Robert Washington grew up in St. Louis. In 1974, when he was sixteen, he heard Elvis Presley in concert. Three years later, he was celebrating his nineteenth birthday in U.S. Marine Corps boot camp when word came that Elvis was dead. The coincidence felt significant.
For a while, many swore he was alive. He had faked his death to escape their love, the burden of which they freely acknowledged. Now that he is, someplace, eighty-seven years old, that notion has faded.
“You cannot understand America until you have been to Graceland,” a friend recently informed me, and I took it as a dare. This trip, timed to hit the end of Elvis Week, the day the King died (though no one could be sure) is an exploration for me, but a pilgrimage for most. Ribald as Chaucer, exhausting as the Camino de Santiago, solemn as the hajj.
Leaving one’s legs and underarms fuzzy is the new feminist statement. Yet the curious and disturbing appeal of prepubescence is still dictating the most private and uncomfortable shave of all.
WashU students scrubbed off the racist symbols as fast as they could, but the damage would cost $10,000 to repair. Meanwhile, the video Patriot Front made of the sabotage would be seen, liked, and shared by thousands. The destroyed mural is titled “The Story That Never Ends.”
The words we speak influence how we see the world both figuratively and literally, psycholinguists tell us. Certain words even trigger involuntary eye movements.
The endtimes is just one more stage in deep time.The phrase is all over the place these days, and it is well chosen. Deep time is mysterious; it implies the sort of reflection one does in a hammock on a lazy Sunday.
Wolf hunters rationalize the bloodlust as pragmatic, saying they are protecting their livestock or avenging their slaughter. The facts seldom bear this out. Instead, the electric thrill of the hunt comes from the archetype of the wolf as sworn enemy, sinister and sometimes supernatural.
You cannot use biased humans to design a bias-free system. You cannot feed vast databases filled with biased or distorted information into a computer program and expect a clean and pure result. And you cannot hand off the responsibility of judging human nature to a nonhuman entity. Why do we keep trying?
Usually I need coffee, pastry, and an uninterrupted hour to properly read one of L.M. Sacasas’s essays in The Convivial Society, a newsletter about technology, culture, and morality. They are dense, brilliant, and provocative, and they refuse to be skimmed. But recently Sacasas…
Paging slowly, almost reverently, I felt more than the curiosity “Affinities” does such a good job of provoking. I felt, to my surprise, peaceful. We have all been asking the same questions, living with the same flaws and troubles and joys, for centuries.
Enter the famously cocky French journalist and author Emmanuel Carrère. He is not stupid, though he can be full of himself, and he always notices what is going on. He pushes back in an essay called “The Journalist and the Murderer by Janet Malcolm.”