priceless."}

The Last Days of Disco, directed by Whit Stillman {An assault on 70's cliche in the best possible way -- the anti-54. Also known as Yuppies: A Defense. Chloe Sevigny gives grace to the one night stand, instead of head to Vincent Gallo.}

Mr. Jealousy, directed by Noah Baumbach {Who wouldn't hunt down the ex-boyfriends of Annabella Sciorra? Eric Stoltz had fewer difficulties with girls in Mask. Chris Eigeman from the Stillman flicks swaps Mayflower pedigree for facial hair (modeled on David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest jacket photo), to varying degrees of success. An underrated romantic comedy, but don't say I didn't warn you: this film may engender awkward relationship conversation. It may also plant supersleuth-stalker seeds in frail men's heads. Or so I've heard.}

Blue Velvet, directed by David Lynch {So many epigones, so far from this mark.}

Father Ted: The Holy Trinity {BBC TV series about three priests on an island. No, not that kind of series, you sick fuck.}

The Office - The Complete Collection (First And Second Series Plus Special) {Creator, writer, director and star Rick Gervais used to manage Suede and now this. That's enough laurels for one lifetime. He can die now.}

Arrested Development - Season One {To think that Teen Wolf Too was just a glimpse of Jason Bateman's potential.}

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The Perils of Collective Responsibility

New @ New Criterion:

I cannot say if Peter Beinart's essay in the New York Review of Books has yet become a bar mitzvah present in certain precincts of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. But I do know of an in-joke that's developed in certain cabalistic political circles which have, for predictable reasons, found that polemic on the supposed failure of the American Jewish establishment wanting in several key respects. The joke takes the form of an email valedictory: "On behalf of all American Jews, I have to go to the bathroom." "On behalf of all American Jews, I'm flying to Uzbekistan this week." "On behalf of all American Jews, I'm converting to Catholicism."

There may be such a thing as a Jewish establishment in this country, and it may be that it is terminally out of touch with the youthful liberal zeitgeist, or suffering from institutional sclerosis, or outfitted with the types of people who think that any criticism of Israel is one more paving stone on the road to a 21st-century Kristallnacht. But the idea--lampooned in that valedictory because exampled in Beinart's essay--that all American Jews are responsible for the fate of a network of Jewish organizations, much less an entire "establishment," is as presumptuous and absurd as claiming that all Anglo-Saxons are responsible for the MetroNorth arrivals and departures schedule at Darien, Connecticut.

The Anti-Defamation League is only now growing scandalized by the fact that 1.5 million Armenians were systematically murdered by Ottoman Turks at the close of the First World War. How nice of it to do so. But I and others were saying--at a time when Israeli-Turkish relations were a lot friendlier than they are now--that this dire event did in fact occur and that Abraham Foxman had no right to deny it did on the basis of cynical self-interest or geopolitical calculation. It cost me nothing personally, professionally or metaphysically to make this argument loudly in public--an indication perhaps that some blacklists and conspiracies are better organized than others--and even if it had I should not have claimed to be speaking "on behalf" of anyone except myself.

I bring this up because the charge of Jewish collective responsibility is an inherently fatuous one and yet it is persistent in an era when a 24-hour news cycle is never complete without addressing some real or perceived misbehavior by the state of Israel. In a rather bizarre editorial in the Moscow Times, Russian-American economist Alexei Bayer invokes it in the language of missed opportunities after the May 31 raid of the Mavi Marmara off the coast of Gaza:

It was mostly forwarded mass mailings in English and Russian, explaining why the flotilla was a terrorist provocation, how the blockade runners were al-Qaida and how Israeli soldiers showed exemplary restraint while protecting Israel's right to exist. As an experiment, I wanted to see whether there was any nuanced view of the situation or sympathy for 1.5 million Palestinians being collectively punished by Israeli actions. Needless to say, I found none.

I'd quite like to know what Bayer's definition of a "nuanced view" of that situation is. Needless to say, none is forthcoming because the Free Gaza flotilla is not his real subject. His real subject is a long history of barbarism for which he thinks Russian Jews have quite a lot to apologize for:

But whether this fact [that Jews should be blamed for Bolshevik crimes] is de-emphasized, as it was during the Soviet era, or savored as it is now by Russian anti-Semites, it remains true that Leon Trotsky, Yakov Sverdlov, Grigory Zinoviev, Lev Kamenev and so many early Bolsheviks who helped Lenin take power in 1917 and ran his repressive regime were Jewish. And so were some of the bloodiest figures in the political police, such as Yakov Yurovsky, who carried out the execution of Tsar Nicholas II and his family; Rozalia Zamlyachka, under whose political command tens of thousands of White Army officers were drowned in Crimea; and Genrikh Yagoda, the odious head of Stalin's NKVD in the 1930s.

Making lists of Jews is usually not a healthy indication of where a line of argument is headed, but under the present historical circumstances it is anachronistic as well as pointless. One of the central tenets of Bolshevism was the abolition of ethnicity, race and religious affiliation, all of which Russian Czarism exploited to masterful, and ultimately self-destructive, ends in the late 19th century. Imperial quotas on education and professional aspirations and not infrequent pogroms backed by the Kremlin led so many poor inhabitants of the Pale of Settlement to abandon Moses for Marx, move to the big cities, and join the ranks of the radical intelligentsia in the first place. (In this sense, it was not European capitalism but great Russian chauvinism that "emancipated" so many Jews from Judaism, a strange and unexpected fulfilment of one of the old Rhinelander's more controversial prophecies.) But none of the men cited above would have in any way subscribed to any tribal grouping or claimed to be acting on precepts derived from the Old Testament. When they did befall the crude cudgel of Stalinist anti-Semitism, they did not defend themselves as Jews but as Marxists and revolutionaries betrayed by a counter-revolutionary dictatorship. In other words, the tyranny of Russian Communism proceeds quite nicely without the assumption of the God of Abraham.

There is something distinctly creepy about even having to point this out. Bayer's paragraph reminds one of Solzhenitsyn's less distinguished later writings about the true "origins" of Leninism as well as more recent effusions, to which he alludes, from the fascist Nashi element of contemporary Moscow. That political phenomenon isn't so much backed as it is originated by Putin's Kremlin.

But coming from a self-described liberal, the charge of Jewish collective responsibility is no more responsible. Not least of the problems with Bayer's category mistake is that it is hostage to 20th-century geography. What was a Russian Jew in a period that saw Russian borders change dramatically overnight thanks to a new form of imperialism? Doubtless there are plenty of Talmudic scholars alive in Warsaw and Tallinn who, heeding Bayer's call, ought to feel compelled to atone for the fact that their countries were invaded and annexed by Jewish Bolsheviks. And how easily one can imagine the Polish-born Abraham Heschel wiping his brow after marching arm-in-arm with Martin Luther King, Jr. and thinking, "Finally, I can be forgiven for Trotsky!"

Even taking Bayer's ostensibly progressive premise as legitimate, he's still wrong:

While Germany and Russia have much to prove to the world, so do Russian Jews. We could have shown that Bolshevik criminals were not an outgrowth of the Russian Jewry by embracing Western pluralism, democracy and tolerance in the United States and Israel, the two liberal democratic countries where we ended up. Instead, we as a group have retained an us-against-them mentality and have continued to live by the famous Stalin-era dictum: "If the enemy doesn't give up, he must be destroyed." All we have done is move from the extreme left to the extreme right of the political spectrum. In Israel, we have created the Yisrael Beitenu party led by Avigdor Lieberman, the current Israeli foreign minister and, arguably, the most radical right-wing figure to hold this post in a Western country since World War II. In the United States, where 85 percent to 90 percent of us invariably vote Republican, it is not the Republican Party that is the problem but the almost North Korean unanimity. We have been put to the test by democracy, and we seem to have failed it.

Avigdor Lieberman is one of the poorest exports from Moldova, but his electoral success is rooted in the fact that his party formerly campaigned on a platform of introducing civil marriage legislation to the Knesset. At present, Russian immigrants to Israel are unable to marry due to draconian religious laws governing matrimony. Indeed, here's another meretricious instance of forcing collective responsibility onto individuals: If you were born in the Soviet Union and not subject to the rites and rituals of ultra-Orthodox tradition (which would have been next to impossible), you are deemed "insufficiently Jewish" by much of the Israeli rabbinate and are forced to go to Cyprus or some other foreign locale to wed the person you love and have that union considered legally binding in Israel. I said Lieberman's party was formerly committed to changing all this; that's because as a coalition partner with the ultra-Orthodox Shas party--source of the Joe Biden/east Jerusalem housing migraine that Benjamin Netanyahu awoke to a few months ago--he has lately found that campaign promise expendable. How long, then, before his single-issue Russian constituency concludes the same about him?

The pettifogging dynamics of Israeli politics to one side, who will seriously maintain that post-Soviet Jewry is locked in a state of ideological paralysis? Here's another list of names that might interest Alexei Bayer: Mikhail Khodorkovsky, Gary Kasparov, Boris Nemtsov, all of whom would have found themselves on the wrong side of the Nuremberg Laws and Stalin's postwar paranoia, and yet none of whom can ever be accused of having failed to "embrace Western pluralism": they've just tried to embrace it in Russia itself, a far more forbidding political terrain for dissent or permanent opposition than either the United States or Israel will ever be.

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The Prague Fall: Communism's Death Hasn't Stopped the Self-Inflicted Kind
By Orli Sharaby {The unbearable state of being.}

The Beverly Hills of the East: Plastic Surgery in Prague
By Orli Sharaby {From DiaMat to Nip/Tuck.}




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