On this day in 1873, the labor leader William Green was born. At the age of 16, he went to work in a coal mine. By 18, he had become a union representative. And he went on to head the American Federation of Labor (AFL) for almost three decades — including the whole of the Great Depression. He is known for pursuing a “cooperative” strategy where labor tries to work with management. I think that’s really interesting, because he took the reins of AFL in 1924. Listening to people talk about labor now, you would think that the idea of labor working with management was only something they did recently and very reluctantly.
I’m not sure that it was the correct way to go. As far as I can tell, businesses are run by people who are not really able to cooperate. They are kind of like the Republican Party during the early years of Obama’s presidency: when offered cooperation, all they see is weakness. It doesn’t seem to matter how reasonable and helpful labor is, the capital class always wants to take power away from labor. And this is why we need a major rethink of our economic system.
Still, Green managed the AFL through an incredibly difficult economic period. He was probably the best man for the job at that time.
Today, one of the greatest political leaders of twentieth century, Mikhail Gorbachev is 84 years old. I have great admiration for him. But he is also kind of a tragic figure. He was a reformer, but I fear his timing was wrong. He wanted to turn the Soviet Union into a social democracy. But the west was intent to do to this project what it helped Pinochet do to Chile. Russia because a kind of anarchy where the state control of the economy was replaced by an oligarchic control of the economy.
In particular, I think we ought to all agree that Boris Yeltsin is one of the great villains of the second half of the twentieth century — worse even than Thatcher and Reagan. But they are all of a kind. I remember back many years when Putin first showed up on the political scene. He was immediately vilified in the west for fighting the oligarchs. The implication is that the oligarchs were some kind of oppressed minorities. What they were rather were corrupt power brokers who — with Yeltsin’s help — stole huge amounts of wealth from the Russian people. So standing up to them rightly endeared Putin to the Russian people.
Of course, Putin has shown himself to be similarly corrupt and incompetent. But there hasn’t been nearly as much at stake as there was under Yeltsin. And Putin has at least done good things in terms of stabilizing the country. His handling of Ukraine has been stupid, however; he used it to get domestic support at the cost of international enemies. And I’m sure that domestic support will be temporary. In partial defense, the west was only too happy to jump all over him; but he should have realized that.
Gorbachev is a true Russian patriot. He is not a Yeltsin or a Putin, who I think represent the worst instincts regarding political power. This isn’t to turn Gorbachev into some kind of teddy bear. He did, after all, reach the very top of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. But some people are better able to maintain their ideals. And he is not just critical of modern Russian. According to Wikipedia, “Gorbachev calls for a kind of perestroika or restructuring of societies around the world, starting in particular with that of the United States, because he is of the view that the late-2000s financial crisis shows that the Washington Consensus economic model is a failure that will sooner or later have to be replaced.” I find it interesting because there is still so much self-praise in the west about the fall of the Soviet Union. But the truth is that feudalism was a terrible system that still “worked.” The cracks in capitalism are obvious to anyone who is willing to look.
We are now in the third year of the birthday posts. Ugh! Am I allowed to say that it is a real pain? It is generally the shortest post of the day and by far the hardest to do! But I won’t stop because I like having it. It’s a nice way to start the day. And it isn’t always a pain. But birthdays are really uneven. Some days I have a half dozen people who I’d really like to write about. And some days, there are really no people who I want to write about. Today is one of those days. The first year, I did Justin Bieber. The second year, I did Robert Bork. Those are two people I hate. So who’s it going to be today? Even as I type this, I haven’t decided…
Oh, hell: on this day in 1810, Frédéric Chopin might have been born. You read that right. He might have been born on 22 February. But probably not; you can’t trust church records. Regardless, Chopin is one of those names that everyone just knows. People take this to mean that he was a great composer, but I really don’t think that’s true. Or at least, he wasn’t great in the sense that Schubert was great. He was, by all accounts, a great pianist. Sadly, too much of his work is exactly the kind of stuff that a pianist would compose for himself. “A young man trying to impress beyond his abilities. Too much spice. Too many notes!”
Well, not really. But there is certainly more style than substance. He did, however, expand over the course of his life. Here is “Fantaisie-Impromptu,” which he wrote in his early twenties. It is one of his most famous pieces, although it wasn’t published until after he was dead. He didn’t apparently think that much of it, even if it does work. Note that the middle section is where Harry Carroll got the main melody for “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows”:
In his late thirties, he wrote “Waltz in C-sharp minor (Op 64/2).” I think it is a far more thoughtful work. But then again, it was paired with the Minute Waltz. So who knows?
What really bugs me about Chopin is the fact that he pretty much only composed for the piano. Not that he had any obligation to do otherwise, but it is kind of boring. It also limits many aspects of his composing. Ultimately, his music reminds me of this bit of Kipling:
When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”
Happy birthday Frédéric Chopin!
Afterword
Both of those pieces were played by the Russian pianist Valentina Igoshina. Chopin is hardly difficult for modern pianists, but I very much like her approach to his work.
On this day in 1901, the great scientist Linus Pauling was born. His work spanned a number of fields. He was, at base, a chemist. His first Nobel Prize was for his work on chemical bounds in complex chemical structures. According to Wikipedia, “His discovery of sickle cell anemia as a ‘molecular disease’ opened the way toward examining genetically acquired mutations at a molecular level.” This is why Francis Crick said he was the father of molecular biology. Later in his life, he became a peace activist. His work against nuclear weapons proliferation and testing won him a second Nobel Prize. He also had some controversial beliefs about the effectiveness of vitamins in combating cancer. But no one is right all the time. He was far greater than any man has a right to be.
But I want to talk about sickle-cell anaemia, which is what his important microbiological work was on. It was first discovered in 1910, and since that time, it has been used as a political tool. In the United States, it affected almost exclusively African Americans. Thus, for supporters of eugenics and other racists, they say the disease as a proof that there were “races” — something fundamental that distinguished the white “race” from the lesser “races.” But in truth, it wasn’t the case that sickle-cell anaemia only affected “blacks.”
I discussed this recently, Race as Social Construct. What being prone to sickle-cell anaemia means is that you had recent ancestors who lived in areas where malaria was common. As I wrote, “That includes Africa, but also southern Europe, Persian Gulf, and India.” The whole thing is a good indication of our species greatest challenge and hope for the future. People from a single area tend to have different facial characteristics. But when people mix geographically, minority peoples tend to get lumped all together. There are “negroes” or “orientals” or “indians.” They become “races” when what they really are are “those people” who don’t look like “us.”
I’ve noticed a lot of people don’t like Japanese film because they have a hard time distinguishing the characters. I had the same problem the first time I watched Seven Samurai. It isn’t racism that causes this. It is just lack of familiarity. The solution: more familiarity! (Period movies also make it more difficult because then the costumes are foreign as well.) Ultimately, if we are going to get past this, we need to become more thoroughly mixed geographically. And that will lead to more thorough genetic mixing, which ought to improve the species. And God knows we could use that!
On this day in 1902, the great writer John Steinbeck was born. I know I did him last year, but he is arguably my favorite writer. It is also Irwin Shaw’s birthday, who I greatly admire. Both of these men are similar in that they wrote about regular people — at least in the 1930s.
Even though it isn’t my favorite of his novels, he was right to get the Nobel Prize for The Grapes of Wrath. It has one of the greatest endings of any book I’ve ever read. It is an unstoppable combination of tragedy and hope. Who else is capable of that but Steinbeck?
Interestingly, when Steinbeck was given the Nobel Prize in 1962, it was controversial in the United States. That really was the beginning of the end of America. That was when the conservative counter offensive was fully under way. The only reason anyone thought that giving Steinbeck the Nobel Prize was controversial is because of the way that he wrote about America as it was — warts and all. And he was a humanist. Shocking indeed, in a country that still can’t fully admit its sins of slavery, genocide, and torture.
On this day in 1564, the great Elizabethan playwright Christopher Marlowe was baptized. Like most people of that time, we don’t know when he was born. His best known play is Doctor Faustus. This is a shame because in many ways, it is his weakest. I think the reason people still do it is because it is fun to stage. When Orson Welles directed the play in 1937, he let fly all of his interest in magic and turned the play into a magic show. But the language in Doctor Faustus is still very strong. I would say that Marlowe was a far more consistent writer than Shakespeare in that regard.
The thing is, Shakespeare was a slightly later writer than Marlowe. And as such, his plays are less poetic than Marlowe’s. If you watch a Marlowe play, you can actually hear the poetry. That isn’t often the case with Shakespeare, whose poetry is more like natural language. As a result of this, many scholars claim that Shakespeare is better. But playwrights after Shakespeare, like John Webster and Thomas Middleton, wrote in an even more natural style. None of them wrote anything like what one would consider natural dialog, however. So for my money, it is better to have poetry that sounds like poetry rather than vaguely stilted dialog. I recommend checking out Derek Jarman’s filmed version of Edward II. It is very good. And here is the whole thing on YouTube:
Unfortunately, Marlowe barely lived to the age of 29. He got in a fight and ended up being stabbed in the eye. This has caused some amount of speculation. He was awaiting trial for heresy. It was not the first time he had been arrested; Marlowe lived a colorful life. But given that he had done some spying for the court when he was at university, people speculate that he was “gotten rid of.” And it could be. Then again, Marlowe ran with a rough crowd, and it is easy to imagine them all getting drunk and ending up fighting. I tend to go with the more obvious theory. Of course maybe Marlowe faked his death and then went on to write Shakespeare’s plays for him!
(For the record, there is the ultimate reason why we know that Marlowe didn’t write Shakespeare’s plays: their styles are nothing alike. If there is one thing that all these years of reading and watching and memorizing Shakespeare have taught me, it is that Shakespeare repeats himself a lot. He has very definable cadences. He reuses the same phrases. His wit is quite distinct. Marlowe is nothing like that. I wish people would stop reading about these conspiracy theories and just read some of the actual playwrights. All of this discussion would go away.)
The following are two brief scenes from a production of Doctor Faustus at Shakespeare’s Globe Theater. The first scene is standard, in all versions of the play. The second scene is from the later version of the play and may or may not have been written by Marlowe. Regardless, the company has changed the scene a lot to rather good effect.
On this day in 1707, the great playwright Carlo Goldoni was born. Carlo who? It is one of the great shames of English language theater that we’ve had Shakespeare crammed down our throats to the exclusion even of his more daring contemporaries. I literally cannot remember how many times I’ve seen A Midsummer Night’s Dream on the stage and the screen. How many times have I seen Hamlet? Lots. Macbeth? Lots. Much Ado about Nothing? Richard III? Twelfth Night? Lots. Lots. Lots. I could go on. And this is not a condemnation of Shakespeare; this is a condemnation of us.
But if Christopher Marlowe and Ben Jonson and Thomas Middleton get neglected in the English speaking world, it is nothing compared to the treatment of non-English speaking playwrights. The Shakespeare scholar Gary Taylor wrote, “We assume that Shakespeare’s thirty-odd plays contain more of humanity than the five hundred plays of Lope de Vega we have not read.” Goldoni has received better treatment — probably because he wrote a century and a half later and he wrote in Italian — I think there is a little more prejudice against the Spanish than the Italians.
Like Lope de Vega, Carlo Goldoni wrote comedies. It makes sense. As Philip Henslowe says in Shakespeare in Love, “It’s comedy they want, Will… Love, and a bit with a dog. That’s what they want.” If you look at the chronology of Shakespeare’s plays, you will see that the tragedies are much more common at the end of his career. And they tend to be performed more now because actors and directors want to do them, rather than that audiences want to see them.
Carlo Goldoni was also extremely prolific. He wrote roughly 150 plays, and over 50 opera libretti. His best known play is, Il Servitore di Eue Padroni. It has actually gotten quite a bit of (relative) attention in English under the name, Servant of Two Masters. It is kind of like Twelfth Night, but the focus of the play is on Truffaldino Battochio, a servant who is always hungry and so takes on two masters simultaneously to hilarious effect. You can see a very good high school production that just makes me weep for the idea that America is a meritocracy. Just look at the sets and the costumes and ask if Richmond High School could ever do anything like it, despite the fact that it certainly has as much raw talent.
On this day in 1836, the great painter Winslow Homer was born. He is one of those unfortunate artists who has been so copied that it is hard to see his work as fresh. But does it ever deserve to be seen with fresh eyes! He was such a brilliant painter — most especially regarding his seascapes — but really in all of his work. And it is interesting to see his work develop. In his twenties and thirties, I find his work somewhat stilted — still very much tied to his work as a commercial illustrator. But this is when he visits Paris and is inspired by some of the work being done by Gustave Courbet, Jean-François Millet, and Manet. Slowly, his work becomes more fluid and realistic into his forties and fifties. And at its greatest in his sixties.
This is not the way the art world seems to look at Homer, however. They seem to think him at his best in his late thirties and early forties. And I’ll admit: it is fine work. Here is one I like from that period, Fresh Eggs:
But I much prefer The Fisher Girl from twenty years later. And it isn’t just this painting. His work during the 1890s is just exceptional.
On this day in 1868, the great William Edward Burghardt “WEB” Du Bois was born. He lived most of the way into 1963. I find that remarkable. Can you image living through that period? He grew up without electricity — with horses and mostly exterior plumbing. And he died after two world wars, electricity and cars everywhere, and phones in every house. Of course, none of that is what is special about Du Bois.
He was a sociologist by profession — the first African American to earn a PhD at Harvard. And he saw the world the way a sociologist does. I tend to think of sociology as about the most accurate vision of the world — along with anthropology. And although economics is called the dismal science, I think it might better be applied to sociology. I tend to see the world that way and it doesn’t make me happy.
One of the great disputes of the early part of the 20th century was between DuBois and Booker T Washington. I don’t doubt Washington’s greatness and good intentions, but he was wrong. The truth is that in similar situations, I can go in either direction, but time has shown that it was a mistake for blacks to try to make nice with whites and hope that they would eventually be accepted as full human beings. It goes along with Ta-Nehisi Coates’ discussion of the idea of “twice as good.” This is the idea that African Americans had to be “twice as good” as whites to get approval.
The problem with it is that for the racist, “twice as good” is not nearly enough. Infinitely good would probably not be enough. To the racist mind, any misbehavior on the part of a black person is proof of their inferiority; and any good behavior is waved off as the exception to the rule. Du Bois understood that equality must be demanded. As Frederick Douglass said, “Power concedes nothing without a demand.”
As many great African American observers, Du Bois saw more clearly the white “race” than it did itself. And I do not really think of him as a thinker in terms of racial matters. He was a radical thinker. And by that, I mean that he followed where the evidence took him. This is the problem with the vast majority of scientists — both social and “hard” — they are too inclined to just go along with what others already believe. There’s a good reason for this. In most cases, not worrying about what society thinks of what you think is really dangerous. And there were many hard times for Du Bois. But in retrospect, I don’t think there is any doubt that he was far more correct than not in his appraisal of the United States. He suffered for the sins of evil men who were never forced to suffer. That is, of course, the American way.
On this day in 1788, the great philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer was born. He is undoubtedly my favorite philosopher. Not surprisingly, he was a proponent of philosophical pessimism, which is “a worldview or ethic that seeks to face up to the distasteful realities of the world and eliminate irrational hopes and expectations.” I think that puts rather too rosy a gloss on what Schopenhauer wrote. I don’t actually accept his idea in The World as Will and Representation, but I nonetheless think he is onto something profound. The will is what keeps us living even though life is nothing so much as a sequence of painful events. As Wikipedia describes the will as it applies to ontology, “Schopenhauer presents a pessimistic picture on which unfulfilled desires are painful, and pleasure is merely the sensation experienced at the instant one such pain is removed. However, most desires are never fulfilled, and those that are fulfilled are instantly replaced by more unfulfilled ones.” On the other hand, if you look at those photos of him as an old man, I think you can tell that he saw humor in the absurdities of life. Ultimately, I think that is our only hope. Because life does not make sense and continuing through all of this pain makes no sense. If it gets better, it will only be temporary.
But it isn’t actually the pessimism that I find most interesting about Schopenhauer. Rather, it is his thoughts on mysticism and Buddhism — which I share. Above all is the idea that we are not at base rational beings. Continuing to live is not a rational choice. It is a fundamental aspect of the universe. On the Origin of Species was published less than a year before Schopenhauer’s death. It explains, as a practical matter, why it is that the will must supersede the intellect. This doesn’t, however, remove the ontological question: why do species evolve in this way? Certainly, one could be evolve in such a way that life would be a rational choice. Or one could if it were not for the eternal will constantly empowering itself through the fact of existence. This is roughly how I think Schopenhauer would have reacted to Darwin’s work.
Here is an introduction to Schopenhauer that was part of The Giants of Philosophy series. Narrated by Charlton Heston, it isn’t a bad overview of his life and work. Or at least, I think it isn’t. I listened to it a long time ago:
On this day in 1962, the great writer and thinker David Foster Wallace was born. He’d be 53 today and no doubt still entertaining and enlightening us. Sadly for us, it is not the case. He’s been gone over six years now.
He still boggles my mind. His nonfiction is as brilliant as his fiction. He was a very creative thinker. It’s easy enough to be smart and knowledgeable. And certainly Wallace was both of those things. But he looked at things differently than people normally do. Just yesterday, without realizing that today would be his birthday, I mentioned Wallace in, Bravery in Art. The more that I’ve read of his work, the more clear it is that above all, his greatness is dependent upon looking at reality directly. I do not have the ability. I find myself constantly peaking around corners so I can jump back if there is something too horrific staring back. And there often is and I do jump back. In fact my second novel now uses this as a device. I hope that I render enough that the reader knows what happens next because I can’t bear to render it for them.
And I’m not talking about torture scenes. I’m talking about things like the horrible stuff we think to the awkward relationships that never gel but never separate. Most of Wallace’s work concentrates existential matters and the work that is required to live. But I was really impressed to find this quote in Wikipedia, “I want to convince you that irony, poker-faced silence, and fear of ridicule are distinctive of those features of contemporary US culture… I’m going to argue that irony and ridicule… for aspiring fictionists they pose terrifically vexing problems.” I’ve never read any of Wallace’s writing on the subject of writing. But that’s an idea that I probably picked up from reading him more generally. One of the great problems with much modern writing is the inability to commit — for the writer to constantly be reassuring the reader that this is all nonsense and we don’t take it seriously. But if we don’t take it serious, what is the point? The constant sarcasm of the hipster is just a cover for her cowardliness.
I don’t really know what else to say other than that everyone should read Wallace. He has much to teach and he is enormously entertaining. I’ve learned a great deal from him. That’s not something I can say for many modern writers.
The great film writer-director Andrew Bergman is 70 years old today. There are other great birthdays today: Ansel Adams, Robert Altman, and last year’s birthday boy, Richard Matheson. But I picked Bergman this year. I really admire his work. He is one of the greatest comedy writers ever. His script for The In-Laws is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. He is also the true genius behind Blazing Saddles, although as usual, Mel Brooks has done everything he can to minimize the work of his betters. What has always amazed me about Bergman’s films (The Freshman, Soapdish, Striptease) is that they are funny all the way through. A big problem with most comedies is that they stop being funny in the third act. That is never the case with Bergman’s scripts and when he is also directing the comedy continues to the end like a freight train. Unfortunately, like a lot of filmmakers I admire, he doesn’t make films anymore. He’s even stopped writing novels. Here is one of many funny scenes from The In-Laws: