We met one Thursday night in an Ocean Parkway living room at the monthly gathering of a literary circle devoted to the 19th-century Russians. The place was like a museum, a European salon shortly before World War II where embittered souls sacrificed their lives to art. Heavy drapes kept out the noise of traffic below and soft lamps near the thick sofa kept the rest of the room dark and gloomy. I expected Kafka and Brod to come out of the kitchen clutching a burning manuscript. The old mahogany furniture dominated the room and kept the conversation low, inaudible, private. When the cognac and Polish vodka were served with herring fillets and hard cheeses, it broke some of the tension, but the seven or eight people in the room still looked as if a short time before they had modeled for the severe aristocratic portraits hanging on the walls.
It wasn’t love for Russian literature which brought me to this old-world apartment in Brooklyn, just pure vanity. Out of the blue I received a call from a stranger who admired some of my stories. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and when he threw two plots at me, one at least ten years old, I was quite intrigued. I published in the most obscure places and never believed there were any readers out there, especially that rare kind who could remember one of my plots: a man rents out his apartment to others for afternoon trysts, and when he returns at night he imagines the different women who’ve slept on his sheets.
I had completely forgotten the piece, probably for good reason, but Ivan Horowitz had always loved it, praising its Russian landscape, which was why he called. He wanted me to come to a meeting of a literary circle that he headed. I begged off, much too busy, a habit of mine to stay away from literary discourses, breaks the rhythm . . . as a matter of fact I was just sitting at the typewriter.
A man in my position, Horowitz wanted me to understand, shouldn’t be bothered with trifles, but this was different. An honored guest, I was being invited to judge a novice’s understanding of the genre. Membership in the circle was select, and though anyone could come to a meeting, only those who showed a sensitivity to the theme of the night in question were asked to read a short piece at a later date that revealed a deeper understanding of the period. Entertainments and imitations were frowned upon.
In the end, imagining a roomful of Slavic professors and Russian emigré writers with connections in London, I consented. Though I had written enough stories to fill two thick volumes, nothing much had come of my efforts to bring out a book. Maybe I’d meet an editor in the room who loved literary circles and prided himself on a string of new talent discovered in the strangest places. “Would you believe I found Riga in Brooklyn talking about Gogol? Somebody’s apartment.”
As soon as I walked in the door, I had a change of heart. Ivan Horowitz introduced himself as the voice on the telephone, and pulling me aside asked if I wanted to see a few very rare documents. Thirty years ago he had carried on a short-lived correspondence with Dostoevsky’s great-grandson. He showed me five postcards postmarked Warren, Michigan where he claimed the young man had worked on a General Motors assembly line. He had it from a very good source that this man’s insistence on being no relation to the other Russian, though he spelled his name the same way, was a peculiar habit immigrants had in shunning publicity.
I went back into the living room to eavesdrop on conversations and get drunk. Mrs. Horowitz. pushed a glass of something sweet into my hand and introduced me to the men sitting next to me. One of them told me he taught chessplayers the rudiments of Russian so that they could read international chess magazines.
“But personally I’m looking for sex.”
“Is that so?” I said.
“I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m still healthy. My hair may be gray but the hair on my chest is still black and curly. I hear the women in Europe like older men.”
“Though I’ve been there a couple of times, I really couldn’t say for sure one way or the other.”
There was a mad gleam in his eye when he asked in a whisper, “Tell me, what’s the best country in Europe for sex?”
“France,” I answered without thinking.
“You mean it’s better than Denmark?”
“It’s the best.”
“Isn’t Germany better, not that I’d even bother?”
“No, France is.”
“After all these years?”
“And Spain or Portugal?”
“Not as good as France.”
“The women there like it, they’re hot blooded?”
“Sure they like it, like other women.”
“This country is terrible. You wine them and dine them and then they won’t have sex with you. So then I have to go and relieve myself. So France is the best. I should go there?”
“It’s the best, I swear it.”
“And the food there? There’s kosher food for a Jewish person?”
“Lots of food.”
“Tell me what’s damper, New York or Paris?”
“I can’t breathe. My sinuses.”
I escaped to another corner of the room and refilled my glass with imported Polish vodka, gulping it down in two shots. The earlier silence had given way to a strong murmur, not exactly passionate dialogues but no longer were the faces carved from stone, the lips white and the eyes drained. An older woman smiled at me and stroked her hair very gently. When I smiled back she came over and asked if I had been relishing Mr. Block’s insights into the Russian soul, especially its women.
“The man you were just talking to.”
“Yes, very much.”
“He’s a great scholar, and very modest about his achievements. Though his dissertation is unpublished, several graduate students have already begun to quote him. I daresay his name will live on after all of us are dead. Begging your pardon of course. Mr. Horowitz has spoken of your fine talent.”
“I just try to tell a story the best way I know how to.”
“No need for modesty. As a matter of fact my own life would make a great tragedy if I could find the right man to tell my story in a novel. There is no problem when it comes to talking, but when I pick up a piece of paper the words just dry up. Do you have a moment?”
When I hesitated she promised me fifty per cent of the earnings. “Just give me a few minutes before you say no.”
“Well, when I was younger I loved the stage. And I fell in love with an actor I’ve never forgotten about till this day. I still keep the New York Times review of his portrayal of Othello.
Arthur Gordon was perfect, an eloquent sense of craft in his movements and the precise combination of longing and jealousy in his deep basso voice. I waited for him after his last performance and in my bedroom he spoke about great parts for great actors. He begged me to listen to a monologue from his most successful play. I told him I loved his approach to despair on the stage and he complimented me on my abandoned nature in bed. There’s nothing to be shy about. Our love was rare, perfect. He made love ferociously, like a boy of twenty, slept till noon, ate a huge breakfast and promised to call the next time he was in New York. A week later, the plane he was in lost an engine a minute after take-off and he was killed in the crash. For months I was hysterical. I couldn’t eat, sleep, look at another man. I never married because of my love for Arthur. Am I a fool, a stupid woman? These thoughts and regrets must appear in the story. I don’t yet know how to end the story except with my death. Can you help me write it?”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Write a few chapters and I’ll read it. Maybe then I’ll have a better idea.”
“Thank you very much,” she said. “My name is Sarah Newman and I’m in the phone book. Call me in two weeks, better make it a month. I will have a fresh typed chapter for you.”
Ivan Horowitz was discussing pain when the new woman opened the living room door very slowly. On awkward, shy steps, she selected a deep arm chair in the corner of the room, as unobtrusively as possible, but everyone stared at her. Ten years ago she must have been a raving beauty.
“Am I late? I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s quite all right. Miss Lublin, may I call you Sonya?” Ivan asked. “I was just remarking what play is without pain. Nonsense. It can’t exist. But pain alone is no play. The great Russians would agree. Though not famous as playwrights, except two or three they wracked us with painful stories. Have you any opinions of this matter?”
Flustered, she reached for a glass of cognac that Mrs. Horowitz brought over, and after downing the drink in a quick gulp, looked up still confused. “Were you talking to me? Oh, I see. Pain? I don’t know. It’s such an abused word. Can I have another drink? Thank you. I’m really sorry about being late, but I got lost on the subway. Do you want me to read now or should I wait a while? I’m very nervous.”
Earlier I had been introduced to a master chess player named Arfel and he pulled me aside. “That woman, I hate her. She doesn’t screw.”
About forty, he was easily the youngest man there, his long hair still black and strong. Looking at him, I couldn’t hide my amazement.
“You don’t believe me?” he said.
“Then I bet you don’t believe me that I once played Nabokov blindfolded and beat him in twelve moves.”
“What does one thing have to do with the other?”
“I want you to believe me.”
I turned my eyes back to Sonya Lublin. She moved close to a lamp where the light was strongest, taking out her notes. “I decided I would give neither a fiction nor a non-fiction reading. Just the truth. A few short sentences about who I am and what I think about.” She hesitated but no one interrupted her.
“As a youth I read too many Russian novels. Now I’m past thirty and live alone on the West Side in a vast, empty apartment which, as a result of my fear of the landlord’s whims and brutal anger, remains unpainted and unplastered. The hallway reeks of unusual smells, the memories of lost lives buried in the woodwork, and the bedroom, the only room I really use except for the kitchen, is as dark as the hallway closet with the same cramped smell and crowded space.
“In my mind’s warped eye every bedroom turns into Raskolnikov’s single room on the fifth-floor landing and every street seems just off Nevsky Prospect, the most oft-mentioned street in Russian literature. Every drunk babbles with love for Mother Russia or hate for the dirty Jews. And the men I meet and fall in love with, well, if not actually repentant drunkards, I am always attracted to their tragic side eulogizing faint ephemeral losses. Souls of former serfs mourn for three days straight in Broadway saloons. And the cold Hudson wind is a Siberian frost, merciless and cruel. But most vivid are the faces of clerks, without eyes, noses, or lips which abound in the subways riding toward jobs in the Civil Service.”
Sonya sat down before anyone realized she had come to the end. Averting her eyes, she stuffed the page back into her pocketbook. Light applause followed. I turned away, embarrassed, and was glad to see that someone was serving tea and cakes. Like the Russians, we broke off pieces of the hard cubed sugar and held them between our teeth as we sipped the hot liquid.
Horowitz came over and asked for my opinion. I was about to nod acceptance, when I noticed Arfel across the room twisting his tongue obscenely in Sonya’s direction.
“No,” I said thoughtfully. “Her piece is too sentimental.”
“I thought I heard an interesting little piece,” Horowitz said.
“If you include her, I think you’ll be compromising your own standards.”
Horowitz looked bewildered. I added, “You don’t want anyone to accuse your circle of being soft, where only the surface is read and what’s between the lines is overlooked.”
“No one can say that about us.”
“I should want to keep it that way.”
“I see what you mean. Of course you’re right. An attractive lady. But not what we need.” He shook my hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Riga.”
I excused myself and as I was putting on my coat, Sonya stopped me. “Why did you vote against me?”
Her hand held onto my sleeve. “I know that you were tonight’s judge and I think I deserve a simple explanation.”
“Can we talk some other place? This is rather awkward.”
“What’s wrong with right here?”
“How about coffee?”
It was too late to work that night, but I should have been home revising a manuscript. I didn’t expect her to say yes.
“Is this a pick-up?”
“Yes, if you want it to be.”
“All right then, good night.”
I was halfway out the door when I heard her yell for me to wait. Rather than stand at the door, I indicated I’d wait for her at the elevator. We creaked down in silence. On Church Avenue, just around the corner, we found an open, almost empty, luncheonette, ordering two toffees, black.
Without describing Arfel’s tongue, I told her she was far too good and clever for the circles antics and literary pretensions. I simply thought it best for her not to spend her evenings in the company of well-read madmen.
“What then should I do with my evenings?”
“I don’t know. What about movies?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know what happens to a woman alone in a theater. Right away there are ten men, all breeds and educations, who think it’s their God-given right to screw you that night, after a perfunctory drink in the nearest bar. The first night it’s always a cab, a tour of a one-room studio, admiring ugly reproductions, two quick vodkas to knock the protest out of me, and then perfectly horrible, masturbatory sex. Besides,” she said after a long drag on her cigarette, “I don’t like movies. It’s all fake. Give me Chekhov any day.”
“You could take a course. Better yet, give one. Or different circles. Horowitz’s friends are off the wall. Why bother with them?”
“You’re a writer, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
She looked surprised when my name meant nothing to her.
“How could you tell I write?”
“I just guessed. Or maybe it’s your moral platitudes about the world of books, as if it were different from everything out there. So what if they might want to sleep with me? At least they don’t work out in a gym twice a week to knock off a few perfectly innocent sweet pounds. I don’t like men who stop to look in the mirror on the way to the bathroom or keep nothing in the refrigerator except a bottle of cheap wine and eight varieties of salad oil without a trace of tomato or a piece of lettuce. By the way, I’m curious what a writer has in his refrigerator.”
“I’m not really sure.”
“Try. Start by looking inside the freezer.”
“Ice cubes. Peas and carrots.”
She winced. “Next shelf.”
“Milk, eggs, sour cream, tuna fish salad, sour pickles, olives, a few slices of cheese, but I can’t remember what kind, probably Swiss, I usually get that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty conventional. But at least you have enough for breakfast. I suppose you have a few canned things. Any bread?”
“Wonderful. I like that, especially toasted. It makes a good tuna sandwich.”
“If you’re hungry we could order something now.”
“That’s all right. I was just wondering.”
“Don’t be shy. Remember this isn’t a movie theater.”
“Crap it’s all the same.”
“I’m not making any passes.”
“So what? And if you were would that be terrible? You think a woman doesn’t like to feel desired sometime?”
“Didn’t you just say. . .?”
“All I said was that they were creeps. But it doesn’t mean I didn’t go with them still wanting something different. A woman hopes.”
“We all do.”
“What do you know?”
“I’m human aren’t I?”
She mimicked me: “I’m human aren’t I? Is that all you can say? What the hell do you write about anyway? Tell me, have you ever published?”
I mentioned several journals, nothing she’d ever heard of.
“I’ve known several writers myself. Quite intimately. But they’re horrors. That pencil never stops. I might be sitting there bored about what to do Saturday night, and the next thing I know it’s in one of his stories. I can’t sneeze without him recording it. If I go to the zoo to kill an afternoon, he’ll find a metaphor. If my apartment needs to be painted and the drapes hung, he’ll disappear, talk about his bad back, his allergy to turpentine, but before my next period, wham, there it is, black on white. A little stroke here and there, and it seems like a different protagonist, but I know who it is all the time. What do you write about?”
“No. Mostly about old crippled Jews in Brownsville. But what I’ve really done is map out this imaginary world which I’ve peopled with bad and nearsighted Yiddish poets, European revolutionaries, repentant and suffering sons and bitter Kafkaesque fathers.”
She wanted to read something I had written. Since I wasn’t carrying any rough drafts with me, I outlined a plot of a story I was currently molding: several survivors in an unnamed city sometime during World War II, suffering a miserable hunger.
“The focus of the piece is the hunger, but the sense of place is alluded to. I’m dealing with the real feelings of archetypal characters in a nightmare world that turns surreal in the course of the narration. The three main characters react differently to the hunger; madly, I would say.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Sonya said.
“Well, the language is very important. Very dry, very brittle.”
“What’s the theme?”
“I don’t have any one theme that can be underlined in red ink. Let’s just say this piece is a parody of the characters’ wretched existence once it’s stripped to the bone.”
“I suppose there are certain similarities, but the tone and the way I work with words is completely different. After all, I’m a New Yorker, and I don’t have his Christian guilt.”
“I don’t like writers who intentionally fracture their view of reality,” Sonya said, refusing the menu the waitress offered us. “I hate these broken lenses.”
I gently suggested that there was no one way to perceive reality, though I thought it best to refrain from analyzing the discoveries of the French Impressionists after the invention of the camera. But she beat me to it when she criticized all the modernists for forgetting the Bible in their mad rush to scrape out a little meager landscape they could call their own.
“They’re so greedy to be novel they’re blind to the ancient surrealism evoked by a despotic God, his humble, very human angels and those screaming Babylonian poets in rags. And what about that dry, grizzly naturalism you get when the Hebrews are enslaved in Egypt, mixing mortar and cement in the hot sun. And when they’re saved by Moses, it’s the natural world gone mad. An epidemic of lice, frogs, water turning to blood, pitch black darkness, fire alive in giant hailstones. The plagues are nothing but the thread of sanity clipped from the conventional world. And where else can you find language like Ezekiel’s vision or the heartrending melodrama of Joseph fooling his brothers, bowing down to the Egyptian Minister of Finance whom they don’t recognize. Up from jail into Pharaoh’s palace, his right-hand man. Name it and you got it in the Bible.”
“I don’t pretend to want to evoke an entire world,” I said.
“Crap! Anything less is ego.”
“But I don’t even write about myself.”
“That’s what they all say. But scratch the surface and you’ll find a bleeding ego and a twisted childhood. I’ll be honest with you. If it’s true you don’t fill your pages with a day-to-day account of musings and reflections, then that makes me glad.”
“I have my reasons.”
We had more coffee, but at that time of night the cake I ordered was no longer fresh. Between halfhearted bites, I stared at Sonya. I wanted to know if she’d ever been married, but instead I asked if she also wrote.
“Heaven forbid. Though once I tried my hand at translating.”
“Yes. It was a disaster. The writer was still alive, in his late 70s, and he approached me at some symposium I can’t remember the topic of, after I’d made some trenchant comment, what a joke! Anyway I worked hard, and didn’t even set a specific fee. Once he got his sheaf of poems back, he kept hounding me why I chose this word instead of another one he thought more appropriate. He began to sweat. I lost patience explaining nuances. I thought his English terrible but didn’t tell him. He prided himself that friends of his, professors at Columbia University, had said he spoke English beautifully. I told him for a man who had friends at Columbia he really didn’t need anyone else. A shame, he was a good writer, but so vain and afraid that my translation might detract from his noble vision. Now he’s dead and the vision, untranslated, is with him in the grave.”
“What language was that?”
“Yiddish. But whatever else can be said about these immigrant writers in America, no one can accuse them of writing literary conundrums to engage the intellect of bored critics. Prison is prison, no trimming. They stick to facts, describing suffering with real tears and pain.”
Knowing next to nothing about Yiddish literature, I muttered feebly, “Didn’t Kafka know Yiddish?”
“Nonsense. And if he did, what’s the point? Something you picked up in a fat journal. It’s just propaganda from those insipid critics, always trying to carry Kafka on whatever bandwagon they’re preaching at the time. All those twisted and damned critics. You and your cohorts have misread him for three decades. The man was a realist. It all really happened. The cockroach, the hunger artist, the trial. Every word is true. No suspension of reality, just the suspension of habituated and conventional reflexes. Kafka’s stories are the ten plagues of Prague. Once you get beyond the surface you can’t name one fantastic thing in his work. Don’t read him for symbolism. It’s as natural, as horrible, as the Nile turning to blood. He wasn’t a guilty Catholic or a spent Buddhist, he wasn’t an impotent clerk or a whining Jew.”
Sonya’s Russian piece was fiction, a baldfaced lie. She lived with her father in a cramped three-room apartment in a poor Brooklyn neighborhood overrun with muggers and thieves, and not alone in a sprawling West Side flat. Her mother was dead, too long ago to talk about it, and her father had turned religious in his old age, rarely leaving his spot in the kitchen except when he went to pray. She hated it when the Times did a feature story on the neighborhood’s problems, focusing on a typical day in the life of the sexton in the old shul. The story was a stamp of death, a formal burial, stuck between a piece on a blind photographer’s recent work and two recipes for squash. A week later the story was just dead weight, the neighborhood forgotten. Sonya wrapped a chicken with it and threw the rest out, without showing it to her father.
“My father has seen so much pain in his life. First in Europe and then in America. I had a brother who ran away from home. One card arrived from Israel, then six months later a letter with a photograph from Australia. He was wearing a sailor’s uniform. We never heard from him again. My mother lived as long as she had a strain of hope that he was alive, but after a few years she just gave up. My father is old now, but he still curses everyone: the refugees for their greed and short memory and the Americans for their innocence and passion for pleasures. He’d like to see the police patrol the streets with German shepherds.”
“That’s rather violent,” I said.
“Violent. What the hell do you know? It’s the words of a desperate, broken man. I was wild myself once. After my mother died I couldn’t take coming home night after night to that ugly apartment, him sitting there with a cold glass of tea, spitting his rage at the world. He went through the Forward just to make fun of the writers’ feeble attempts to say something about the events. How long could I take cooking for him and washing his shirts? I had to leave. And I did. But now there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him, to make his life easier.”
“You can’t just live for others,” 1 responded, unconvincingly.
“That’s easy for you to say. You have your crappy art, a few published stories to nourish you for twelve years. I have my father, nothing else. What else can I do? He has no one else but me. At least let him have one joy in this world.”
I was quiet. I didn’t agree with her, but what could I say to change her mind?
“I love him very much,” she said.
“Is that so?”
“You can’t understand how I feel. It hurts me to look into his eyes and see a broken shell.”
“I believe you.”
“I don’t know why I get into this every time I open my mouth. You’re probably laughing at me. Here you want to get a chick into bed and she’s turning into a melancholy bitch.”
“I’m not laughing,” I said, my eyes sober and thoughtful. “And I don’t think you’re melancholy. Not in the real sense of the word.”
“Well, that’s kind of you. But I see you left the bed part intact.”
I had no intention of an affair, but didn’t tell her that. To change the topic, I suggested dinner. It might do her good. She refused, saying that she ate only strictly kosher, not because she believed in the ritual, but out of respect to her father. “And let me tell you something. The only reason I’m sitting here with you is because you said you don’t write about your life. You see, if I became your lover, and I say that very rationally without erotic intentions, you might write about me. Then what might happen, though I realize it’s unlikely, is that my father reads the story and recognizes me as I made love to you without any clothes on, lying on a deserted beach, or in the bathtub, the skin wet and silky. Who knows what kind of obscene positions you’d embroider your little tale with. I could never face him after that. I’d just die if he knew about me through your lies.”
“I’ll never write about you,” I said.
Though Sonya was near tears, her tongue was sharp. “You’d have to prove it.”
“I could show you some of the stories I’ve published. They’re in a bookcase in my living room.”
“Your living room? You’re just saying that to seduce me at your place.”
“Not at all. There’s nowhere else you can find those magazines. Some don’t even publish anymore. One editor committed suicide and took five thousand copies of back issues with him to the grave.”
“What about libraries?”
“I don’t know. Do you think I wouldn’t like that myself? If you want, I’ll send you a bibliography.”
“Don’t get angry. All I care about is whether you’ve ever written autobiographically or not. I can’t be too careful.”
“Believe me, Sonya, I never write about myself or anyone else I know. If I were having an affair with a woman, she could sleep for a year with me, eat blood and suck life, without chancing a vindication by me in print somewhere. After all, I’ve been writing for fifteen years and not one word of anything I’ve ever published remotely indicates that I have that repugnant trait which drags up every scrap—parents, friends, lovers, childhood—to pinpoint my literary landscape. I’ll tell you the truth, this kind of autobiographical fiction even insulted my critical sensibility in college, which sparred with Kafka, Beckett, and Borges.”
“I’d hate it if my name became nothing but a bit of conversation, of the cheap sort, when you divulge dirty secrets about me to your guests.”
“That would never occur, Sonya. I even have a theory about what can happen and what must never happen in one of my stories. When I describe someone, which is quite rare, since I don’t care about gray hair, a gnarled face, or a yellow beard, what I do is shut my eyes and picture one of the characters I’ve met in my time, mostly strangers sitting in a cafeteria or the park attendant where I sometimes go after a good day’s work. Even if I meet some of these people, they never appear as individuals, just as a kind of fabric.” I told her about a sixty-year-old virgin I knew and another man who believed he was the greatest sufferer in human history, writing letters to CBS, the Daily News, Status magazine, and Dear Abby. “I have no interest in describing people I become involved with. I don’t fuse my life and the world of my fiction. I believe in invention.”
“I’m safe with you?” she asked.
“I’m telling you the truth,” I told her. “I hate turning a story into a confessional forum. It’s against everything I’ve always believed in. Art is not the random facts of life, collected in chronological order, but the vision behind it.”
“So long as that vision doesn’t include me.”
“I’m absolutely bored with writing about bed partners. For God’s sake, even the sheets are more interesting in fiction, the goddamn hairs, the shade that doesn’t work, the cold steam pipes.”
“I swear I wouldn’t write about you. If you want I can bring you notarized statements of other women who’ve slept with me and that I never wrote about.”
“Is it too late to call now?”
“What do you think?”
“I hope you don’t think I’m crazy. But I have to make you understand what would happen if my father knew, if he recognized me in your story. I can’t take a chance he might find your name on a slip of paper I leave behind near the telephone, and the next time he’s in the library looking through a couple of periodicals he spies your name in a magazine.”
“Isn’t that rather remote?”
Her eyes were blazing. “I’m talking about my father’s life. There is nothing remote when it comes to that. I have to account for all possibilities. He must never know that I know a writer. He’s so suspicious he would do anything to find out where he publishes, even if it’s under a pseudonym, and then look for evidence of my sleeping around. I love him too much to hurt him now.”
“Why should he be so suspicious of you?”
“Who said he’s suspicious?”
“I’m using your words.”
“I didn’t mean that. Oh, Christ. You don’t understand a thing.”
I sipped the cold coffee in silence, stealing glances at her tortured eyes. Was she a child of ravaged Poland, eating radishes to keep alive, raped at twelve and abandoned to Europe’s mad history at fourteen? I had seen her panic-stricken face in the brutal photographs of children shipped to the camps; her trembling body alone even among the hushed crowds at Warsaw Ghetto memorials, after years of searching for a trace of her father in the wasted cities and towns—a wristwatch, an old letter, a good shoe on a young Pole’s foot—whose death she refused to accept. I saw her standing in the railway station in Vienna, five o’clock in the afternoon; then in Paris, reaching for a Yiddish newspaper, vainly hunting for one name among the living in the lost persons’ column.
“Sonya,” I finally said, “I do understand. Only too well. Trust me and you’ll see. All my stories are kept in one spot. You’re free to walk into my study and reach for whatever you want. There’s no way I can hide any piece from your eyes.”
“Will you give me time to read a wide selection?”
“As long as you want.”
“Even till dawn?”
“Till the following afternoon if you need it.”
“You won’t bother me while I read? Tell me to take off my sweater, or that I’ll be more comfortable on the couch, or that I should get out of my uncomfortable dress and try on your bathrobe?”
“I’ll be in the other room, making coffee.”
“Reading, sleeping. Don’t worry. I have things to do.”
“And if I decide it’s autobiographical and want to go home right then?”
“You’re the judge.”
“Will you call a cab?”
“If you want to.”
“Start now, it’s raining outside.”
Indeed it was. I wondered how she’d known, since her back faced the window. Perhaps my glasses reflected the downpour, but I didn’t ask. Outside there were no cabs in sight. I suggested we walk to the subway, and if we spotted a cruising cab we’d hail it. By the time we reached the station, we were drenched. Drying off, she asked for a dime—she had to call her father and tell him she was staying with a friend.
“At your age?”
“I’m still young.”
I got change of a quarter at the token booth, and waited nearly five minutes before she finished talking. Sonya seemed distraught, lighting a cigarette on the platform though it was forbidden. I told her at this hour every subway was patrolled by a policeman.
“Leave me alone.”
“What’s wrong?” I said, touching her shoulder for the first time.
“My father called me a whore.”
“All I said was that I was staying with a friend, and he wanted to know why my bed wasn’t good enough for me.”
“Don’t take it to heart.”
“Look, if you called me a whore, a filthy tramp, I would wipe the floor with the paper it was written on. But that’s my lather. He called me that word!”
“Is it true?”
“What are you playing games with me for? All right. Since you gave me ten cents, you now owe me nineteen ninety. I’d like it in cold cash.”
I ignored the remark. We spoke very little during the ride. Then as the doors were closing at Forty-second Street, she said maybe she ought to go home, but it wasn’t said seriously. At Seventy-second Street, the next stop, she actually got up to leave. I held onto her arm and told her we were almost there; besides it wasn’t safe now to travel alone.
By the time I opened the locks on my door. 1 was a nervous wreck. The kitchen hadn’t been cleaned for days. Probably there was no toilet paper in the bathroom; the floors were filthy the sheets soiled.
I concentrated. First I took her coat, then led her into the living room. I offered her a drink. bourbon. Immediately she wanted to know why.
“It’ll warm us up.”
“I’m not cold.”
“I’d rather have tea.”
“It’ll have to be without lemon. I’ll just be a minute. Meanwhile you can start looking through the magazines.” I pointed to the bottom drawer of the metal cabinet in the alcove where I usually worked on revisions. “You can see that I haven’t touched or manipulated a thing.”
As she gazed around the room, I felt cheap and dirty—last week’s shirts on the couch, carbon paper on the faded rug, dust in every corner and cranny. I had lied about the contents of the refrigerator. There wasn’t enough food for a decent breakfast; I counted three eggs and four slices of dry bread.
Upon my return with a cup of tea, Sonya absently reached for it, nodded thanks, and continued reading. Imagining love, I took a hot shower and scrubbed myself clean. When I returned to the living room, Sonya told me what she thought of my fiction, calling it damned, twisted, and aborted. The product of a diseased mind, this kind of scum belonged in the gutter, along with other sensibilities warped by preconceived laws and fixed theoretical frameworks. Of course, I made one or two comments, but otherwise I chose not to dispute her taste.
“Did you find anything explicitly sexual?” I asked.
She put down the pile of magazines and for the first time that night looked calm. “You told me the truth. 1 hardly found a recognizable situation, and no real people. Everything just drifts. Lots of obscure symbols and mangled time zones. I suppose you know what you’re trying to do but no one else does.”
Her reading was an act of butchery, I thought, but as her fears slowly vanished I became aroused and kept silent. Next came the seduction, if I can call it that. Since there was only one bed in the apartment, it was just a question of time before both disrobed and went to sleep.
It seemed like hours passed. She drank her tea so slowly, then asked for another cup, smoked a half-dozen cigarettes, insisted on washing all the dirty dishes and cleaning up the sink in the bathroom. Then she brushed her hair, her teeth, removed her make-up in the dark, and finally crept into her side of the bed, wearing one of my shirts. Then silence, black everywhere, and after a few moments I could hear her heavy breathing.
Her body felt like ice though her skin was touching mine.
“Are you up?”
“Do you want to?”
Can’t is can’t. Afraid of another argument, I tried to fall asleep, but the bed felt like a fortress, the crumpled sheets spilling over the sides and the one cushion too small for both our heads.
My thighs touched hers and she didn’t squirm off to the edge of the bed. Another inch and my tongue would be licking her neck, my mouth choking on her breasts.
“Sonya?” I whispered again.
“You said you wouldn’t bother me.”
“I’m not. I just want to know what it is.”
“We just met.”
“But you’re in my bed.”
“A bed is not a lay!”
Her words tore into me and I reacted like an attacked creature: a sharp twist of the head, lips into scissors, teeth into claws. When I was younger, I often went to lectures or poetry readings with the dim hope of picking somebody up, and when that failed, I settled for a few words with any woman in black stockings and white starving breasts under her turtleneck sweater. Lying in my bed at night, after climbing four flights of stairs to the two rooms I rented on the top floor, the woman’s distraught face provided me with a body to make love to, my hand sculpting a ravishing two minutes. But I refused to dig up old fantasies with Sonya in my bed.
“I’m not a very happy person,” I heard Sonya say.
“Should I call you in a couple of weeks?”
“Is it the few feels now and then?”
“I haven’t touched you all night.”
“So what.” She leapt out of bed, tightening her shirt. “What the hell am I doing here anyhow? I must be crazy. You’re up to something vicious. Oh, sure, you say you won’t write about me, but how do I know you’re not a madman who stalks the subway trains at night, pressing your filthy thighs against unescorted women?”
“I’m a novelist, not a deviate.”
“That’s what the last four said.”
“Well, you read my stuff.”
“College crap, undergraduate exercises. Whether you realize it or not, you write bad parodies. If I were you, I’d get my hack license and make an honest wage.”
I was exhausted but I’d heard enough of her judgments.
“If you shut up for a second and listen, maybe you’ll understand what I’m trying to do.”
“Don’t take all night.”
“First of all understand that I have no patience with details that confuse me. I get tired very easily from the endless descriptions of rooms, the biographies of lazy characters, the lies, the ins and outs of deceitful representations, the sick minds pursuing meaning, justice, and love while lamenting exile and anguish amidst a brew that wallows uninterrupted between the he saids, she saids, they saids, stating, arguing, obliging, replying as the days outside turn red, green, hot, wet, and cold, which leads the narrator to shift his point of view to the inevitable wretched umbrella and moth-eaten crimson scarf that protects the solitary figure against a nasty winter in the East End of London; and finally the dull comparisons between the Metro, the Underground, and our own BMT.”
“That sounds far-fetched and exaggerated.”
“It is exaggerated. And that’s how they view reality. But the characters I write about are different. They’re real, they suffer. They reconstruct their miserable lives until they have nothing left but a wretched parody of their own existence that condemns them to witness their own deaths. They are actors who mourn the demise of acting. They can’t ever die of natural causes, commit suicide, or just vanish off the face of the earth. They must continually create their own hell. It’s not enough in my fiction for a character to suffer.”
I paused, reaching for a cigarette. “Their lives are empty, they feel it like a claw hanging around their necks, so that they are forced to seek any kind of nourishment. But the search for sustenance turns into an ironic quest that denies their earlier trials completely. They can’t possibly win, they can’t lose. They can only parody, burlesque. They aren’t even allowed to moralize their hungers, and they can’t invent a religion or a myth around the pain. They can only destroy everything mythic with it: a myth to kill myths, a hunger to hunger out hungers. To deny it, to mock it, a state of mind only balanced by the struggle between substance and air, facts and fictions. On the one hand, hunger is a normal state of affairs, people die, love disappears, sex vanishes, humans no longer function; on the other hand, there are those who cannot deal with hunger normally, that is, complain, kill themselves, die off, but must find unique ways to deny their hunger. But they cannot deny it by calling it something else—the wrath of God, for example—but they deny it by turning it inside out on its head. They invent a system, a private world, which responds to the hunger insanely. Only the mad are not mad.” “Enough talk, let’s screw.”
Shortly after eight, I was roused from sleep by a neighbor’s early raucous music. But once up, I decided on a hearty break-fast and went down to get cheeses, creamed herring, green vegetables, bread and rolls, and even freshly ground coffee. Back in the apartment, I scrubbed the kitchen table clean and arranged two settings. I felt good sipping my second cup of coffee while leafing through the Times, my eyes settling only on the innocuous stories, a curious lost-and-found item, an upstate auction, a loving description of a new seafood house near the waterfront.
Sonya entered the kitchen, coat in hand, and demanded coffee.
“Sugar or milk?” I said quietly.
“Both. And make it quick.”
Again I was shocked by her mood, but said nothing. Her eyes were ice and her hands fidgeted with the silverware.
“You owe me a hundred dollars,” she said, putting down the cup of coffee. “I expect fifty now and fifty when the story is published. If it’s a novel, my fee goes up to five hundred, and depending on sales, various subsidiaries, movie rights, foreign translations, and news syndications, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ll end up owing me five thousand for the night. I have good friends in publishing so don’t think you can hide anything from me.”
“What night, what money, what rights?”
“You think I can’t see through your pretenses. Your stories I understand perfectly. Absolutely vapid, two-finger exercises for the piano. But after today you’ll have some blood to write about. You think I just pop into writers’ apartments for the fun of it? My God! Do you know who I am? I’m Ramona in Herzog and Helen in The Assistant. I gave them human flesh to sink their teeth into. And I’ve also been the major character in many short stories, both here and Europe, and two English novels which never made it across the Atlantic. And all of them paid for it. I don’t come into an impotent writer’s life for nothing. Pay up!”
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “You’re just not in the mood for a good breakfast. Maybe some dry bread and sardines would have been enough. Or just bitter black toffee and a pack of Pall Malls to go around.”
She grabbed me by the neck. “I don’t give a damn about your romantic pumpernickel and I hate the smell of cheese. It reminds me of decent writers gone to pot. I just want you to remember everything, every last detail since we met last night. And when it’s a novel, just try to get out of paying me. I work hard for my money and this is my living.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Give me a check.”
“There’s nothing in my account.”
“What about cash?”
“All I have is ten.”
“I’ll take that now but I expect the rest later.”
Extraordinary, I thought when she had left, a literary prostitute. Of course none of it was true. Sonya must have been reading the biography of a mad 19th-century courtesan whose life was threaded with writers falling in love at her doorstep. I realized then that I was cuddling myself because who doesn’t feel slightly proud after being with a woman who claims what Sonya claimed? But she wasn’t the living incarnation of a character in a dusty century; she had spent the night in my bed driving nails into my world with screams and threats. Now she struck me as a ravenous witch. Suddenly I felt very frightened of her power. Spurred on, she could unleash a hatred vile enough to cause a man’s suicide. I knew that if I ever wrote about her, no matter how well I disguised the circumstances of our meeting, I’d better use an innocent pen name, a simple R.E. Brown or L. Levine. Surely this was much more clever than contracting Riga into Rigman, Rigovsky, or DeRiga. I’d make the order of the syllables in the name so anonymous that Sonya, even if she read the story next month, could never unravel it.
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The Muse of Ocean Parkway
Must-Reads from Magazine
Sex and Work in an Age Without Norms
In the Beginning Was the ‘Hostile Work Environment’
In 1979, the feminist legal thinker Catharine MacKinnon published a book called Sexual Harassment of Working Women. Her goal was to convince the public (especially the courts) that harassment was a serious problem affecting all women whether or not they had been harassed, and that it was discriminatory. “The factors that explain and comprise the experience of sexual harassment characterize all women’s situation in one way or another, not only that of direct victims of the practice,” MacKinnon wrote. “It is this level of commonality that makes sexual harassment a women’s experience, not merely an experience of a series of individuals who happen to be of the female sex.” MacKinnon was not only making a case against clear-cut instances of harassment, but also arguing that the ordinary social dynamic between men and women itself created what she called “hostile work environments.”
The culture was ripe for such arguments. Bourgeois norms of sexual behavior had been eroding for at least a decade, a fact many on the left hailed as evidence of the dawn of a new age of sexual and social freedom. At the same time, however, a Redbook magazine survey published a few years before MacKinnon’s book found that nearly 90 percent of the female respondents had experienced some form of harassment on the job.
MacKinnon’s views might have been radical—she argued for a Marxist feminist jurisprudence reflecting her belief that sexual relations are hopelessly mired in male dominance and female submission—but she wasn’t entirely wrong. The postwar America in which women like MacKinnon came of age offered few opportunities for female agency, and the popular culture of the day reinforced the idea that women were all but incapable of it.
It wasn’t just the perfect housewives in the midcentury mold of Donna Reed and June Cleaver who “donned their domestic harness,” as the historian Elaine Tyler May wrote in her social history Homeward Bound. Popular magazines such as Good Housekeeping, McCall’s, and Redbook reinforced the message; so did their advertisers. A 1955 issue of Family Circle featured an advertisement for Tide detergent that depicted a woman with a rapturous expression on her face actually hugging a box of Tide under the line: “No wonder you women buy more Tide than any other washday product! Tide’s got what women want!” Other advertisements infantilized women by suggesting they were incapable of making basic decisions. “You mean a -woman can open it?” ran one for Alcoa aluminum bottle caps. It is almost impossible to read the articles or view the ads without thinking they were some kind of put-on.
The competing view of women in the postwar era was equally pernicious: the objectified pinup or sexpot. Marilyn Monroe’s hypersexualized character in The Seven Year Itch from 1955 doesn’t even have a name—she’s simply called The Girl. The 1956 film introducing the pulchritudinous Jayne Mansfield to the world was called The Girl Can’t Help It. The behavior of Rat Pack–era men has now been so airbrushed and glamorized that we’ve forgotten just how thoroughly debased their treatment of women was. Even as we thrill to Frank Sinatra’s “nice ’n’ easy” style, we overlook the classic Sinatra movie character’s enjoying an endless stream of showgirls and (barely disguised) prostitutes until forced to settle down with a killjoy ball-and-chain girlfriend. The depiction of women either as childish wives living under the protection of their husbands or brainless sirens sexually available to the first taker was undoubtedly vulgar, but it reflected a reality about the domestic arrangements of Americans after 1945 that was due for a profound revision when the 1960s came along.
And change they did, with a vengeance. The sexual revolution broke down the barriers between the sexes as the women’s-liberation movement insisted that bourgeois domesticity was a prison. The rules melted away, but attitudes don’t melt so readily; Sinatra’s ball-and-chain may have disappeared by common consent, but for a long time it seemed that the kooky sexpot of the most chauvinistic fantasy had simply become the ideal American woman. The distinction between the workplaces of the upper middle class and the singles bars where they sought companionship was pretty blurred.
Which is where MacKinnon came in—although if we look back at it, her objection seems not Marxist in orientation but almost Victorian. She described a workplace in which women were unprotected by old-fashioned social norms against adultery and general caddishness and found themselves mired in a “hostile environment.” She named the problem; it fell to the feminist movement as a whole to enshrine protections against it. They had some success. In 1986, the U.S. Supreme Court embraced elements of MacKinnon’s reasoning when it ruled unanimously in Meritor Savings Bank v. Vinson that harassment that was “sufficiently severe or pervasive” enough to create “a hostile or abusive work environment” was a violation of Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. The U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission issued rules advising employers to create procedures to combat harassment, and employers followed suit by establishing sexual-harassment policies. Human-resource departments spent countless hours and many millions of dollars on sexual-harassment-awareness training for employees.
With new regulations and enforcement mechanisms, the argument went, the final, fusty traces of patriarchal, protective norms and bad behavior would be swept away in favor of rational legal rules that would ensure equal protection for women in the workplace. The culture might still objectify women, but our legal and employment systems would, in fits and starts, erect scaffolding upon which women who were harassed could seek justice.
But as the growing list of present-day harassers and predators attests—Harvey Weinstein, Louis C.K., Charlie Rose, Michael Oreskes, Glenn Thrush, Mark Halperin, John Conyers, Al Franken, Roy Moore, Matt Lauer, Garrison Keillor, et al.—the system appears to have failed the people it was meant to protect. There were searing moments that raised popular awareness about sexual harassment: (Anita Hill’s testimony about U.S. Supreme Court nominee Clarence Thomas in 1991; Senator Bob Packwood’s ouster for serial groping in 1995). There was, however, still plenty of space for men who harassed and assaulted women (and, in Kevin Spacey’s case, men) to shelter in place.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Why did it?
Sex and Training
What makes sexual harassment so unnerving is not the harassment. It’s the sex—a subject, even a half-century into our so-called sexual revolution, about which we remain deeply confused.
The challenge going forward, now that the Hollywood honcho Weinstein and other notoriously lascivious beneficiaries of the liberation era have been removed, is how to negotiate the rules of attraction and punish predators in a culture that no longer embraces accepted norms for sexual behavior. Who sets the rules, and how do we enforce them? The self-appointed guardians of that galaxy used to be the feminist movement, but it is in no position to play that role today as it reckons not only with the gropers in its midst (Franken) but the ghosts of gropers past (Bill Clinton).
The feminist movement long ago traded MacKinnon’s radical feminism for political expedience. In 1992 and 1998, when her husband was a presidential candidate and then president, Hillary Clinton covered for Bill, enthusiastically slut-shaming his accusers. Her sin was and is at least understandable, if not excusable, given that the two are married. But what about America’s most glamorous early feminist, Gloria Steinem? In 1998, Steinem wrote of Clinton accuser Kathleen Willey: “The truth is that even if the allegations are true, the President is not guilty of sexual harassment. He is accused of having made a gross, dumb and reckless pass at a supporter during a low point in her life. She pushed him away, she said, and it never happened again. In other words, President Clinton took ‘no’ for an answer.” As for Monica Lewinsky, Steinem didn’t even consider the president’s behavior with a young intern to be harassment: “Welcome sexual behavior is about as relevant to sexual harassment as borrowing a car is to stealing one.”
The consequences of applying to Clinton what Steinem herself called the “one-free-grope” rule are only now becoming fully visible. Even in the case of a predator as malevolent as Weinstein, it’s clear that feminists no longer have a shared moral language or the credibility with which to condemn such behavior. Having tied their movement’s fortunes to political power, especially the Democratic Party, it is difficult to take seriously their injunctions about male behavior on either side of the aisle now (just as it was difficult to take seriously partisans on the right who defended the Alabama Senate candidate and credibly accused child sexual predator Roy Moore). Democrat Nancy Pelosi’s initial hemming and hawing about denouncing accused sexual harasser Representative John Conyers was disappointing but not surprising. As for Steinem, she’s gone from posing undercover as a Playboy bunny in order to expose male vice to sitting on the board of Playboy’s true heir, VICE Media, an organization whose bro-culture has spawned many sexual-harassment complaints. She’s been honored by Rutgers University, which created the Gloria Steinem Chair in Media, Culture, and Feminist Studies. One of the chair’s major endowers? Harvey Weinstein.
In place of older accepted norms or trusted moral arbiters, we have weaponized gossip. “S—-y Media Men” is a Google spreadsheet created by a woman who works in media and who, in the wake of the Weinstein revelations, wanted to encourage other women to name the gropers among us. At first a well-intentioned effort to warn women informally about men who had behaved badly, it quickly devolved into an anonymous unverified online litany of horribles devoid of context. The men named on the list were accused of everything from sending clumsy text messages to rape; Jia Tolentino of the New Yorker confessed that she didn’t believe the charges lodged against a male friend of hers who appeared on the list.
Others have found sisterhood and catharsis on social media, where, on Twitter, the phrase #MeToo quickly became the symbol for women’s shared experiences of harassment or assault. Like the consciousness-raising sessions of earlier eras, the hashtag supposedly demonstrated the strength of women supporting other women. But unlike in earlier eras, it led not to group hugs over readings of The Feminine Mystique, but to a brutally efficient form of insta-justice meted out on an almost daily basis against the accused. Writing in the Guardian, Jessica Valenti praised #MeToo for encouraging women to tell their stories but added, “Why have a list of victims when a list of perpetrators could be so much more useful?” Valenti encouraged women to start using the hashtag as a way to out predators, not merely to bond with one another. Even the New York Times has gone all-in on the assumption that the reckoning will continue: The newspaper’s “gender editor,” Jessica Bennett, launched a newsletter, The #MeToo Moment, described as “the latest news and insights on the sexual harassment and misconduct scandals roiling our society.”
As the also-popular hashtag #OpenSecret suggests, this #MeToo moment has brought with it troubling questions about who knew what and when—and a great deal of anger at gatekeepers and institutions that might have turned a blind eye to predators. The backlash against the Metropolitan Opera in New York is only the most recent example. Reports of conductor James Levine’s molestation of teenagers have evidently been widespread in the classical-music world for decades. And, as many social-media users hinted with their use of the hashtag #itscoming, Levine is not the only one who will face a reckoning.
To be sure, questioning and catharsis are welcome if they spark reforms such as crackdowns on the court-approved payoffs and nondisclosure agreements that allowed sexual predators like Weinstein to roam free for so long. And they have also brought a long-overdue recognition of the ineffectiveness of so much of what passes for sexual-harassment-prevention training in the workplace. As the law professor Lauren Edelman noted in the Washington Post, “There have been only a handful of empirical studies of sexual-harassment training, and the research has not established that such training is effective. Some studies suggest that training may in fact backfire, reinforcing gendered stereotypes that place women at a disadvantage.” One specific survey at a university found that “men who participated in the training were less likely to view coercion of a subordinate as sexual harassment, less willing to report harassment and more inclined to blame the victim than were women or men who had not gone through the training.”
Realistic Change vs. Impossible Revolution
Because harassment lies at the intersection of law, politics, ideology, and culture, attempts to re-regulate behavior, either by returning to older, more traditional norms, or by weaponizing women’s potential victimhood via Twitter, won’t work. America is throwing the book at foul old violators like Weinstein and Levine, but aside from warning future violators that they may be subject to horrible public humiliation and ruination, how is all this going to fix the problem?
We are a long way from Phyllis Schlafly’s ridiculous remark, made years ago during a U.S. Senate committee hearing, that “virtuous women are seldom accosted,” but Vice President Mike Pence’s rule about avoiding one-on-one social interactions with women who aren’t his wife doesn’t really scale up in terms of effective policy in the workplace, either. The Pence Rule, like corporate H.R. policies about sexual harassment, really exists to protect Pence from liability, not to protect women.
Indeed, the possibility of realistic change is made almost moot by the hysterical ambitions of those who believe they are on the verge of bringing down the edifice of American masculinity the way the Germans brought down the Berlin wall. Bennett of the Times spoke for many when she wrote in her description of the #MeToo newsletter: “The new conversation goes way beyond the workplace to sweep in street harassment, rape culture, and ‘toxic masculinity’—terminology that would have been confined to gender studies classes, not found in mainstream newspapers, not so long ago.”
Do women need protection? Since the rise of the feminist movement, it has been considered unacceptable to declare that women are weaker than men (even physically), yet, as many of these recent assault cases make clear, this is a plain fact. Men are, on average, physically larger and more aggressive than women; this is why for centuries social codes existed to protect women who were, by and large, less powerful, more vulnerable members of society.
MacKinnon’s definition of harassment at first seemed to acknowledge such differences; she described harassment as “dominance eroticized.” But like all good feminist theorists, she claimed this dominance was socially constructed rather than biological—“the legally relevant content of the term sex, understood as gender difference, should focus upon its social meaning more than upon any biological givens,” she wrote. As such, the reasoning went, men’s socially constructed dominance could be socially deconstructed through reeducation, training, and the like.
Culturally, this is the view that now prevails, which is why we pinball between arguing that women can do anything men can do and worrying that women are all the potential victims of predatory, toxic men. So which is it? Girl Power or the Fainting Couch?
Regardless, when harassment or assault claims arise, the cultural assumptions that feminism has successfully cultivated demand we accept that women are right and men are wrong (hence the insistence that we must believe every woman’s claim about harassment and assault, and the calling out of those who question a woman’s accusation). This gives women—who are, after all, flawed human beings just like men—too much accusatory power in situations where context is often crucial for understanding what transpired. Feminists with a historical memory should recall how they embraced this view after mandatory-arrest laws for partner violence that were passed in the 1990s netted many women for physically assaulting their partners. Many feminist legal scholars at the time argued that such laws were unfair to women precisely because they neglected context. (“By following the letter of the law… law enforcement officers often disregard the context in which victims of violence resort to using violence themselves,” wrote Susan L. Miller in the Violence Against Women journal in 2001.)
Worse, the unquestioned valorization of women’s claims leaves men in the position of being presumed guilty unless proven innocent. Consider a recent tweet by Washington Post reporter and young-adult author Monica Hesse in response to New York Times reporter Farhad Manjoo’s self-indulgent lament. Manjoo: “I am at the point where i seriously, sincerely wonder how all women don’t regard all men as monsters to be constantly feared. the real world turns out to be a legit horror movie that I inhabited and knew nothing about.”
Hesse’s answer: “Surprise! The answer is that we do, and we must, regard all men as potential monsters to be feared. That’s why we cross to the other side of the street at night, and why we sometimes obey when men say ‘Smile, honey!’ We are always aware the alternative could be death.” This isn’t hyperbole in her case; Hesse has so thoroughly internalized the message that men are to be feared, not trusted, that she thinks one might kill her on the street if she doesn’t smile at him. Such illogic makes the Victorian neurasthenics look like the Valkyrie.
But while most reasonable people agree that women and men both need to take responsibility for themselves and exercise good judgment, what this looks like in practice is not going to be perfectly fair, given the differences between men and women when it comes to sexual behavior. In her book, MacKinnon observed of sexual harassment, “Tacitly, it has been both acceptable and taboo; acceptable for men to do, taboo for women to confront, even to themselves.”
That’s one thing we can say for certain is no longer true. Nevertheless, if you begin with the assumption that every sexual invitation is a power play or the prelude to an assault, you are likely to find enemies lurking everywhere. As Hesse wrote in the Washington Post about male behavior: “It’s about the rot that we didn’t want to see, that we shoveled into the garbage disposal of America for years. Some of the rot might have once been a carrot and some it might have once been a moldy piece of rape-steak, but it’s all fetid and horrific and now, and it’s all coming up at once. How do we deal with it? Prison for everyone? Firing for some? …We’re only asking for the entire universe to change. That’s all.”
But women are part of that “entire universe,” too, and it is incumbent on them to make it clear when someone has crossed the line. Both women and men would be better served if they adopted the same rule—“If you see something, say something”—when it comes to harassment. Among the many details that emerged from the recent exposé at Vox about New York Times reporter Glenn Thrush was the setting for the supposedly egregious behavior: It was always after work and after several drinks at a bar. In all of the interactions described, one or usually both of the parties was tipsy or drunk; the women always agreed to go with Thrush to another location. The women also stayed on good terms with Thrush after he made his often-sloppy passes at them, in one case sending friendly text messages and ensuring him he didn’t need to apologize for his behavior. The Vox writer, who herself claims to have been victimized by Thrush, argues, “Thrush, just by his stature, put women in a position of feeling they had to suck up and move on from an uncomfortable encounter.” Perhaps. But he didn’t put them in the position of getting drunk after work with him. They put themselves in that position.
Also, as the Thrush story reveals, women sometimes use sexual appeal and banter for their own benefit in the workplace. If we want to clarify the blurred lines that exist around workplace relationships, then we will have to reckon with the women who have successfully exploited them for their own advantage.
None of this means women should be held responsible when men behave badly or illegally. But it puts male behavior in the proper context. Sometimes, things really are just about sex, not power. As New York Times columnist Ross Douthat bluntly noted in a recent debate in New York magazine with feminist Rebecca Traister, “I think women shouldn’t underestimate the extent to which male sexual desire is distinctive and strange and (to women) irrational-seeming. Saying ‘It’s power, not sex’ excludes too much.”
Social-Media Justice or Restorative Justice?
What do we want to happen? Do we want social-media justice or restorative justice for harassers and predators? The first is immediate, cathartic, and brutal, with little consideration for nuance or presumed innocence for the accused. The second is more painstaking because it requires reaching some kind of consensus about the allegations, but it is also ultimately less destructive of the community and culture as a whole.
Social-media justice deploys the powerful force of shame at the mere whiff of transgression, so as to create a regime of prevention. The thing is, Americans don’t really like shame (the sexual revolution taught us that). Our therapeutic age doesn’t think that suppressing emotions and inhibiting feelings—especially about sex—is “healthy.” So either we will have to embrace the instant and unreflective emotiveness of #MeToo culture and accept that its rough justice is better than no justice at all—or we will have to stop overreacting every time a man does something that is untoward—like sending a single, creepy text message—but not actually illegal (like assault or constant harassment).
After all, it’s not all bad news from the land of masculinity. Rates of sexual violence have fallen 63 percent since 1993, according to statistics from the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network, and as scholar Steven Pinker recently observed: “Despite recent attention, workplace sexual harassment has declined over time: from 6.1 percent of GSS [General Social Survey] respondents in 2002 to 3.6 percent in 2014. Too high, but there’s been progress, which can continue.”
Still, many men have taken this cultural moment as an opportunity to reflect on their own understanding of masculinity. In the New York Times, essayist Stephen Marche fretted about the “unexamined brutality of the male libido” and echoed Catharine MacKinnon when he asked, “How can healthy sexuality ever occur in conditions in which men and women are not equal?” He would have done better to ask how we can raise boys who will become men who behave honorably toward women. And how do we even raise boys to become honorable men in a culture that no longer recognizes and rewards honor?
The answers to those questions aren’t immediately clear. But one thing that will make answering them even harder is the promotion of the idea of “toxic masculinity.” New York Times columnist Charles Blow recently argued that “we have to re-examine our toxic, privileged, encroaching masculinity itself. And yes, that also means on some level reimagining the rules of attraction.” But the whole point of the phrase “rules of attraction” is to highlight that there aren’t any and never have been (if you have any doubts, read the 1987 Bret Easton Ellis novel that popularized the phrase). Blow’s lectures about “toxic masculinity” are meant to sow self-doubt in men and thus encourage some enlightened form of masculinity, but that won’t end sexual harassment any more than Lysistrata-style refusal by women to have sex will end war.
Parents should be teaching their sons about personal boundaries and consent from a young age, just as they teach their daughters, and unequivocally condemn raunchy and threatening remarks about women, whether they are uttered by a talk-radio host or by the president of the United States. The phrase “that isn’t how decent men behave” should be something every parent utters.
But such efforts are made more difficult by a liberal culture that has decided to equate caddish behavior with assault precisely because it has rejected the strict norms that used to hold sway—the old conservative norms that regarded any transgression against them as a seriousviolation and punished it accordingly. Instead, in an effort to be a kinder, gentler, more “woke” society that’s understanding of everyone’s differences, we’ve ended up arbitrarily picking and choosing among the various forms of questionable behavior for which we will have no tolerance, all the while failing to come to terms with the costs of living in such a society. A culture that hangs the accused first and asks questions later might have its virtues, but psychological understanding is not one of them.
And so we come back to sex and our muddled understanding of its place in society. Is it a meaningless pleasure you’re supposed to enjoy with as many people as possible before settling down and marrying? Or is it something more important than that? Is it something that you feel empowered to handle in Riot Grrrl fashion, or is getting groped once by a pervy co-worker something that prompts decades of nightmares and declarations that you will “never be the same”? How can we condemn people like Senator Al Franken, whose implicit self-defense is that it’s no big deal to cop a feel every so often, when our culture constantly offers up women like comedian Amy Schumer or Abbi and Ilana of the sketch show Broad City, who argue that women can and should be as filthy and degenerate as the most degenerate guy?
Perhaps it’s progress that the downfall of powerful men who engage in inappropriate sexual behavior is no longer called a “bimbo eruption,” as it was in the days of Bill Clinton, and that the men who harassed or assaulted women are facing the end of their careers and, in some cases, prison. But this is not the great awakening that so many observers have claimed it is. Awakenings need tent preachers to inspire and eager audiences to participate; our #MeToo moment has plenty of those. What it doesn’t have, unless we can agree on new norms for sexual behavior both inside and outside the workplace, is a functional theology that might cultivate believers who will actually practice what they preach.
That functional theology is out of our reach. Which means this moment is just that—a moment. It will die down, impossible though it seems at present. And every 10 or 15 years a new harassment scandal will spark widespread outrage, and we will declare that a new moment of reckoning and realization has emerged. After which the stories will again die down and very little will have changed.
No one wants to admit this. It’s much more satisfying to see the felling of so many powerful men as a tectonic cultural shift, another great leap forward toward equality between the sexes. But it isn’t, because the kind of asexual equality between the genders imagined by those most eager to celebrate our #MeToo moment has never been one most people embrace. It’s one that willfully overlooks significant differences between the sexes and assumes that thoughtful people can still agree on norms of sexual behavior.
They can’t. And they won’t.
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The U.S. will endanger itself if it accedes to Russian and Chinese efforts to change the international system to their liking
A “sphere of influence” is traditionally understood as a geographical zone within which the most powerful actor can impose its will. And nearly three decades after the close of the superpower struggle that Churchill’s speech heralded, spheres of influence are back. At both ends of the Eurasian landmass, the authoritarian regimes in China and Russia are carving out areas of privileged influence—geographic buffer zones in which they exercise diplomatic, economic, and military primacy. China and Russia are seeking to coerce and overawe their neighbors. They are endeavoring to weaken the international rules and norms—and the influence of opposing powers—that stand athwart their ambitions in their respective “near abroads.” Chinese island-building and maritime expansionism in the South China Sea and Russian aggression in Ukraine and intimidation of the Baltic states are part and parcel of the quasi-imperial projects these revisionist regional powers are now pursuing.
Historically speaking, a world made up of rival spheres is more the norm than the exception. Yet such a world is in sharp tension with many of the key tenets of the American foreign-policy tradition—and with the international order that the United States has labored to construct and maintain since the end of World War II.
To be sure, Washington carved out its own spheres of influence in the Western Hemisphere beginning in the 19th century, and America’s myriad alliance blocs in key overseas regions are effectively spheres by another name. And today, some international-relations observers have welcomed the return of what the foreign-policy analyst Michael Lind has recently called “blocpolitik,” hoping that it might lead to a more peaceful age of multilateral equilibrium.
But for more than two centuries, American leaders have generally opposed the idea of a world divided into rival spheres of influence and have worked hard to deny other powers their own. And a reversion to a world dominated by great powers and their spheres of influence would thus undo some of the strongest traditions in American foreign policy and take the international system back to a darker, more dangerous era.I n an extreme form, a sphere of influence can take the shape of direct imperial or colonial control. Yet there are also versions in which a leading power forgoes direct military or administrative domination of its neighbors but nonetheless exerts geopolitical, economic, and ideological influence. Whatever their form, spheres of influence reflect two dominant imperatives of great-power politics in an anarchic world: the need for security vis-à-vis rival powers and the desire to shape a nation’s immediate environment to its benefit. Indeed, great powers have throughout history pursued spheres of influence to provide a buffer against the encroachment of other hostile actors and to foster the conditions conducive to their own security and well-being.
The Persian Empire, Athens and Sparta, and Rome all carved out domains of dominance. The Chinese tribute system—which combined geopolitical control with the spread of Chinese norms and ideas—profoundly shaped the trajectory of East Asia for hundreds of years. The 19th and 20th centuries saw the British Empire, Japan’s East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, and the Soviet bloc.
America, too, has played the spheres-of-influence game. From the early-19th century onward, American officials strove for preeminence in the Western Hemisphere—first by running other European powers off much of the North American continent and then by pushing them out of Latin America. With the Monroe Doctrine, first enunciated in 1823, America staked its claim to geopolitical primacy from Canada to the Southern Cone. Over the succeeding generations, Washington worked to achieve military dominance in that area, to tie the countries of the Western Hemisphere to America geopolitically and economically, and even to help pick the rulers of countries from Mexico to Brazil.
If this wasn’t a sphere of influence, nothing was. In 1895, Secretary of State Richard Olney declared that “the United States is practically sovereign on this continent and its fiat is law upon the subjects to which it confines its interposition.” After World War II, moreover, a globally predominant United States steadily expanded its influence into Europe through NATO, into East Asia through various military alliances, and into the Middle East through a web of defense, diplomatic, and political arrangements. The story of global politics over the past 200 years has, in large part, been the story of expanding U.S. influence.
Nonetheless, there has always been something ambivalent—critics would say hypocritical—about American views of this matter. For as energetic as Washington has been in constructing its geopolitical domain, a “spheres-of-influence world” is in perpetual tension with four strong intellectual traditions in U.S. strategy. These are hegemony, liberty, openness, and exceptionalism.
First, hegemony. The myth of America as an innocent isolationist country during its first 170 years is powerful and enduring; it’s also wrong. From the outset, American statesmen understood that the country’s favorable geography, expanding population, and enviable resource endowments gave it the potential to rival, and ultimately overtake, the European states that dominated world politics. America might be a fledgling republic, George Washington said, but it would one day attain “the strength of a giant.” From the revolution onward, American officials worried, with good reason, that France, Spain, and the United Kingdom would use their North American territories to strangle or contain the young republic. Much of early American diplomacy was therefore geared toward depriving the European powers of their North American possessions, using measures from coercive diplomacy to outright wars of conquest. “The world shall have to be familiarized with the idea of considering our proper dominion to be the continent of North America,” wrote John Quincy Adams in 1819. The only regional sphere of influence that Americans would accept as legitimate was their own.
By the late-19th century, the same considerations were pushing Americans to target spheres of influence further abroad. As the industrial revolution progressed, it became clear that geography alone might not protect the nation. Aggressive powers could now generate sufficient military strength to dominate large swaths of Europe or East Asia and then harness the accumulated resources to threaten the United States. Moreover, as America itself became an increasingly mighty country that sought to project its influence overseas, its leaders naturally objected to its rivals’ efforts to establish their own preserves from which Washington would be excluded. If much of America’s 19th-century diplomacy was dedicated to denying other powers spheres of influence in the Western Hemisphere, much of the country’s 20th-century diplomacy was an effort to break up or deny rival spheres of influence in Europe and East Asia.
From the Open Door policy, which sought to prevent imperial powers from carving up China, to U.S. intervention in the world wars, to the confrontation with the Soviet Empire in the Cold War, the United States repeatedly acted on the belief that it could be neither as secure nor influential as it desired in a world divided up and dominated by rival nations. The American geopolitical tradition, in other words, has long contained a built-in hostility to other countries’ spheres of influence.
The American ideological tradition shares this sense of preeminence, as reflected in the second key tenet: liberty. America’s founding generation did not see the revolution merely as the birth of a future superpower; they saw it as a catalyst for spreading political liberty far and wide. Thomas Paine proclaimed in 1775 that Americans could “begin the world anew”; John Quincy Adams predicted, several decades later, that America’s liberal ideology was “destined to cover the surface of the globe.” Here, too, the new nation was not cursed with excessive modesty—and here, too, the existence of rival spheres of influence threatened this ambition.
Rival spheres of influence—particularly within the Western Hemisphere—imperiled the survival of liberty at home. If the United States were merely one great power among many on the North American continent, the founding generation worried, it would be forced to maintain a large standing military establishment and erect a sort of 18th-century “garrison state.” Living in perpetual conflict and vigilance, in turn, would corrode the very freedoms for which the revolution had been fought. “No nation,” wrote James Madison, “can preserve its freedom in the midst of continual warfare.” Just as Madison argued, in Federalist No. 10, that “extending the sphere”—expanding the republic—was a way of safeguarding republicanism at home, expanding America’s geopolitical domain was essential to providing the external security that a liberal polity required to survive.
Rival spheres of influence also constrained the prospects for liberty abroad. Although the question of whether the United States should actively support democratic revolutions overseas has been a source of unending controversy, virtually all American strategists have agreed that the country would be more secure and influential in a world where democracy was widespread. Given this mindset, Americans could hardly be desirous of foreign powers—particularly authoritarian powers—establishing formidable spheres of influence that would allow them to dominate the international system or suppress liberal ideals. The Monroe Doctrine was a response to the geopolitical dangers inherent in renewed imperial control of South America; it was also a response to the ideological danger posed by European nations that would “extend the political system to any portion” of the Western Hemisphere. Similar concerns have been at the heart of American opposition to the British Empire and the Soviet bloc.
Economic openness, the third core dynamic of American policy, has long served as a commercial counterpart to America’s ideological proselytism. Influenced as much by Adam Smith as by Alexander Hamilton, early American statecraft promoted free trade, neutral rights, and open markets, both to safeguard liberty and enrich a growing nation. This mission has depended on access to the world’s seas and markets. When that access was circumscribed—by the British in 1812 and by the Germans in 1917—Americans went to war to preserve it. It is unsurprising, then, that Americans also looked askance at efforts by other powers to establish areas that might be walled off from U.S. trade and investment—and from the spread of America’s capitalist ideology.
A brief list of robust policy endeavors underscores the persistent U.S. hostility to an economically closed, spheres-of-influence world: the Model Treaty of 1776, designed to promote free and reciprocal trade; John Hay’s Open Door policy of 1899, designed to prevent any outside power from dominating trade with China; Woodrow Wilson’s advocacy in his “14 Points” speech of 1918 for the removal “of all economic barriers and the establishment of an equality of trade conditions among all nations”; and the focus of the 1941 Atlantic Charter on reducing trade restrictions while promoting international economic cooperation (assuming the allies would emerge triumphant from World War II).
Fourth and finally, there’s exceptionalism. Americans have long believed that their nation was created not simply to replicate the practices of the Old World, but to revolutionize how states and peoples interact with one another. The United States, in this view, was not merely another great power out for its own self-interest. It was a country that, by virtue of its republican ideals, stood for the advancement of universal rights, and one that rejected the back-alley methods of monarchical diplomacy in favor of a more principled statecraft. When Abraham Lincoln said America represented “the last best hope of earth,” or when Woodrow Wilson scorned secret agreements in favor of “open covenants arrived at openly,” they demonstrated this exceptionalist strain in American thinking. There is some hypocrisy here, of course, for the United States has often acted in precisely the self-interested, cutthroat manner its statesmen deplored. Nonetheless, American exceptionalism has had a pronounced effect on American conduct.
Compare how Washington led its Western European allies during the Cold War—the extent to which NATO rested on the authentic consent of its members, the way the United States consistently sought to empower rather than dominate its partners—with how Moscow managed its empire in Eastern Europe. In the same way, Americans have often recoiled from arrangements that reeked of the old diplomacy. Franklin Roosevelt might have tolerated a Soviet-dominated Eastern Europe after World War II, for instance, but he knew he could not admit this publicly. Likewise, the Helsinki Accords of 1975, which required Washington to acknowledge the diplomatic legitimacy of the Soviet sphere, proved controversial inside the United States because they seemed to represent just the sort of cynical, old-school geopolitics that American exceptionalism abhors.
To be clear, U.S. hostility to a spheres-of-influence world has always been leavened with a dose of pragmatism; American leaders have pursued that hostility only so far as power and prudence allowed. The Monroe Doctrine warned European powers to stay out of the Americas, but the quid pro quo was that a young and relatively weak United States would accept, for a time, a sphere of monarchical dominance within Europe. Even during the Cold War, U.S. policymakers generally accepted that Washington could not break up the Soviet bloc in Eastern Europe without risking nuclear war.
But these were concessions to expediency. As America gained greater global power, it more actively resisted the acquisition or preservation of spheres by others. From gradually pushing the Old World out of the New, to helping vanquish the German and Japanese Empires by force of arms, to assisting the liquidation of the British Empire after World War II, to containing and ultimately defeating the Soviet bloc, the United States was present at the destruction of spheres of influence possessed by adversaries and allies alike.
The acme of this project came in the quarter-century that followed the Cold War. With the collapse of the Warsaw Pact and the Soviet Union itself, it was possible to envision a world in which what Thomas Jefferson called America’s “empire of liberty” could attain global dimensions, and traditional spheres of influence would be consigned to history. The goal, as George W. Bush’s 2002 National Security Strategy proclaimed, was to “create a balance of power that favors human freedom.” This meant an international environment in which the United States and its values were dominant and there was no balance of power whatsoever.
Under presidents from George H.W. Bush to Barack Obama, this project entailed working to spread democracy and economic liberalism farther than ever before. It involved pushing American influence and U.S.-led institutions into regions—such as Eastern Europe—that were previously dominated by other powers. It meant maintaining the military primacy necessary to stop regional powers from establishing new spheres of influence, as Washington did by rolling back Saddam Hussein’s conquest of Kuwait in 1990 and by deterring China from coercing Taiwan in 1995–96. Not least, this American project involved seeking to integrate potential rivals—foremost Russia and China—into the post–Cold War order, in hopes of depriving them of even the desire to challenge it. This multifaceted effort reflected the optimism of the post-Cold War era, as well as the influence of tendencies with deep roots in the American past. Yet try as Washington might to permanently leave behind a spheres-of-influence world, that prospect is once again upon us.B egin with China’s actions in the Asia-Pacific region. The sources of Chinese conduct are diverse, ranging from domestic insecurity to the country’s confidence as a rising power to its sense of historical destiny as “the Middle Kingdom.” All these influences animate China’s bid to establish regional mastery. China is working, first, to create a power vacuum by driving the United States out of the Western Pacific, and second, to fill that vacuum with its own influence. A Chinese admiral made this ambition clear when he remarked—supposedly in jest—to an American counterpart that, in the future, the two powers should simply split the Pacific with Hawaii as the dividing line. Yang Jiechi, then China’s foreign minister, echoed this sentiment in a moment of frustration by lecturing the nations of Southeast Asia. “China is a big country,” he said, “and other countries are small countries, and that’s just a fact.”
Policy has followed rhetoric. To undercut America’s position, Beijing has harassed American ships and planes operating in international waters and airspace. The Chinese have warned U.S. allies they may be caught in the crossfire of a Sino-American war unless Washington accommodates China or the allies cut loose from the United States. China has simultaneously worked to undermine the credibility of U.S. alliance guarantees by using strategies designed to shift the regional status quo in ways even the mighty U.S. Navy finds difficult to counter. Through a mixture of economic aid and diplomatic coercion, Beijing has also successfully divided international bodies, such as the Association of Southeast Asian Nations, through which the United States has sought to rally opposition to Chinese assertiveness. And in the background, China has been steadily building, over the course of more than two decades, formidable military tools designed to keep the United States out of the region and give Beijing a free hand in dealing with its weaker neighbors. As America’s sun sets in the Asia-Pacific, Chinese leaders calculate, the shadow China casts over the region will only grow longer.
To that end, China has claimed, dubiously, nearly all of the South China Sea as its own and constructed artificial islands as staging points for the projection of military power. Military and paramilitary forces have teased, confronted, and violated the sovereignty of countries from Vietnam to the Philippines; China is likewise intensifying the pressure on Japan in the East China Sea. Economically, Beijing uses its muscle to reward those who comply with China’s policies and punish those not willing to bow to its demands. It is simultaneously advancing geoeconomic projects, such as the Belt and Road Initiative, Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank, and Regional Comprehensive Economic Project (RCEP) that are designed to bring the region into its orbit.
Strikingly, China has also moved away from its long-professed principle of noninterference in other countries’ domestic politics by extending the reach of Chinese propaganda organs and using investment and even bribery to co-opt regional elites. Payoffs to Australian politicians are as critical to China’s regional project as development of “carrier-killer” missiles. Finally, far from subscribing to liberal concepts of democracy and human rights, Beijing emphasizes its rejection of these values and its desire to create “Asia for Asians.” In sum, China is pursuing a classic spheres-of-influence project. By blending intimidation with inducement, Beijing aims to sunder its neighbors’ bonds with America and force them to accept a Sino-centric order—a new Chinese tribute system for the 21st century.A t the other end of Eurasia, Russia is playing geopolitical hardball of a different sort. The idea that Moscow should dominate its “near abroad” is as natural to many Russians as American regional primacy is to Americans. The loss of the Kremlin’s traditional buffer zone was, therefore, one of the most painful legacies of the Cold War’s end. And so it is hardly surprising that, as Russia has regained a degree of strength in recent years, it has sought to reassert its supremacy.
It has done so, in fact, through more overtly aggressive means than those employed by China. Moscow has twice seized opportunities to humiliate and dismember former Soviet republics that committed the sin of tilting toward the West or throwing out pro-Russian leaders, first in Georgia in 2008 and then in Ukraine in 2014. It has regularly reminded its neighbors that they live on Russia’s doorstep, through coercive activities such as conducting cyberattacks on Estonia in 2007 and holding aggressive military exercises on the frontiers of the Baltic states. In the same vein, the Kremlin has essentially claimed a veto over the geopolitical alignments of neighbors from the Caucasus to Scandinavia, whether by creating frozen conflicts on their territory or threatening to target them militarily—perhaps with nuclear weapons—should they join NATO.
Military muscle is not Moscow’s only tool. Russia has simultaneously used energy exports to keep the states on its periphery economically dependent, and it has exported corruption and illiberalism to non-aligned states in the former Warsaw Pact area to prevent further encroachment of liberal values. Not least, the Kremlin has worked to undermine NATO and the European Union through political subversion and intervention in Western electoral processes. And while Russia’s activities are most concentrated in Eastern Europe and Central Asia, it’s also projecting its influence farther afield. Russian forces intervened successfully in Syria in 2015 to prop up Bashar al-Assad, preserve access to warm-water ports on the Mediterranean, and demonstrate the improved accuracy and lethality of Russian arms. Moscow continues to make inroads in the Middle East, often in cooperation with another American adversary: Iran.
To be sure, the projects that China and Russia are pursuing today are vastly different from each other, but the core logic is indisputably the same. Authoritarian powers are re-staking their claim to privileged influence in key geostrategic areas.S o what does this mean for American interests? Some observers have argued that the United States should make a virtue of necessity and accept the return of such arrangements. By this logic, spheres of influence create buffer zones between contending great powers; they diffuse responsibility for enforcing order in key areas. Indeed, for those who think that U.S. policy has left the country exhausted and overextended, a return to a world in which America no longer has the burden of being the dominant power in every region may seem attractive. The great sin of American policy after the Cold War, many realist scholars argue, was the failure to recognize that even a weakened Russia would demand privileged influence along its frontiers and thus be unalterably opposed to NATO expansion. Similarly, they lament the failure to understand that China would not forever tolerate U.S. dominance along its own periphery. It is not surprising, then, to hear analysts such as Australia’s Hugh White or America’s John Mearsheimer argue that the United States should learn to “share power” with China in the Pacific, or that it must yield ground in Eastern Europe in order to avoid war with Russia.
Such claims are not meritless; there are instances in which spheres of influence led to a degree of stability. The division of Europe into rival blocs fostered an ugly sort of stasis during the Cold War; closer to home, America’s dominance in the Western Hemisphere has long muted geopolitical competition in our own neighborhood. For all the problems associated with European empires, they often partially succeeded in limiting scourges such as communal violence.
And yet the allure of a spheres-of-influence world is largely an illusion, for such a world would threaten U.S. interests, traditions, and values in several ways.
First, basic human rights and democratic values would be less respected. China and Russia are not liberal democracies; they are illiberal autocracies that see the spread of democratic values as profoundly corrosive to their own authority and security. Just as the United States has long sought to create a world congenial to its own ideological predilections, Beijing and Moscow would certainly do likewise within their spheres of dominance.
They would, presumably, bring their influence to bear in support of friendly authoritarian regimes. And they would surely undermine democratic governments seen to pose a threat of ideological contagion or insubordination to Russian or Chinese prerogatives. Russia has taken steps to prevent the emergence of a Western-facing democracy in Ukraine and to undermine liberal democracies in Europe and elsewhere; China is snuffing out political freedoms in Hong Kong. Such actions offer a preview of what we will see when these countries are indisputably dominant along their peripheries. Further aggressions, in turn, would not simply be offensive to America’s ideological sensibilities. For given that the spread of democracy has been central to the absence of major interstate war in recent decades, and that the spread of American values has made the U.S. more secure and influential, a less democratic world will also be a more dangerous world.
Second, a spheres-of-influence world would be less open to American commerce and investment. After all, the United States itself saw geoeconomic dominance in Latin America as the necessary counterpart to geopolitical dominance. Why would China take a less self-interested approach? China already reaps the advantages of an open global economy even as it embraces protectionism and mercantilism. In a Chinese-dominated East Asia, all economic roads will surely lead to Beijing, as Chinese officials will be able to use their leverage to ensure that trade and investment flows are oriented toward China and geopolitical competitors like the United States are left on the outside. Beijing’s current geoeconomic projects—namely, RCEP and the Belt and Road Initiative—offer insight into a regional economic future in which flows of commerce and investment are subject to heavy Chinese influence.
Third, as spheres of influence reemerge, the United States will be less able to shape critical geopolitical events in crucial regions. The reason Washington has long taken an interest in events in faraway places is that East Asia, Europe, and the Middle East are the areas from which major security challenges have emerged in the past. Since World War II, America’s forward military presence has been intended to suppress incipient threats and instability; that presence has gone hand in glove with energetic diplomacy that amplifies America’s voice and protects U.S. interests. In a spheres-of-influence world, Washington would no longer enjoy the ability to act with decisive effect in these regions; it would find itself reacting to global events rather than molding them.
This leads to a final, and crucial, issue. America would be more likely to find its core security interests challenged because world orders based on rival spheres of influence have rarely been as peaceful and settled as one might imagine.
To see this, just work backward from the present. During the Cold War, a bipolar balance did help avert actual war between Moscow and Washington. But even in Europe—where the spheres of influence were best defined—there were continual tensions and crises as Moscow tested the Western bloc. And outside Europe, violence and proxy wars were common as the superpowers competed to extend their reach into the Third World. In the 1930s, the emergence of German and Japanese spheres of influence led to the most catastrophic war in global history. The empires of the 19th century—spheres of influence in their own right—continually jostled one another, leading to wars and near-wars over the course of decades; the Peace of Amiens between England and Napoleonic France lasted a mere 14 months. And looking back to the ancient world, there were not one, but three Punic Wars fought between Rome and Carthage as two expanding empires came into conflict. A world defined by spheres of influence is often a world characterized by tensions, wars, and competition.
The reasons for this are simple. As the political scientist William Wohlforth observed, unipolar systems—such as the U.S.-dominated post–Cold War order—are anchored by a hegemonic power that can act decisively to maintain the peace. In a unipolar system, Wohlforth writes, there are few incentives for revisionist powers to incur the “focused enmity” of the leading state. Truly multipolar systems, by contrast, have often been volatile. When the major powers are more evenly matched, there is a greater temptation to aggression by those who seek to change the existing order of things. And seek to change things they undoubtedly will.
The idea that spheres of influence are stabilizing holds only if one assumes that the major powers are motivated only by insecurity and that concessions to the revisionists will therefore lead to peace. Churchill described this as the idea that if one “feeds the crocodile enough, the crocodile will eat him last.”
Unfortunately, today’s rising or resurgent powers are also motivated—as is America—by honor, ambition, and the timeless desire to make their international habitats reflect their own interests and ideals. It is a risky gamble indeed, then, to think that ceding Russia or China an uncontested sphere of influence would turn a revisionist authoritarian regime into a satisfied power. The result, as Robert Kagan has noted, might be to embolden those actors all the more, by giving them freer rein to bring their near-abroads under control, greater latitude and resources to pursue their ambitions, and enhanced confidence that the U.S.-led order is fracturing at its foundations. For China, dominance over the first island chain might simply intensify desires to achieve primacy in the second island chain and beyond; for Russia, renewed mastery in the former Soviet space could lead to desires to bring parts of the former Warsaw Pact to heel, as well. To observe how China is developing ever longer-range anti-access/area denial capabilities, or how Russia has been projecting military power ever farther afield, is to see this process in action.T he reemergence of a spheres-of-influence world would thus undercut one of the great historical achievements of U.S. foreign policy: the creation of a system in which America is the dominant power in each major geopolitical region and can act decisively to shape events and protect its interests. It would foster an environment in which democratic values are less prominent, authoritarian models are ascendant, and mercantilism advances as economic openness recedes. And rather than leading to multipolar stability, this change could simply encourage greater revisionism on the part of powers whose appetite grows with the eating. This would lead the world away from the relative stability of the post–Cold War era and back into the darker environment it seemed to have relegated to history a quarter-century ago. The phrase “spheres of influence” may sound vaguely theoretical and benign, but its real-world effects are likely to be tangible and pernicious.
Fortunately, the return of a spheres-of-influence world is not yet inevitable. Even as some nations will accept incorporation into a Chinese or Russian sphere of influence as the price of avoiding conflict, or maintaining access to critical markets and resources, others will resist because they see their own well-being as dependent on the preservation of the world order that Washington has long worked to create. The Philippines and Cambodia seem increasingly to fall into the former group; Poland and Japan, among many others, make up the latter. The willingness of even this latter group to take actions that risk incurring Beijing and Moscow’s wrath, however, will be constantly calibrated against an assessment of America’s own ability to continue leading the resistance to a spheres-of-influence world. Averting that outcome is becoming steadily harder, as the relative power and ambition of America’s authoritarian rivals rise and U.S. leadership seems to falter.
Harder, but not impossible. The United States and its allies still command a significant preponderance of global wealth and power. And the political, economic, and military weaknesses of its challengers are legion. It is far from fated, then, that the Western Pacific and Eastern Europe will slip into China’s and Russia’s respective orbits. With sufficient creativity and determination, Washington and its partners might still be able to resist the return of a dangerous global system. Doing so will require difficult policy work in the military, economic, and diplomatic realms. But ideas precede policy, and so simply rediscovering the venerable tradition of American hostility to spheres of influence—and no less, the powerful logic on which that tradition is based—would be a good start.
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What does the man with the baton actually do?
Why, then, are virtually all modern professional orchestras led by well-paid conductors instead of performing on their own? It’s an interesting question. After all, while many celebrity conductors are highly trained and knowledgeable, there have been others, some of them legendary, whose musical abilities were and are far more limited. It was no secret in the world of classical music that Serge Koussevitzky, the music director of the Boston Symphony from 1924 to 1949, found it difficult to read full orchestral scores and sometimes learned how to lead them in public by first practicing with a pair of rehearsal pianists whom he “conducted” in private.
Yet recordings show that Koussevitzky’s interpretations of such complicated pieces of music as Aaron Copland’s El Salón México and Maurice Ravel’s orchestral transcription of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition (both of which he premiered and championed) were immensely characterful and distinctive. What made them so? Was it the virtuosic playing of the Boston Symphony alone? Or did Koussevitzky also bring something special to these performances—and if so, what was it?
Part of what makes this question so tricky to answer is that scarcely any well-known conductors have spoken or written in detail about what they do. Only two conductors of the first rank, Thomas Beecham and Bruno Walter, have left behind full-length autobiographies, and neither one features a discussion of its author’s technical methods. For this reason, the publication of John Mauceri’s Maestros and Their Music: The Art and Alchemy of Conducting will be of special interest to those who, like my friend, wonder exactly what it is that conductors contribute to the performances that they lead.1
An impeccable musical journeyman best known for his lively performances of film music with the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra, Mauceri has led most of the world’s top orchestras. He writes illuminatingly about his work in Maestros and Their Music, leavening his discussions of such matters as the foibles of opera directors and music critics with sharply pointed, sometimes gossipy anecdotes. Most interesting of all, though, are the chapters in which he talks about what conductors do on the podium. To read Maestros and Their Music is to come away with a much clearer understanding of what its author calls the “strange and lawless world” of conducting—and to understand how conductors whose technique is deficient to the point of seeming incompetence can still give exciting performances.P rior to the 19th century, conductors of the modern kind did not exist. Orchestras were smaller then—most of the ensembles that performed Mozart’s symphonies and operas contained anywhere from two to three dozen players—and their concerts were “conducted” either by the leader of the first violins or by the orchestra’s keyboard player.
As orchestras grew larger in response to the increasing complexity of 19th-century music, however, it became necessary for a full-time conductor both to rehearse them and to control their public performances, normally by standing on a podium placed in front of the musicians and beating time in the air with a baton. Most of the first men to do so were composers, including Hector Berlioz, Felix Mendelssohn, and Richard Wagner. By the end of the century, however, it was becoming increasingly common for musicians to specialize in conducting, and some of them, notably Arthur Nikisch and Arturo Toscanini, came to be regarded as virtuosos in their own right. Since then, only three important composers—Benjamin Britten, Leonard Bernstein, and Pierre Boulez—have also pursued parallel careers as world-class conductors. Every other major conductor of the 20th century was a specialist.
What did these men do in front of an orchestra? Mauceri’s description of the basic physical process of conducting is admirably straightforward:
The right hand beats time; that is, it sets the tempo or pulse of the music. It can hold a baton. The left hand turns pages [in the orchestral score], cues instrumentalists with an invitational or pointing gesture, and generally indicates the quality of the notes (percussive, smoothly linked, sustained, etc.).
Beyond these elements, though, all bets are off. Most of the major conductors of the 20th century were filmed in performance, and what one sees in these films is so widely varied that it is impossible to generalize about what constitutes a good conducting technique.2 Most of them used batons, but several, including Boulez and Leopold Stokowski, conducted with their bare hands. Bernstein and Beecham gestured extravagantly, even wildly, while others, most famously Fritz Reiner, restricted themselves to tightly controlled hand movements. Toscanini beat time in a flowing, beautifully expressive way that made his musical intentions self-evident, but Wilhelm Furtwängler and Herbert von Karajan often conducted so unclearly that it is hard to see how the orchestras they led were able to follow them. (One exasperated member of the London Philharmonic claimed, partly in jest, that Furtwängler’s baton signaled the start of a piece “only after the thirteenth preliminary wiggle.”) Conductors of the Furtwängler sort tend to be at their best in front of orchestras with which they have worked for many years and whose members have learned from experience to “speak” their gestural language fluently.
Nevertheless, all of these men were pursuing the same musical goals. Beyond stopping and starting a given piece, it is the job of a conductor to decide how it will be interpreted. How loud should the middle section of the first movement be—and ought the violins to be playing a bit softer so as not to drown out the flutes? Someone must answer questions such as these if a performance is not to sound indecisive or chaotic, and it is far easier for one person to do so than for 100 people to vote on each decision.
Above all, a conductor controls the tempo of a performance, varying it from moment to moment as he sees fit. It is impossible for a full-sized symphony orchestra to play a piece with any degree of rhythmic flexibility unless a conductor is controlling the performance from the podium. Bernstein put it well when he observed in a 1955 TV special that “the conductor is a kind of sculptor whose element is time instead of marble.” These “sculptural” decisions are subjective, since traditional musical notation cannot be matched with exactitude. As Mauceri reminds us, Toscanini and Beecham both recorded La Bohème, having previously discussed their interpretations with Giacomo Puccini, the opera’s composer, and Toscanini conducted its 1896 premiere. Yet Beecham’s performance is 14 minutes longer than Toscanini’s. Who is “right”? It is purely a matter of individual taste, since both interpretations are powerfully persuasive.
Beyond the not-so-basic task of setting, maintaining, and varying tempos, it is the job of a conductor to inspire an orchestra—to make its members play with a charged precision that transcends mere unanimity. The first step in doing so is to persuade the players of his musical competence. If he cannot run a rehearsal efficiently, they will soon grow bored and lose interest; if he does not know the score in detail, they will not take him seriously. This requires extensive preparation on the part of the conductor, and an orchestra can tell within seconds of the downbeat whether he is adequately prepared—a fact that every conductor knows. “I’m extremely humble about whatever gifts I may have, but I am not modest about the work I do,” Bernstein once told an interviewer. “I work extremely hard and all the time.”
All things being equal, it is better than not for a conductor to have a clear technique, if only because it simplifies and streamlines the process of rehearsing an orchestra. Fritz Reiner, who taught Bernstein among others, did not exaggerate when he claimed that he and his pupils could “stand up [in front of] an orchestra they have never seen before and conduct correctly a new piece at first sight without verbal explanation and by means only of manual technique.”
While orchestra players prefer this kind of conducting, a conductor need not have a technique as fully developed as that of a Reiner or Bernstein if he knows how to rehearse effectively. Given sufficient rehearsal time, decisive and unambiguous verbal instructions will produce the same results as a virtuoso stick technique. This was how Willem Mengelberg and George Szell distinguished themselves on the podium. Their techniques were no better than adequate, but they rehearsed so meticulously that their performances were always brilliant and exact.
It also helps to supply the members of the orchestra with carefully marked orchestra parts. Beecham’s manual technique was notoriously messy, but he marked his musical intentions into each player’s part so clearly and precisely that simply reading the music on the stand would produce most of the effects that he desired.
What players do not like is to be lectured. They want to be told what to do and, if absolutely necessary, how to do it, at which point the wise conductor will stop talking and start conducting. Mauceri recalls the advice given to a group of student conductors by Joseph Silverstein, the concertmaster of the Boston Symphony: “Don’t talk to us about blue skies. Just tell us ‘longer-shorter,’ ‘faster-slower,’ ‘higher-lower.’” Professional musicians cannot abide flowery speeches about the inner meaning of a piece of music, though they will readily respond to a well-turned metaphor. Mauceri makes this point with a Toscanini anecdote:
One of Toscanini’s musicians told me of a moment in a rehearsal when the sound the NBC Symphony was giving him was too heavy. … In this case, without saying a word, he reached into his pocket and took out his silk handkerchief, tossed it into the air, and everyone watched it slowly glide to earth. After seeing that, the orchestra played the same passage exactly as Toscanini wanted.
Conducting, like all acts of leadership, is in large part a function of character. The violinist Carl Flesch went so far as to call it “the only musical activity in which a dash of charlatanism is not only harmless, but positively necessary.” While that is putting it too cynically, Flesch was on to something. I did a fair amount of conducting in college, but even though I practiced endlessly in front of a mirror and spent hours poring over my scores, I lacked the personal magnetism without which no conductor can hope to be more than merely competent at best.
On the other hand, a talented musician with a sufficiently compelling personality can turn himself into a conductor more or less overnight. Toscanini had never conducted an orchestra before making his unrehearsed debut in a performance of Verdi’s Aida at the age of 19, yet the players hastened to do his musical bidding. I once saw the modern-dance choreographer Mark Morris, whose knowledge of classical music is profound, lead a chorus and orchestra in the score to Gloria, a dance he had made in 1981 to a piece by Vivaldi. It was no stunt: Morris used a baton and a score and controlled the performance with the assurance of a seasoned pro. Not only did he have a strong personality, but he had also done his musical homework, and he knew that one was as important as the other.
The reverse, however, is no less true: The success of conductors like Serge Koussevitzky is at least as much a function of their personalities as of their preparation. To be sure, Koussevitzky had been an instrumental virtuoso (he played the double bass) before taking up conducting, but everyone who worked with him in later years was aware of his musical limitations. Yet he was still capable of imposing his larger-than-life personality on players who might well have responded indifferently to his conducting had he been less charismatic. Leopold Stokowski functioned in much the same way. He was widely thought by his peers to have been far more a showman than an artist, to the point that Toscanini contemptuously dismissed him as a “clown.” But he had, like Koussevitzky, a richly romantic musical imagination coupled with the showmanship of a stage actor, and so the orchestras that he led, however skeptical they might be about his musical seriousness, did whatever he wanted.
All great conductors share this same ability to impose their will on an orchestra—and that, after all, is the heart of the matter. A conductor can be effective only if the orchestra does what he wants. It is not like a piano, whose notes automatically sound when the keys are pressed, but a living organism with a will of its own. Conducting, then, is first and foremost an act of persuasion, as Mauceri acknowledges:
The person who stands before a symphony orchestra is charged with something both impossible and improbable. The impossible part is herding a hundred musicians to agree on something, and the improbable part is that one does it by waving one’s hands in the air.
This is why so many famous conductors have claimed that the art of conducting cannot be taught. In the deepest sense, they are right. To be sure, it is perfectly possible, as Reiner did, to teach the rudiments of clear stick technique and effective rehearsal practice. But the mystery at the heart of conducting is, indeed, unteachable: One cannot tell a budding young conductor how to cultivate a magnetic personality, any more than an actor can be taught how to have star quality. What sets the Bernsteins and Bogarts of the world apart from the rest of us is very much like what James M. Barrie said of feminine charm in What Every Woman Knows: “If you have it, you don’t need to have anything else; and if you don’t have it, it doesn’t much matter what else you have.”
2 Excerpts from many of these films were woven together into a two-part BBC documentary, The Art of Conducting, which is available on home video and can also be viewed in its entirety on YouTube
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Not that he tries. What was remarkable about the condescension in this instance was that Franken directed it at women who accused him of behaving “inappropriately” toward them. (In an era of strictly enforced relativism, we struggle to find our footing in judging misbehavior, so we borrow words from the prissy language of etiquette. The mildest and most common rebuke is unfortunate, followed by the slightly more serious inappropriate, followed by the ultimate reproach: unacceptable, which, depending on the context, can include both attempted rape and blowing your nose into your dinner napkin.) Franken’s inappropriateness entailed, so to speak, squeezing the bottoms of complete strangers, and cupping the occasional breast.
Franken himself did not use the word “inappropriate.” By his account, he had done nothing to earn the title. His earlier vague denials of the allegations, he told his fellow senators, “gave some people the false impression that I was admitting to doing things that, in fact, I haven’t done.” How could he have confused people about such an important matter? Doggone it, it’s that damn sensitivity of his. The nation was beginning a conversation about sexual harassment—squeezing strangers’ bottoms, stuff like that—and “I wanted to be respectful of that broader conversation because all women deserve to be heard and their experiences taken seriously.”
Well, not all women. The women with those bottoms and breasts he supposedly manhandled, for example—their experiences don’t deserve to be taken seriously. We’ve got Al’s word on it. “Some of the allegations against me are not true,” he said. “Others, I remember very differently.” His accusers, in other words, fall into one of two camps: the liars and the befuddled. You know how women can be sometimes. It might be a hormonal thing.
But enough about them, Al seemed to be saying: Let’s get back to Al. “I know the work I’ve been able to do has improved people’s lives,” Franken said, but he didn’t want to get into any specifics. “I have used my power to be a champion of women.” He has faith in his “proud legacy of progressive advocacy.” He’s been passionate and worked hard—not for himself, mind you, but for his home state of Minnesota, by which he’s “blown away.” And yes, he would get tired or discouraged or frustrated once in a while. But then that big heart of his would well up: “I would think about the people I was doing this for, and it would get me back on my feet.” Franken recently published a book about himself: Giant of the Senate. I had assumed the title was ironic. Now I’m not sure.
Yet even in his flights of self-love, the problem that has ever attended Senator Franken was still there. You can’t take him seriously. He looks as though God made him to be a figure of fun. Try as he might, his aspect is that of a man who is going to try to make you laugh, and who is built for that purpose and no other—a close cousin to Bert Lahr or Chris Farley. And for years, of course, that’s the part he played in public life, as a writer and performer on Saturday Night Live. When he announced nine years ago that he would return to Minnesota and run for the Senate—when he came out of the closet and tried to present himself as a man of substance—the effect was so disorienting that I, and probably many others, never quite recovered. As a comedian-turned-politician, he was no longer the one and could never quite become the other.
The chubby cheeks and the perpetual pucker, the slightly crossed eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses, the rounded, diminutive torso straining to stay upright under the weight of an enormous head—he was the very picture of Comedy Boy, and suddenly he wanted to be something else: Politics Boy. I have never seen the famously tasteless tearjerker The Day the Clown Cried, in which Jerry Lewis stars as a circus clown imprisoned in a Nazi death camp, but I’m sure watching it would be a lot like watching the ex-funnyman Franken deliver a speech about farm price supports.
Then he came to Washington and slipped right into place. His career is testament to a dreary fact of life here: Taken in the mass, senators are pretty much interchangeable. Party discipline determines nearly every vote they cast. Only at the margins is one Democrat or Republican different in a practical sense from another Democrat or Republican. Some of us held out hope, despite the premonitory evidence, that Franken might use his professional gifts in service of his new job. Yet so desperate was he to be taken seriously that he quickly passed serious and swung straight into obnoxious. It was a natural fit. In no time at all, he mastered the senatorial art of asking pointless or showy questions in committee hearings, looming from his riser over fumbling witnesses and hollering “Answer the question!” when they didn’t respond properly.
It’s not hard to be a good senator, if you have the kind of personality that frees you to simulate chumminess with people you scarcely know or have never met and will probably never see again. There’s not much to it. A senator has a huge staff to satisfy his every need. There are experts to give him brief, personal tutorials on any subject he will be asked about, writers to write his questions for his committee hearings and an occasional op-ed if an idea strikes him, staffers to arrange his travel and drive him here or there, political aides to guard his reputation with the folks back home, press aides to regulate his dealings with reporters, and legislative aides to write the bills should he ever want to introduce any. The rest is show biz.
Oddly, Franken was at his worst precisely when he was handling the show-biz aspects of his job. While his inquisitions in committee hearings often showed the obligatory ferocity and indignation, he could also appear baffled and aimless. His speeches weren’t much good, and he didn’t deliver them well. As if to prove the point, he published a collection of them earlier this year, Speaking Franken. Until Pearl Harbor, he’d been showing signs of wanting to run for president. Liberal pundits were talking him up as a national candidate. Speaking Franken was likely intended to do for him what Profiles in Courage did for John Kennedy, another middling senator with presidential longings. Unfortunately for Franken, Ted Sorensen is still dead.
The final question raised by Franken’s resignation is why so many fellow Democrats urged him to give up his seat so suddenly, once his last accuser came forward. The consensus view involved Roy Moore, in those dark days when he was favored to win Alabama’s special election. With the impending arrival of an accused pedophile on the Republican side of the aisle, Democrats didn’t want an accused sexual harasser in their own ranks to deflect what promised to be a relentless focus on the GOP’s newest senator. This is bad news for any legacy Franken once hoped for himself. None of his work as a senator will commend him to history. He will be remembered instead for two things: as a minor TV star, and as Roy Moore’s oldest victim.
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Review of 'Lioness' By Francine Klagsbrun
Golda Meir, Israel’s fourth prime minister, moved to Palestine from America in 1921, at the age of 22, to pursue Socialist Zionism. She was instrumental in transforming the Jewish people into a state; signed that state’s Declaration of Independence; served as its first ambassador to the Soviet Union, as labor minister for seven years, and as foreign minister for a decade. In 1969, she became the first female head of state in the Western world, serving from the aftermath of the 1967 Six-Day War and through the nearly catastrophic but ultimately victorious 1973 Yom Kippur War. She resigned in 1974 at the age of 76, after five years as prime minister. Her involvement at the forefront of Zionism and the leadership of Israel thus extended more than half a century.
This is the second major biography of Golda Meir in the last decade, after Elinor Burkett’s excellent Golda in 2008. Klagsbrun’s portrait is even grander in scope. Her epigraph comes from Ezekiel’s lamentation for Israel: What a lioness was your mother / Among the lions! / Crouching among the great beasts / She reared her cubs. The “mother” was Israel; the “cubs,” her many ancient kings; the “great beasts,” the hostile nations surrounding her. One finishes Klagsbrun’s monumental volume, which is both a biography of Golda and a biography of Israel in her time, with a deepened sense that modern Israel, its prime ministers, and its survival is a story of biblical proportions.Golda Meir’s story spans three countries—Russia, America, and Israel. Before she was Golda Meir, she was Golda Meyerson; and before that, she was Golda Mabovitch, born in 1898 in Kiev in the Russian Empire. Her father left for America after the horrific Kishinev pogrom in 1903, found work in Milwaukee as a carpenter, and in 1906 sent for his wife and three daughters, who escaped using false identities and border bribes. Golda said later that what she took from Russia was “fear, hunger and fear.” It was an existential fear that she never forgot.
In Milwaukee, Golda found socialism in the air: The city had both a socialist mayor and a socialist congressman, and she was enthralled by news from Palestine, where Jews were living out socialist ideals in kibbutzim. She immersed herself in Poalei Zion (Workers of Zion), a movement synthesizing Zionism and socialism, and in 1917 married a fellow socialist, Morris Meyerson. As soon as conditions permitted, they moved to Palestine, where the marriage ultimately failed—a casualty of the extended periods she spent away from home working for Socialist Zionism and her admission that the cause was more important to her than her husband and children. Klagsbrun writes that Meir might appear to be the consummate feminist: She asserted her independence from her husband, traveled continually and extensively on her own, left her husband and children for months to pursue her work, and demanded respect as an individual rather than on special standards based on her gender. But she never considered herself a feminist and indeed denigrated women’s organizations as reducing issues to women’s interests only, and she gave minimal assistance to other women. Klagsbrun concludes that questions about Meir as a feminist figure ultimately “hang in the air.”
Her American connection and her unaccented American English became strategic assets for Zionism. She understood American Jews, spoke their language, and conducted many fundraising trips to the United States, tirelessly raising tens of millions of dollars of critically needed funds. David Ben-Gurion called her the “woman who got the money which made the state possible.” Klagsbrun provides the schedule of her 1932 trip as an example of her efforts: Over the course of a single month, the 34-year-old Zionist pioneer traveled to Kansas City, Tulsa, Dallas, San Antonio, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, and three cities in Canada. She became the face of Zionism in America—“The First Lady,” in the words of a huge banner at a later Chicago event, “of the Jewish People.” She connected with American Jews in a way no other Zionist leader had done before her.
In her own straightforward way, she mobilized the English language and sent it into battle for Zionism. While Abba Eban denigrated her poor Hebrew—“She has a vocabulary of two thousand words, okay, but why doesn’t she use them?”—she had a way of crystallizing issues in plainspoken English. Of British attempts to prevent the growth of the Jewish community in Palestine, she said Britain “should remember that Jews were here 2,000 years before the British came.” Of expressions of sympathy for Israel: “There is only one thing I hope to see before I die, and that is that my people should not need expressions of sympathy anymore.” And perhaps her most famous saying: “Peace will come when the Arabs love their children more than they hate us.”
Once she moved to the Israeli foreign ministry, she changed her name from Meyerson to Meir, in response to Ben-Gurion’s insistence that ministers assume Israeli names. She began a decade-long tenure there as the voice and face of Israel in the world. At a Madison Square Garden rally after the 1967 Six-Day War, she observed sardonically that the world called Israelis “a wonderful people,” complimented them for having prevailed “against such odds,” and yet wanted Israel to give up what it needed for its self-defense:
“Now that they have won this battle, let them go back where they came from, so that the hills of Syria will again be open for Syrian guns; so that Jordanian Legionnaires, who shoot and shell at will, can again stand on the towers of the Old City of Jerusalem; so that the Gaza Strip will again become a place from which infiltrators are sent to kill and ambush.” … Is there anybody who has the boldness to say to the Israelis: “Go home! Begin preparing your nine and ten year olds for the next war, perhaps in ten years.”
The next war would come not in ten years, but in six, and while Meir was prime minister.
Klagsbrun’s extended discussion of Meir’s leadership before, during, and after the 1973 Yom Kippur War is one of the most valuable parts of her book, enabling readers to make informed judgments about that war and assess Meir’s ultimate place in Israeli history. The book makes a convincing case that there was no pre-war “peace option” that could have prevented the conflict. Egypt’s leader, Anwar Sadat, was insisting on a complete Israeli withdrawal before negotiations could even begin, and Meir’s view was, “We had no peace with the old boundaries. How can we have peace by returning to them?” She considered the demand part of a plan to push Israel back to the ’67 lines “and then bring the Palestinians back, which means no more Israel.”
A half-century later, after three Israeli offers of a Palestinian state on substantially all the disputed territories—with the Palestinians rejecting each offer, insisting instead on an Israeli retreat to indefensible lines and recognition of an alleged Palestinian “right of return”—Meir’s view looks prescient.
Klagsbrun’s day-by-day description of the ensuing war is largely favorable to Meir, who relied on assurances from her defense minister, Moshe Dayan, that the Arabs would not attack, and assurances from her intelligence community that, even if they did, Israel would have a 48-hour notice—enough time to mobilize the reserves that constituted more than 75 percent of its military force. Both sets of assurances proved false, and the joint Egyptian-Syrian attack took virtually everyone in Israel by surprise. Dayan had something close to a mental breakdown, but Meir remained calm and in control after the initial shock, making key military decisions. She was able to rely on the excellent personal relationships she had established with President Nixon and his national security adviser, Henry Kissinger, and the critical resupply of American arms that enabled Israel—once its reserves were called into action—to take the war into Egyptian and Syrian territories, with Israeli forces camped in both countries by its end.
Meir had resisted the option of a preemptive strike against Egypt and Syria when it suddenly became clear, 12 hours before the war started, that coordinated Egyptian and Syrian attacks were coming. On the second day of the war, she told her war cabinet that she regretted not having authorized the IDF to act, and she sent a message to Kissinger that Israel’s “failure to take such action is the reason for our situation now.” After the war, however, she testified that, had Israel begun the war, the U.S. would not have sent the crucial assistance that Israel needed (a point on which Kissinger agreed), and that she therefore believed she had done the right thing. A preemptive response, however, or a massive call-up of the reserves in the days before the attacks, might have avoided a war in which Israel lost 2,600 soldiers—the demographic equivalent of all the American losses in the Vietnam War.
It is hard to fault Meir’s decision, given the erroneous information and advice she was uniformly receiving from all her defense and intelligence subordinates, but it is a reminder that for Israeli prime ministers (such as Levi Eshkol in the Six-Day War, Menachem Begin with the Iraq nuclear reactor in 1981, and Ehud Olmert with the Syrian one in 2007), the potential necessity of taking preemptive action always hangs in the air. Klagsbrun’s extensive discussion of the Yom Kippur War is a case study of that question, and an Israeli prime minister may yet again face that situation.
The Meir story is also a tale of the limits of socialism as an organizing principle for the modern state. Klagsbrun writes about “Golda’s persistent—and hopelessly utopian—vision of how a socialist society should be conducted,” exemplified by her dream of instituting commune-like living arrangements for urban families, comparable to those in the kibbutzim, where all adults would share common kitchens and all the children would eat at school. She also tried to institute a family wage system, in which people would be paid according to their needs rather than their talents, a battle she lost when the unionized nurses insisted on being paid as professionals, based on their education and experience, and not the sizes of their families.
Socialism foundered not only on the laws of economics and human nature but also in the realm of foreign relations. In 1973, enraged that the socialist governments and leaders in Europe had refused to come to Israel’s aid during the Yom Kippur War, Meir convened a special London conference of the Socialist International, attended by eight heads of state and a dozen other socialist-party leaders. Before the conference, she told Willy Brandt, Germany’s socialist chancellor, that she wanted “to hear for myself, with my own ears, what it was that kept the heads of these socialist governments from helping us.”
In her speech at the conference, she criticized the Europeans for not even permitting “refueling the [American] planes that saved us from destruction.” Then she told them, “I just want to understand …what socialism is really about today”:
We are all old comrades, long-standing friends. … Believe me, I am the last person to belittle the fact that we are only one tiny Jewish state and that there are over twenty Arab states with vast territories, endless oil, and billions of dollars. But what I want to know from you today is whether these things are the decisive factors in Socialist thinking, too?
After she concluded her speech, the chairman asked whether anyone wanted to reply. No one did, and she thus effectively received her answer.
One wonders what Meir would think of the Socialist International today. On the centenary of the Balfour Declaration last year, the World Socialist website called it “a sordid deal” that launched “a nakedly colonial project.” Socialism was part of the cause for which she went to Palestine in 1921, and it has not fared well in history’s judgment. But the other half—
Zionism—became one of the great successes of the 20th century, in significant part because of the lifelong efforts of individuals such as she.
Golda Meir has long been a popular figure in the American imagination, particularly among American Jews. Her ghostwritten autobiography was a bestseller; Ingrid Bergman played her in a well-received TV film; Anne Bancroft played her on the Broadway stage. But her image as the “71-year old grandmother,” as the press frequently referred to her when she became prime minister, has always obscured the historic leader beneath that façade. She was a woman with strengths and weaknesses who willed herself into half a century of history. Francine Klagsbrun has given us a magisterial portrait of a lioness in full.
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Back in 2016, then–deputy national-security adviser Ben Rhodes gave an extraordinary interview to the New York Times Magazine in which he revealed how President Obama exploited a clueless and deracinated press to steamroll opposition to the Iranian nuclear deal. “We created an echo chamber,” Rhodes told journalist David Samuels. “They”—writers and bloggers and pundits—“were saying things that validated what we had given them to say.”
Rhodes went on to explain that his job was made easier by structural changes in the media, such as the closing of foreign bureaus, the retirement of experienced editors and correspondents, and the shift from investigative reporting to aggregation. “The average reporter we talk to is 27 years old, and their only reporting experience consists of being around political campaigns,” he said. “That’s a sea change. They literally know nothing.”
And they haven’t learned much. It was dispiriting to watch in December as journalists repeated arguments against the Jerusalem decision presented by Rhodes on Twitter. On December 5, quoting Mahmoud Abbas’s threat that moving the U.S. Embassy to Jerusalem would have “dangerous consequences,” Rhodes tweeted, “Trump seems to view all foreign policy as an extension of a patchwork of domestic policy positions, with no regard for the consequences of his actions.” He seemed blissfully unaware that the same could be said of his old boss.
The following day, Rhodes tweeted, “In addition to making goal of peace even less possible, Trump is risking huge blowback against the U.S. and Americans. For no reason other than a political promise he doesn’t even understand.” On December 8, quoting from a report that the construction of a new American Embassy would take some time, Rhodes asked, “Then why cause an international crisis by announcing it?”
Rhodes made clear his talking points for the millions of people inclined to criticize President Trump: Acknowledging Israel’s right to name its own capital is unnecessary and self-destructive. Rhodes’s former assistant, Ned Price, condensed the potential lines of attack in a single tweet on December 5. “In order to cater to his political base,” Price wrote, “Trump appears willing to: put U.S. personnel at great risk; risk C-ISIL [counter-ISIL] momentum; destabilize a regional ally; strain global alliances; put Israeli-Palestinian peace farther out of reach.”
Prominent media figures happily reprised their roles in the echo chamber. Susan Glasser of Politico: “Just got this in my in box from Ayman Odeh, leading Arab Israeli member of parliament: ‘Trump is a pyromaniac who could set the entire region on fire with his madness.’” BBC reporter Julia Merryfarlane: “Whether related or not, everything that happens from now on in Israel and the Pal territories will be examined in the context of Trump signaling to move the embassy to Jerusalem.” Neither Rhodes nor Price could have asked for more.
Network news broadcasts described the president’s decision as “controversial” but only reported on the views of one side in the controversy. Guess which one. “There have already been some demonstrations,” reported NBC’s Richard Engel. “They are expected to intensify, with Palestinians calling for three days of rage if President Trump goes through with it.” Left unmentioned was the fact that Hamas calls for days of rage like you and I call for pizza.
Throughout Engel’s segment, the chyron read: “Controversial decision could lead to upheaval.” On ABC, George Stephanopoulos said, “World leaders call the decision dangerous.” On CBS, Gayle King chimed in: “U.S. allies and leaders around the world say it’s a big mistake that will torpedo any chance of Middle East peace.” Oh? What were the chances of Middle East peace prior to Trump’s speech?
On CNN, longtime peace processor Aaron David Miller likened recognizing Jerusalem to hitting “somebody over the head with a hammer.” On MSNBC, Chris Matthews fumed: “Deaths are coming.” That same network featured foreign-policy gadfly Steven Clemons of the Atlantic, who said Trump “stuck a knife in the back of the two-state process.” Price and former Obama official Joel Rubin also appeared on the network to denounce Trump. “American credibility is shot, and in diplomacy, credibility relies on your word, and our word is, at this moment, not to be trusted from a peace-process perspective, certainly,” Rubin said. This from the administration that gave new meaning to the words “red line.”
Some journalists were so devoted to Rhodes’s tendentious narrative of Trump’s selfishness and heedlessness that they mangled the actual story. “He had promised this day would come, but to hear these words from the White House was jaw-dropping,” said Martha Raddatz of ABC. “Not only signing a proclamation reversing nearly 70 years of U.S. policy, but starting plans to move the embassy to Jerusalem. No one else on earth has an embassy there!” How dare America take a brave stand for a small and threatened democracy!
In fact, Trump was following U.S. policy as legislated by the Congress in 1995, reaffirmed in the Senate by a 90–0 vote just last June, and supported (in word if not in deed) by his three most recent predecessors as well as the last four Democratic party platforms. Most remarkable, the debate surrounding the Jerusalem policy ignored a crucial section of the president’s address. “We are not taking a position on any final-status issues,” he said, “including the specific boundaries of Israeli sovereignty in Jerusalem, or the resolution of contested borders. Those questions are up to the parties involved.” What we did then was simply accept the reality that the city that houses the Knesset and where the head of government receives foreign dignitaries is the capital of Israel.
However, just as had happened during the debate over the Iran deal, the facts were far less important to Rhodes than the overarching strategic goal. In this case, the objective was to discredit and undermine President Trump’s policy while isolating the conservative government of Israel. Yet there were plenty of reasons to be skeptical toward the disingenuous duo of Rhodes and Price. Trump’s announcement was bold, for sure, but the tepid protests from Arab capitals more worried about the rise of Iran, which Rhodes and Price facilitated, than the Palestinian issue suggested that the “Arab street” would sit this one out.
Which is what happened. Moreover, verbal disagreement aside, there is no evidence that the Atlantic alliance is in jeopardy. Nor has the war on ISIS lost momentum. As for putting “Israeli–Palestinian peace farther out of reach,” if third-party recognition of Jerusalem as Israel’s capital forecloses a deal, perhaps no deal was ever possible. Rhodes and Price would like us to overlook the fact that the two sides weren’t even negotiating during the Obama administration—an administration that did as much as possible to harm relations between Israel and the United States.
This most recent episode of the Trump show was a reminder that some things never change. Jerusalem was, is, and will be the capital of the Jewish state. President Trump routinely ignores conventional wisdom and expert opinion. And whatever nonsense President Obama and his allies say today, the press will echo tomorrow.