There's an interesting exchange in yesterday's post on In Memoriam between me and l roberts on how we view In Memoriam. The conversation initiated from this claim:
I think of it as more of a romantic line than a sexual line . . . I'm not saying that his relationship with this guy was sexual, or that we can ever know if it was or not.
But the fact that so many people have applied the line to their own relationships, whether they're romantic, sexual, or "just" friends, is significant to me. It kind of suggests that love is all the same, no matter how it's expressed.
Also, not all same-gender love is sexual, but in my opinion it still counts as "gay." For example, I think most people would agree that a marriage has to be based on more than just sex. And LGBT people don't want to get married just so they can keep having teh sex. They want to get married for love.
I disputed the claim that same-gender love neccessarily qualifies as gay love, eventually eliciting the following response:
I have to say that in this particular case though, the individual's viewpoint really does matter. When a queer person says, "Tennyson wrote In Memoriam based on his affection for another man," it has a significantly different meaning from when a straight person says it. We each have a natural instinct to claim that love as "our own" in some way, even though Tennyson can't be both gay and not gay.
I find this particularly interesting. I don't know that I agree. But it doesn't much matter. In this instance, my own consent is neither requested nor required. Moreover, it's kind of boring. More captivating is how identity changes what we see. In that vein, I'd like to ask some of our gay commenters to weigh in here. On Tennyson particularly, and more broadly on the realm of artists beautifully expressing affection for humans of the same gender.
I hear Tennyson and, for me, there is that long tradition of young black males mourning the death of fallen soldiers, through hip-hop. Mobb Deep made a career out of mugging for the camera, and yet in "Cradle To The Grave," Havoc could confess that at the sight of his dying friend "he felt like crying." And he does this in sub genre which holds strong prohibitions against saying such things about women.
But that's my lens. What's yours? What is that "significantly different meaning?" This is an inquiry, not an inquisition. I'm not interested in the debate. I'm not interested in proving or disproving Tennyson's sexuality. I'm not interested in an objective "right." I'm interested in In Memoriam through your eyes.
As an aside, I'd ask the less experienced among us to sit back and listen for a bit. Please don't speak for the sake of speaking. In seeking to be first, you render yourself last.
Trump’s supporters backed a time-honored American political tradition, disavowing racism while promising to enact a broad agenda of discrimination.
THIRTY YEARS AGO, nearly half of Louisiana voted for a Klansman, and the media struggled to explain why.
It was 1990 and David Duke, the former grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, astonished political observers when he came within striking distance of defeating incumbent Democratic U.S. Senator J. Bennett Johnston, earning 43 percent of the vote. If Johnston’s Republican rival hadn’t dropped out of the race and endorsed him at the last minute, the outcome might have been different.
Was it economic anxiety? The Washington Post reported that the state had “a large working class that has suffered through a long recession.” Was it a blow against the state’s hated political establishment? An editorial from United Press International explained, “Louisianans showed the nation by voting for Duke that they were mad as hell and not going to take it any more.” Was it anti-Washington rage? A Loyola University pollster argued, “There were the voters who liked Duke, those who hated J. Bennett Johnston, and those who just wanted to send a message to Washington.”
Astronomers describe what it's like to chart the first confirmed object from outside our home in the cosmos.
Nobody saw it coming.
The rocky object showed up in telescope images the night of October 19. The Pan-STARRS1 telescope, from its perch atop a Hawaiian volcano, photographed it during its nightly search for near-Earth objects, like comets and asteroids. Rob Weryk, a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Hawaii Institute for Astronomy, was the first to lay eyes on it, as he sorted through the telescope’s latest haul. The object was moving “rapidly” across the night sky. Weryk thought it was probably a typical asteroid, drifting along in the sun’s orbit
“It was only when I went back and found it [in the data from] the night before that it became obvious it was something else,” he said. “I’d never expected to find something like this.”
If the party wants to win back votes in the Trump era, it will need to stop ignoring people of faith.
Democrats ignored broad swaths of religious America in the 2016 election campaign and the nation has suffered because of it. Yet calls for a recommitment to faith outreach—particularly to white and other conservative or moderate religious voters—have been met in some corners of liberal punditry with a response as common as it is unwarranted. Some quarters of the Democratic party would rather maintain rhetorical and ideological purity than win with a more inclusive coalition. For the sake of the country, the party must turn back to people of faith.
We know faith outreach works, because it has worked before. In 2005, after the reelection of a president many Democrats believed was clearly unfit for leadership, a concerted decision was made to close the “God Gap” that the GOP had so effectively exploited. Yes, the Democratic Party was losing among white religious people, but there was also an understanding in the party that its margins among black and Hispanic voters were limited by the perception that the party was antagonistic toward religion. Democrats took back Congress in the 2006 midterms, through a combination of direct engagement, district-based flexibility on policy, and rhetorical adjustments. The majority gained in 2006 is the majority that delivered all of the legislative-policy wins progressives hail from the first two years of the Obama administration, including the Affordable Care Act.
This is a decisive moment for women, and also for the journalists investigating their accounts.
“You have me riveted,” reads the incoming text. “How long will you be in NY?”
Later that evening, my phone lights up again: “Reading with pleasure.”
The next ping: “Exquisite pleasure in fact.”
The man writing me these texts was James Toback. He’d struck up a conversation earlier that day at The Harvard Club in New York, where he’d spotted me sitting alone with a cup of tea, typing away at my laptop. Might he share my table? Might he ask my name? What brought me to town?
Book tour, I told him. I’d just published a novel. Well, fancy that. He was a movie director. Had I ever seen Black and White? He and Jessica Chastain were tight, he informed me; she would be perfect to play my protagonist.
Riiiiiight, I thought. But I Googled him when he excused himself to the men’s room, and the first photo that popped up was of him with Alec Baldwin, arms linked, strolling the red carpet at the Cannes Film Festival.
How did Andrew Anglin go from being an antiracist vegan to the alt-right’s most vicious troll and propagandist—and how might he be stopped?
On December 16, 2016, Tanya Gersh answered her phone and heard gunshots. Startled, she hung up. Gersh, a real-estate agent who lives in Whitefish, Montana, assumed it was a prank call. But the phone rang again. More gunshots. Again, she hung up. Another call. This time, she heard a man’s voice: “This is how we can keep the Holocaust alive,” he said. “We can bury you without touching you.”
When Gersh put down the phone, her hands were shaking. She was one of only about 100 Jews in Whitefish and the surrounding Flathead Valley, and she knew there were white nationalists and “sovereign citizens” in the area. But Gersh had lived in Whitefish for more than 20 years, since just after college, and had always considered the scenic ski town an idyllic place. She didn’t even have a key to her house—she’d never felt the need to lock her door. Now that sense of security was about to be shattered.
How leaders lose mental capacities—most notably for reading other people—that were essential to their rise
If power were a prescription drug, it would come with a long list of known side effects. It can intoxicate. It can corrupt. It can even make Henry Kissinger believe that he’s sexually magnetic. But can it cause brain damage?
When various lawmakers lit into John Stumpf at a congressional hearing last fall, each seemed to find a fresh way to flay the now-former CEO of Wells Fargo for failing to stop some 5,000 employees from setting up phony accounts for customers. But it was Stumpf’s performance that stood out. Here was a man who had risen to the top of the world’s most valuable bank, yet he seemed utterly unable to read a room. Although he apologized, he didn’t appear chastened or remorseful. Nor did he seem defiant or smug or even insincere. He looked disoriented, like a jet-lagged space traveler just arrived from Planet Stumpf, where deference to him is a natural law and 5,000 a commendably small number. Even the most direct barbs—“You have got to be kidding me” (Sean Duffy of Wisconsin); “I can’t believe some of what I’m hearing here” (Gregory Meeks of New York)—failed to shake him awake.
The second reason is subtler, but perhaps equally significant. To pay for a permanent tax cut on corporations, the plan raises taxes on colleges and college students, which is part of a broader Republican war on higher education in the U.S. This is a big deal, because in the last half-century, the most important long-term driver of wage growth has arguably been college.
More comfortable online than out partying, post-Millennials are safer, physically, than adolescents have ever been. But they’re on the brink of a mental-health crisis.
One day last summer, around noon, I called Athena, a 13-year-old who lives in Houston, Texas. She answered her phone—she’s had an iPhone since she was 11—sounding as if she’d just woken up. We chatted about her favorite songs and TV shows, and I asked her what she likes to do with her friends. “We go to the mall,” she said. “Do your parents drop you off?,” I asked, recalling my own middle-school days, in the 1980s, when I’d enjoy a few parent-free hours shopping with my friends. “No—I go with my family,” she replied. “We’ll go with my mom and brothers and walk a little behind them. I just have to tell my mom where we’re going. I have to check in every hour or every 30 minutes.”
Those mall trips are infrequent—about once a month. More often, Athena and her friends spend time together on their phones, unchaperoned. Unlike the teens of my generation, who might have spent an evening tying up the family landline with gossip, they talk on Snapchat, the smartphone app that allows users to send pictures and videos that quickly disappear. They make sure to keep up their Snapstreaks, which show how many days in a row they have Snapchatted with each other. Sometimes they save screenshots of particularly ridiculous pictures of friends. “It’s good blackmail,” Athena said. (Because she’s a minor, I’m not using her real name.) She told me she’d spent most of the summer hanging out alone in her room with her phone. That’s just the way her generation is, she said. “We didn’t have a choice to know any life without iPads or iPhones. I think we like our phones more than we like actual people.”
A report says Representative John Conyers settled a complaint in 2015, and his case is unlikely to be the last.
As sexual-harassment claims topple powerful men in media, movies, and elsewhere, Congress retains the potential to be the biggest arena for such revelations.
That is not solely because it involves the governance of the nation and the blood sport of politics. Combine a milieu that is historically (and currently) heavily male, entitled and powerful men, a system that allows members to keep claims quiet and mostly hidden, and a business in which victims are particularly reluctant to speak out for fear of reprisal, and the result is an atmosphere that is catastrophically overrun with sexual harassment. But while many women have spoken about their own experiences in recent weeks, few names of abusers have emerged.
The eighth annual panoramic photo competition has just come to a close, and the winning images and honorable mentions have been announced.
The top-scoring panoramic photos entered in the eighth annual Epson International Pano Awards have just been announced. The contest is meant to showcase the best work of panoramic photographers around the world. Organizers reported that they received 5,377 entries from 1,322 photographers in 71 countries this year, competing for the top spots in five categories, for several special awards, and for some of the $50,000 in cash and prizes offered. Contest organizers were kind enough to share some of the winners and top scorers here, and I invite you to enjoy these wide images of our natural and human-built worlds on the largest screen available to you.