A Companion Through Grief

Suppose you wanted to meditate a little about grief. And maybe weigh up what the act of writing is really for: The impulse of authors, the result for readers. Suppose, for that matter, you also wanted to do some serious thinking about human nature and noodle about the nature of friendship.

The Science of Boldly Going Where We’ve Gone Before

All the way back in its first season, Saturday Night Live ran a parody of Star Trek. It was nothing really. Just a quick, one-off sketch. Still, the comedy show managed a little fond mockery of the hokey sets in the older science-fiction series, poked a little fun at the actors (especially William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy) who had chewed their way through the scenery of distant planets, and tweaked NBC for canceling Star Trek—an inside joke, since NBC was also hosting Saturday Night Live, which was at risk of its own cancellation in those early days.

Monstrous Interpretations

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein may be the most over-interpreted book ever written. First published in 1818, it’s a tale of the emerging 19th-century worries about death and grave robbing. Or maybe the book is a rejection of Faust—at least, a rejection of the way in which Goethe’s 1808 classic was understood in England: a tale of a heroic Enlightenment intellectual rising up above the ordinary rules of humanity.

The Fire This Time

As I write, the Black Hills are burning: over 70 square miles in the Legion Lake Fire, with a second fire starting at the French Creek horse camp and spreading through Wind Cave National Park toward the town of Buffalo Gap. For South Dakota’s national forest, the fire has proved devastating. But it’s just a blip when compared with the nearly 400 square miles now burning in California. The Thomas Fire, as it has been named, is already the fourth largest wildfire in California history, with a good chance to move up the rankings—and it follows the Tubbs Fire that blackened northern California and spread into the city of Santa Rosa at the end of October. The West, in other words, is a tinderbox, and this season the flames took hold.

The Virtual Is Not the Real

You can watch it on YouTube: the moment when Ronnie O’Sullivan, the most talented snooker player in the world, proves a good enough sport to try out a virtual-reality pool game for a software developer in California. He puts on the projecting headset like an oversized diver’s mask with the lenses blacked out, the haptic hand controls imitating a pool cue, and he studies the arrangement of the balls. Then he leans down to line up the shot on the virtual pool table—and promptly falls flat on his face, because the table isn’t, you know, actually there to support him. “@#$%&*,” he curses, “that’s scary.”

Remembering Stalin’s Hunger

History is the only laboratory we have in which to test the effect of ideas. Scientific knowledge may progress by abandoning its old notions and even forgetting them. But political knowledge—the interplay of regimes and policies and personalities—advances only while we recall the political arrangements of the past and what came of them. In the old adage of Dr. Johnson, humankind is far more often in need of being reminded than of being instructed.

Fraud, American Style

Poor Buncombe County, North Carolina: home to Asheville, mountainous scenery, Vanderbilt’s robber-baron Biltmore mansion—and along the way, the origin of words for chicanery, flim-flam, and deception. Bunkum, bunk, debunk, the Bunco Squads that police forces used to have: We needed a word for the patter, the polished spiel, of confidence swindlers, and the old British cozenage and French fourberie just didn’t seem to have the oomph that Americans wanted. And so (by a strange path that begins with a bit of 19th-century political bombast), we borrowed Buncombe’s name.

Um, Tell Me What You Mean

It’s like, you know, hard to speak quickly and fluently. To patter on without fillers and pauses. Without ums and ahhs. The testimony of practiced speakers—from political orators to the folks who get up at meetings of Toastmasters International—is that these dribbled bits of linguistic grouting can be scrubbed from speech, if we put in the work to teach ourselves to avoid them.

An Imperfect Portrait

John Banville is a very good writer. Henry James is an even better one. So what’s not to like about Banville’s latest effort—as he picks up where the Victorian novelist left off at the close of Portrait of a Lady, imagining the further adventures of James’s heroine, Isabel Archer?