Volume CCXXXII, Number 23 July, 2002
Page 3
 There's nothing like lying down in the old hammock on a hot summer afternoon with a tall cool one and the Sox on the radio. Why spoil your summer idyll with a lousy book? Thanks to the Spy Review, you won't have to! |
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Why We Fight
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There's nothing more bracing than the spectacle of a public man boldly taking on an unpopular position. That's why you should reread this summer Arthur Schlesinger's The Coming of the New Deal. If you seek the spectacle of a Republican hack trying to retire the mortgage on his beach house by arguing that terrorism is a bad thing, then we've got the book for you. The case against terrorism has been made many times, indeed by everyone you've talked to since September 11, but only Bill Bennett has the nerve to charge a double sawbuck to opine that we're good and they're bad. Hard to disagree with that, but it doesn't tell you anything you couldn't pick up by watching reruns of Battlebots. Those of us not consumed by dashing off quickie bromides pleasing to our GOP buddies have had the time to ponder rather more complicated moral algebra: is it OK to support a country that backs terrorism in one country if it supports us fighting the terrorists we don't like? what about detaining American citizens without trial because they are believed to have consorted with terrorists? and how can we justify squandering limited resources better devoted to intelligence work on worthless missile "defense" systems? Sad to say, you'll have to wait for author Bennett to tackle those complex ethical issues. And wait. And wait.
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The Birth of Pleasure, by Carol Gilligan, Knopf $24, marked down to $16.86 
Satisfied Gilligan reader shown here about to "give birth" to pleasure, perhaps inspired by Carol's example. |
Getting more but enjoying it less? Don't worry, self-appointed savant Carol Gilligan has boldly declared herself in favor of pleasure. You're the sole heir to a substantial department-store fortune – enjoy it! You've managed to parlay a few anecdotes into a lifetime of academic success – wallow in it! You've got a penthouse in Greenwich Village and vacation homes in the Berkshires and on the Vineyard – flaunt it baby, flaunt it, flaunt it! Far be it for the Spy to declare itself against love and pleasure. But sometimes we should stop and think about the effects our relentless search for ecstasy have on the rest of us. You may have enjoyed yourself being photographed squatting on a chair with your gnarly toes leaping off the pages of the New York Times Magazine, but the rest of us lost our brunch. Don't get us wrong – we love pleasure. We love cashing royalty checks. It gives us great pleasure to show off all the old books we said we read. We just don't intend to spend real money to watch Carol Gilligan, um, pleasure herself.
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| A Life's Work
by Rachel Cusk, Picador, $22, marked down to $15.40 
Those little rugrats aren't the bowls of cherries they're cracked up to be, reports Cusk (shown here at home in Hants with baby Nigel) |
Former readable novelist Rachel Cusk joins the ranks of the unreadable with her new memoir about having a baby. Unlike all the other women (and men) in the world, Rachel got pretty ragged out keeping up with a small baby. Who knew? Sometimes she even despaired, although not so much that she forget to pad out her book with lengthy quotations from better books. Those less sensitive and/or literary than Mother Cusk might wonder what all the fuss was about. When the bundle of joy comes down the chimney, you don't need a first in greats to understand that it's good-bye to brittle conversation in swell Hampstead salons, nights at the National, and drinks paid for by your publisher. It's back to the country, or at least the Home Counties, for another episode of "Cold Comfort Farm," minus the laughs. Rachel inveighs against the monstrous cruelty of motherhood. Luckily her husband Simon was able to chase after the little rugrat so that Rachel could fill pages with her whinging. Perhaps equally fortunate, it will only be another year before the little monster is shipped off to public school and Rachel can finally mop herself off.
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| WHAT A SHAME, HE LOOKS SO LOVELY IN HEELS. Jacqueline Michelle Albert, a daughter of Benita Oberlander of Northport, N.Y. and the sports announcer Marv Albert of Manhattan was married last evening . . . . . The bride said her father, who was in a road accident last month as returned from a Philadelphia 76ers game, will make it to the wedding despite a broken foot, a broken ankle and bruises. "He's limping me down the aisle," she said. -- The New York Times, May 19, 2002, Sec. 9, at 12.
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