I teased at this the other day but wanted to bring out a bit. Here is Mr. Brooke. I gather some read him as a bit of idiot. I read him as a bit of an absent-minded professor. His niece has just returned from Rome and he is greeting her and her new husband Causabon:
"I need not ask how you are, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, after kissing her forehead. "Rome has agreed with you, I see--happiness, frescos, the antique--that sort of thing. Well, it's very pleasant to have you back again, and you understand all about art now, eh? But Casaubon is a little pale, I tell him--a little pale, you know. Studying hard in his holidays is carrying it rather too far. I overdid it at one time"--Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea's hand, but had turned his face to Mr. Casaubon--"about topography, ruins, temples--I thought I had a clue, but I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might come of it. You may go any length in that sort of thing, and nothing may come of it, you know."
Brooke has a very particular way of speaking, which I find amusing. He almost reminds me of an insecticon. He repeats himself and tends to wave off entire epochs with three word summaries and the broad label "that sort of thing."
Ah? ... Well! He is a good match in some respects. But now, Chettam is a good match. And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your wishes, my dear. People should have their own way in marriage, and that sort of thing--up to a certain point, you know. I have always said that, up to a certain point. I wish you to marry well; and I have good reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marry you. I mention it, you know."
Very true. You couldn't put the thing better--couldn't put it better, beforehand, you know. But there are oddities in things," continued Mr. Brooke, whose conscience was really roused to do the best he could for his niece on this occasion. "Life isn't cast in a mould--not cut out by rule and line, and that sort of thing. I never married myself, and it will be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never loved any one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It is a noose, you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likes to be master.
"Lydgate has lots of ideas, quite new, about ventilation and diet, that sort of thing,"
His cadence are the most unusual in the book, and stand out, as the rest of the voices aren't as well delineated. But I find myself meditating on how his voice sounds to me in my head.
The thing about Middlemarch is not that it is long, but that it is detailed. I don't mean detailed as an assembly of facts and descriptions. I mean detailed like an old Harlem brownstone, or the Cathedral up here in Morningside Heights. Mr. Brooke's voice is a place of retreat, a cavern for my mind to whirl around in or explore It is as if Eliot created a plot and then tricked it out, if I may be so profane. There are epigraphs, allusions to scientists who I do not know, weird unpredictable shifts in voice, notes on the history of medicine, Zen-like aphorisms, all of it attached to a narrative.
I find that I don't much care about the narrative ("the what happens next?") as I enjoy losing myself in the detailing, in the craftsmanship. This is what I mean when I claim that the novel has "physicality." The best thing about Middlemarch is that it has exploded my sense of what a novel can be. I felt the same way about Faulkner, but I think I also kind of dismissed because he wrote so small. (I'm speaking as a matter of subjective taste, as opposed to fact.) He often just seemed a little crazy.
Anyway, There's a moment in Issac Hayes's "Walk On By" where he repeats the chorus, and suddenly, in the background, you hear horns cracking lightly. (It's at about 2:23) I love that moment. It's the most unexpected, most delicate thing. And it comes amidst a meaty and unexpected reworking of another song. Hayes's version is slow, plodding almost, and the his heavy grieving voice is set against background vocals from what almost sounds like European church choir. The song is thick. It's physical. There are so many places to get lost.
Of course this is likely my native aesthetic coming to the fore because this kind of thickness is always what hip-hop, at its best, excelled at. You hear it in the great Public Enemy albums, in the great Wu-Tang albums, in Rakim's lyrics. I guess it's only natural that I would see this here. George Eliot is just bringing the Bomb Squad.
It's really, really easy for hackers to find unsecured devices.
Last week, a massive chain of hacked computers simultaneously dropped what they were doing and blasted terabytes of junk data to a set of key servers, temporarily shutting down access to popular sites in the eastern U.S. and beyond. Unlike previous attacks, many of these compromised computers weren’t sitting on someone’s desk, or tucked away in a laptop case—they were instead the cheap processors soldered into web-connected devices, from security cameras to video recorders. A DVR could have helped bring down Twitter.
Great, I thought as I read the coverage last week. My DVR helped bring down Twitter. (Probably not, at least this time—the targeted products were older than what you’d find in most American homes, and less protected.) But the internet is huge! There are around a couple billion public IPv4 addresses out there; any one of those might have a server, a desktop computer, or a toaster plugged in at the other end. Even if the manufacturer of my gadget gave it a dumb and easily guessed password, wouldn’t it be safe in this sea of anonymity? How would the hackers find me?
Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump prepare for the final sprint to Election Day.
It’s Friday, October 28—the election is now less than two weeks away. Hillary Clinton holds a lead against Donald Trump, according to RealClearPolitics’ polling average. We’ll bring you the latest updates from the trail as events unfold. Also see our continuing coverage:
What is lost when disadvantaged students are forced to commodify their backgrounds for the sake of college admissions?
Shortly after moving to New York two years ago, I began volunteering as a writing mentor at Minds Matter, a large, multi-city nonprofit that helps prepare underserved high-school students for college. Just a few months earlier, I’d graduated from a liberal-arts college I’d attended after participating in a similar program, and I felt both obliged to pay my good fortune forward and uniquely qualified to do so. If my experience had taught me anything, it was the power of a compelling personal narrative.
By the time I’d decided, mid-way through high school, that I wanted to attend college—and not just any college, but a competitive one, filled with Gothic Revival buildings and storied histories—I had to contend with a spotty transcript, virtually no extracurriculars, and an SAT math score inferior to that of many middle schoolers. Then I heard about QuestBridge, a nonprofit that connects low-income youth with top schools.
Doug Band helped everyone get rich in the post-presidential empire, but his re-emergence in the WikiLeaks hack is another headache for Hillary.
Who is Doug Band, and what did he do for Bill Clinton?
A little bit of everything, it turns out.
He helped launch the Clinton Foundation, came up with the idea for the Clinton Global Initiative, brokered deals for paid speeches that enriched Clinton, and then started a private consulting firm called Teneo that made the Foundation, Bill Clinton, and Band himself even wealthier.
All of that became clear in the latest batch of hacked emails released by WikiLeaks, which include messages from Band and a 12-page memo that he wrote both explaining and defending his and his company’s work on Clinton’s behalf. For Hillary Clinton’s campaign, the publication of the Band memo is yet another WikiLeaks-induced headache, as it provides even more detail into the unsavory-if-not-illegal intersection of interests at the heart of her family’s philanthropic work.
I generally enjoy milk chocolate, for basic reasons of flavor and texture. For roughly the same reasons, I generally do not enjoy dark chocolate. *
Those are just my boring preferences, but preferences, really, won’t do: This is an age in which even the simplest element of taste will become a matter of partisanship and identity and social-Darwinian hierarchy; in which all things must be argued and then ranked; in which even the word “basic” has come to suggest searing moral judgment. So IPAs are not just extra-hoppy beers, but also declarations of masculinity and “palatal machismo.” The colors you see in the dress are not the result of light playing upon the human eye, but rather of deep epistemological divides among the world’s many eye-owners. Cake versus pie, boxers versus briefs, Democrat versus Republican, pea guac versus actual guac, are hot dogs sandwiches … It is the best of times, it is the RAGING DUMPSTER FIRE of times.
Startups are proving more efficient than government in areas like transportation. Should some services be privatized?
Cities such as New York and San Francisco have extensive public-transportation systems that carry millions of residents by bus, train, boat, and light rail. But in recent years, there’s been an expanding fleet of private vehicles too: Lyft, Uber, Juno, Uber Pool, and the Google Bus, to name a few. These offerings give commuters more choices, but may also undermine the public services available. They raise fundamental questions about the future of how people will get around cities.
I used to think these services were just for the rich—a friend of mine who lived in New York insisted on taking an Uber Pool to work every day because he said it was a much better experience than public transit. But as the options increase, they carry an expanding array of people. This morning, for instance, I walked one block from my house to take a private van service called Chariot to my office in San Francisco. Before Chariot, this commute took at least 40 minutes and consisted of riding a bus to the subway to another bus. Chariot—a shared van service run by a private company—brought me directly from my house to my office in just over 20 minutes. And it cost roughly the same price as the lengthier public transit option.
Political, social, and demographic forces in the battleground of North Carolina promise a reckoning with its Jim Crow past.
In 1901, America was ascendant. Its victory over Spain, the reunification of North and South, and the closing of the frontier announced the American century. Americans awaited the inauguration of the 57th Congress, the first elected in the 20th century. All the incoming members of Congress, like those they replaced, were white men, save one.
Representative George Henry White did not climb the steps of Capitol Hill on the morning of January 29 to share in triumph. The last black congressman elected before the era of Jim Crow, White, a Republican, took the House floor in defeat. He had lost his North Carolina home district after a state constitutional amendment disenfranchised black voters—most of his constituents. That law marked the end of black political power in North Carolina for nearly a century.
Services like Tinder and Hinge are no longer shiny new toys, and some users are starting to find them more frustrating than fun.
“Apocalypse” seems like a bit much. I thought that last fall when Vanity Fair titled Nancy Jo Sales’s article on dating apps “Tinder and the Dawn of the ‘Dating Apocalypse’” and I thought it again this month when Hinge, another dating app, advertised its relaunch with a site called “thedatingapocalypse.com,” borrowing the phrase from Sales’s article, which apparently caused the company shame and was partially responsible for their effort to become, as they put it, a “relationship app.”
Despite the difficulties of modern dating, if there is an imminent apocalypse, I believe it will be spurred by something else. I don’t believe technology has distracted us from real human connection. I don’t believe hookup culture has infected our brains and turned us into soulless sex-hungry swipe monsters. And yet. It doesn’t do to pretend that dating in the app era hasn’t changed.
In a hackable world where neither the NSA nor Sony Pictures nor John Podesta could safeguard their private communications, the surest way to keep data secure may be surrounding it with decoys.
The successful breach of John Podesta’s email account is the latest high-profile hack to expose thousands upon thousands of private missives to the public. With the Sony Pictures debacle in the recent past and no prospect of perfect digital security, more breaches seem inevitable. So why do email providers, organizations, and individuals only seem interested in one approach to thwarting thefts?
A difficult-to-guess password, two-factor authentication, attentiveness to phishing schemes, and security features at companies like Google and Apple are all variations on a theme: All are attempts to secure an email account so that unauthorized folks can’t break in. Once a breach happens, the game is lost. But what if that were just the beginning?
A century ago, widely circulated images and cartoons helped drive the debate about whether women should have the right to vote.
It seems almost farcical that the 2016 presidential campaign has become a referendum on misogyny at a moment when the United States is poised to elect its first woman president.
Not that this is surprising, exactly.
There’s a long tradition of politics clashing spectacularly with perceived gender norms around election time, and the stakes often seem highest when women are about to make history.
Today’s political dialogue—which often merely consists of opposing sides shouting over one another—echoes another contentious era in American politics, when women fought for the right to vote. Then and now, a mix of political tension and new-fangled publishing technology produced an environment ripe for creating and distributing political imagery. The meme-ification of women’s roles in society—in civic life and at home—has been central to an advocacy tradition that far precedes slogans like, “Life’s a bitch, don’t elect one,” or “A woman’s place is in the White House.”