Smackerels

Abstract Art: A Note for the Uninitiated

2018-09-11T00:00:00.000Z

Axis #5 (1936), by Herbert Read, p. 3.

The experience which this exhibition of abstract art is going to give you is not an unfamiliar one. If you are a sensitive person–and presumably none but those who like art of some kind will take the trouble to visit such an exhibition–there must have been many occasions in your life when you have seen, perhaps a broken column in the sunlight, perhaps the façade of a house you have passed a thousand times but which you suddenly see to be subtly “right,” perhaps one of those stones which peasants in various parts of the world pick up and keep because something in the shape “holds” them.

On all such occasions you are experiencing the kind of emotion which abstract art is intended to give you. You may argue that on occasions such as I have cited there are predisposing circumstances: the aura of antiquity round the broken column, the “period charm” of the house, the primitive instinct which guided the peasant in his choice. But art never exists in an emotional vacuum. We approach a work of art charged with all manner of habitual modes of thought and feeling, and it is only through the thicket of our prejudices that the æsthetic light can shine.

Strongest of all nowadays in the prejudice that a work of art must tell a story–a prejudice contradicted every time you look at a fine building with admiration. Unconsciously you are assuming that of all the plastic arts these two, painting and sculpture, should be segregated and confined to the business of telling a story. You deliberately ignore the illogicality of such a disintegration of the arts and of æesthetic sensibility. But art is one, and æsthetic sensibility is one–a mode of apprehension as old as mankind; and the only difficult is the operative one–the difficulty of allowing an instinct to have expression in a world of intellectual pride.

Abstract art is the art of pure form, whose appeal you readily admit in the arts of music and architecture. To extend this concept of pure form to the arts of painting and sculpture is surely a most natural and justifiable step. Thereby we deprive those arts of the adventitious aids of a story of a message, aids which music and architecture only resort to in their weakest moments; and undoubtedly the result is more “difficult.” But so long as you do not object to the difficulty of Bach or of Palladio, you have no right to object to the difficulty of Brancusi or Mondrian.

Finally, abstract art is not displayed in any sectarian spirit. It emerged into consciousness early in this century and since then it has developed steadily and unremittingly. It is not a revolutionary stunt, not a “movement” in any political sense. It does not set out to destroy all other kinds of painting and sculpture, or to win for itself the fickle prize of popularity. It can only hope to appeal to the Happy Few–to those who would like to have about them picture and sculpture which bear some sympathetic relation to the qualities they admire in the other arts: harmonies of form and colour which are not beautiful relatively, but always naturally and absolutely, producing, in their own proper nature , their proper pleasures–a definition of this kind of art which is not mine, but Plato’s.

Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby

2011-01-15T22:39:59.000Z

A short story from Donald Barthelme’s Amateurs (1976).

Some of us had been threatening our friend Colby for a long time, because of the way he had been behaving. And now he’d gone too far, so we decided to hang him. Colby argued that just because he had gone too far (he did not deny that he had gone too far) did not mean that he should be subjected to hanging. Going too far, he said, was something everybody did sometimes. We didn’t pay much attention to this argument. We asked him what sort of music he would like played at the hanging. He said he’d think about it but it would take him a while to decide. I pointed out that we’d have to know soon, because Howard, who is a conductor, would have to hire and rehearse the musicians and he couldn’t begin until he knew what the music was going to be. Colby said he’d always been fond of Ives’s Fourth Symphony. Howard said that this was a “delaying tactic” and that everybody knew that the Ives was almost impossible to perform and would involve weeks of rehearsal, and that the size of the orchestra and chorus would put us way over the music budget. “Be reasonable,” he said to Colby. Colby said he’d try to think of something a little less exacting.

Hugh was worried about the wording of the invitations. What if one of them fell into the hands of the authorities? Hanging Colby was doubtless against the law, and if the authorities learned in advance what the plan was they would very likely come in and try to mess everything up. I said that although hanging Colby was almost certainly against the law, we had a perfect moral right to do so because he was our friend, belonged to us in various important senses, and he had after all gone too far. We agreed that the invitations would be worded in such a way that the person invited could not know for sure what he was being invited to. We decided to refer to the event as “An Event Involving Mr. Colby Williams.” A handsome script was selected from a catalogue and we picked a cream-colored paper. Magnus said he’d see to having the invitations printed, and wondered whether we should serve drinks. Colby said he thought drinks would be nice but was worried about the expense. We told him kindly that the expense didn’t matter, that we were after all his dear friends and if a group of his dear friends couldn’t get together and do the thing with a little bit of eclat, why, what was the world coming to? Colby asked if he would be able to have drinks, too, before the event. We said, “Certainly.”

The next item of business was the gibbet. None of us knew too much about gibbet design, but Tomas, who is an architect, said he’d look it up in old books and draw the plans. The important thing, as far as he recollected, was that the trapdoor function perfectly. He said that just roughly, counting labor and materials, it shouldn’t run us more than four hundred dollars. “Good God!” Howard said. He said what was Tomas figuring on, rosewood? No, just a good grade of pine, Tomas said. Victor asked if unpainted pine wouldn’t look kind of “raw,” and Tomas replied that he thought it could be stained a dark walnut without too much trouble.

I said that although I thought the whole thing ought to be done really well and all, I also thought four hundred dollars for a gibbet, on top of the expense for the drinks, invitations, musicians, and everything, was a bit steep, and why didn’t we just use a tree — a nice-looking oak, or something? I pointed out that since it was going to be a June hanging the trees would be in glorious leaf and that not only would a tree add a kind of “natural” feeling but it was also strictly traditional, especially in the West. Tomas, who had been sketching gibbets on the backs of envelopes, reminded us that an outdoor hanging always had to contend with the threat of rain. Victor said he liked the idea of doing it outdoors, possibly on the bank of a river but noted that we would have to hold it some distance from the city, which presented the problem of getting the guests, musicians, etc., to the site and then back to town.

At this point everybody looked at Harry, who runs a car-and-truck-rental business. Harry said he thought he could round up enough limousines to take care of that end but that the drivers would have to be paid. The drivers, he pointed out, wouldn’t be friends of Colby’s and couldn’t be expected to donate their services, any more than the bartender or the musicians. He said that he had about ten limousines, which he used mostly for funerals, and that he could probably obtain another dozen by calling around to friends of his in the trade. He said also that if we did it outside, in the open air, we’d better figure on a tent or awning of some kind to cover at least the principals and the orchestra, because if the hanging was being rained on he thought it would look kind of dismal. As between gibbet and tree, he said, he had no particular preferences and he really thought that the choice ought to be left up to Colby, since it was his hanging. Colby said that everybody went too far, sometimes, and weren’t we being a little Draconian? Howard said rather sharply that all that had already been discussed, and which did he want, gibbet or tree? Colby asked if he could have a firing squad. No, Howard said, he could not. Howard said a firing squad would just be an ego trip for Colby, the blindfold and last-cigarette bit, and that Colby was in enough hot water already without trying to “upstage” everyone with unnecessary theatrics. Colby said he was sorry, he hadn’t meant it that way, he’d take the tree. Tomas crumpled up the gibbet sketches he’d been making, in disgust.

Then the question of the hangman came up. Pete said did we really need a hangman? Because if we used a tree, the noose could be adjusted to the appropriate level and Colby could just jump off something—a chair or stool or something. Besides, Pete said, he very much doubted if there were any free-lance hangmen wandering around the country, now that capital punishment has been done away with absolutely, temporarily, and that we’d probably have to fly one in from England or Spain or one of the South American countries, and even if we did that how could we know in advance that the man was a professional, a real hangman, and not just some money-hungry amateur who might bungle the job and shame us all, in front of every body? We all agreed then that Colby should just jump off something and that a chair was not what he should jump off of, because that would look, we felt, extremely tacky—some old kitchen chair sitting out there under our beautiful tree. Tomas, who is quite modern in outlook and not afraid of innovation, proposed that Colby be standing on a large round rubber ball ten feet in diameter. This, he said, would afford a sufficient “drop” and would also roll out of the way if Colby suddenly changed his mind after jumping off. He reminded us that by not using a regular hangman we were placing an awful lot of the responsibility for the success of the affair on Colby himself, and that although he was sure Colby would perform creditably and not disgrace his friends at the last minute, still, men have been known to get a little irresolute at times like that, and the ten-foot-round rubber ball, which could probably be fabricated rather cheaply, would insure a “bang-up” production right down to the wire.

At the mention of “wire,” Hank, who had been silent all this time, suddenly spoke up and said he wondered if it wouldn’t be better if we used wire instead of rope—more efficient and in the end kinder to Colby, he suggested. Colby began looking a little green, and I didn’t blame him, because there is something extremely distasteful in thinking about being hanged with wire instead of rope—it gives you sort of a revulsion, when you think about it. I thought it was really quite unpleasant of Hank to be sitting there talking about wire, just when we had solved the problem of what Colby was going to jump off of so neatly, with Tomas’s idea about the rubber ball, so I hastily said that wire was out of the question, because it would injure the tree—cut into the branch it was tied to when Colby’s full weight hit it—and that in these days of increased respect for the environment, we didn’t want that, did we? Colby gave me a grateful look, and the meeting broke up. Everything went off very smoothly on the day of the event (the music Colby finally picked was standard stuff, Elgar, and it was played very well by Howard and his boys). It didn’t rain, the event was well attended, and we didn’t run out of Scotch, or anything. The ten-foot rubber ball had been painted a deep green and blended in well with the bucolic setting. The two things I remember best about the whole episode are the grateful look Colby gave me when I said what I said about the wire, and the fact that nobody has ever gone too far again.

Drinking Customs of the English

2008-05-20T20:08:43.000Z

Extract from Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour, by Kate Fox, p. 256ff.

Choosing a Drink

Your choice of drink (in public at least) is determined mainly by your sex and social class, with some age-related variations. The rules are as follows:

Working-class and lower-middle-class females have the widest choice of drinks. Almost anything is socially acceptable—cocktails, sweet or creamy liquery, all soft-drinks, beers and so-called “designer” drinks (pre-mixed drinks in bottles). There is really only one restriction: the size of glass from which lower-class women may drink beer. Drinking “pints”, in many working-class and lower-middle circles, is regarded as unfeminine and unlady-like, so most women in this social group drink “halves” (half-pints) of beer. Drinking pint glasses of beer would classify you as a “ladette”—a female “lad”, a woman who imitates the loutish, raucous behaviour of hard-drinking males. Some women are happy with this image, but they are a minority.
Next on the freedom-of-choice scale are middle-middle to upper-class females. Their choice is more restricted: the more sickly-sweet drinks, and cream-based liquers and cocktails, are regarded as a bit vulgar—ordering a Bailey’s or a Babycham would certainly cause a few raised eyebrows and sideways looks—but they can drink more or less any wines, spirits, sherries, soft-drinks, ciders or beers. Female pint-drinking is also more acceptable in this social category, at least among the younger women, particularly students. Among upper-middle-class female students, I found that many felt that they had to give an explanation if they ordered a “girly” half rather than a pint.
The choices of middle- and upper-class males are far more restricted than those of their female counterparts. They may drink only beer, spirits (mixers are acceptable), wine (must be dry, not sweet) and soft-drinks. Anything sweet or creamy is regarded as suspiciously “feminine”, and cocktails are only acceptable at cocktail parties or in a cocktail bar—you would never order them in a pub or ordinary bar.
Working-class males have virtually no choice at all. They can drink only beer and spirits—everything else is effeminate. Among older working-class males, even some mixers may be forbidden: gin-and-tonic may be just about acceptable in some circles, but more obscure combinations are frowned upon. Younger working-class males have a bit more freedom: vodka-and-coke is acceptable, for example, as are the latest novelties and “designer” bottled drinks, providing they have a high enough alcohol content.

Round Buying Etiquette

In any group of two or more people, one person must buy a “round” of drinks for the whole group. This is not an altruistic gesture: the expectation is that the other member or members of the group will each, in turn, buy a round of drinks. When each person has bought a round, the process begins again with the first person.
Unless the group is drinking at the bar counter, the person who buys the round must also act as waiter. “Buying your round” means not only paying for the drinks, but going to the bar, ordering the drinks and carrying them all back to the table. If there are a lot of drinks, another member of the group will usually offer to help, but this is not compulsory, and the round-buyer may have to make two or three trips. The effort involved is as important as the expenditure: it is part of the “gift”.
“Fairness” is round-buying is not a matter of strict justice. One person may well end up buying two rounds during a “session”, while other members of the group have only bought one round each. Over several “sessions”, rough equality is usually achieved, but it is extremely bad manners to appear overly concerned about this.
In fact, any sign of miserliness, calculation or reluctance to participate wholeheartedly in the ritual is severly frowned upon. For an English male, saying that someone “doesn’t buy his round” is a dire insult. It is thus important to try always to be among the earliest to say “It’s my round,” rather than waiting until the other members of the group have bought “their” rounds and it is quite obviously your turn.
Perhaps surprisingly, I found that on average “initiating” round-buyers (those who regularly buy the first round) actually spend no more money in the long term than “waiting” round-buyers (those who do not offer a round until later in the session). In fact, far from being out-of-pocket, “initiators” often end up rather better off than those who wait, because their popularity and reputation for generosity means that others are inclined to be generous towards them.
One should never wait until all one’s companions’ glasses are empty before offering to buy the next round. The correct time to say “It’s my round” is when the majority of the glasses are about three-quarters empty. This rule is not so much about proving one’s generosity, more a matter of ensuring that the flow of alcohol is continuous—that no-one is ever left without a drink even for a few minutes.
It is acceptable occasionally to refuse a drink during the round-buying process, as long as you do not attempt to make an issue or moral virtue out of your moderate intake, but this does not exempt you from the round-buying obligation. Even if you are drinking less than the others, you should still “buy your round”. It would be very rude, however, to refuse a drink that is offered as a “peace-making” gesture, or that is clearly a significant, personal friendship-signal.

There is usually no excuses for failing to perform the sacred round-buying ritual, but there are a few exceptions to the round-buying rules, relating to the size of the drinking group and the demographics of its members.

THE NUMBERS EXCEPTION In a very large group, traditional round-buying can sometimes be prohibitively expensive. This is not, however, usually seen as a valid reason to abandon the ritual altogether. Instead, the large group divides into smaller sub-groups (nobody suggests or organizes this, it just happens), each of which follows the normal round-buying procedure. …

THE COUPLE EXCEPTION In some social groups, couples are treated as one person for the purposes of round-buying, in that only the male half of the couple is expected to “buy his round”. … In normal circumstances, you will only see this practice when the males in the group are over forty. …

THE FEMALE EXCEPTION Women generally have considerably less reverence fo the round-buying rules than men. In mixed-sex groups, they play along, humouring their male companions by following the prescribed etiquette, but in all-female gatherings you see all sorts of odd variations and even outright flouting of the rules.

In the Big House

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

Harper’s, September 2004, p. 16–19.

“From an interview with Lorenzo Steele, a former corrections officer at Riker’s Island, in the fourth anniversary issue of Don Diva, a magazine for ‘the underdogs of the underworld.’ The interview was conducted by Susan Hampstead.”

What kinds of violent incidents occur?

One time I was looking out the window at the little yard. One inmate was doing push-ups, and another dude stood over him and grabbed him by the neck and was just cutting him, boom, boom, boom, with a razor blade in his face. The windows were faded so I couldn’t see the razor blade, but I saw all the blood, because the dude had cut him like seventy times across the face. There was another incident where a female inmate was on one line with her unit and a men’s unit passed by in the same hallway. She threw her hood on and jumped into the men’s line and went back to her boyfriend’s unit. She was gang raped and beaten into a coma.

Where do they send inmates after they’ve been cut?

They generally go to another building, but we may just change their housing, in which case they will meet that person again. In may be in the mess hall, gym, or on the visit, but they will meet again. There have been several incidents with inmates meeting up in the visiting room with their families and being cut from ear to ear right in front of their family. The shit is crazy. That’s one thing about prison: there is no hiding. There are some individuals who are labeled as “cutters”—these people have to wear mittens made of a thick burlap-type material.

How do inmates get weapons?

In sneakers coming on the visits or in packages. Someone once smuggled a small gun in the sole of a Timberland boot, and that’s why inmates cannot have Timbs anymore—they can’t even have sneakers with bubbles in them, because people cut the bubbles and stuff razors and drugs in them. Officers bring shit in, too.

What are some of the tools they use to make weapons?

The tiles in the ceiling have metal rods, so they go in the bathroom, lift up a tile, and take the metal pieces. You can see the marks on the floor where they sharpened them. I sharpen my shit the same way they do.

Officers have shanks, too?

Yeah. We aren’t given guns, and we have to protect ourselves. We’re in jail, too. I ain’t gonna die in there, unless somebody gonna die with me. If we gonna get it on, then let’s get it on. I had my little ice picks, one for each hand. Shit, I’m not the only one—most officers got knives and shit, too.

Do the officers get cut as well?

Hell yeah, the officers get cut. Some of this stuff you don’t really hear about. Like in the paper it might say, “Officer assaulted,” but sometimes these things don’t really make the paper. You can’t show any fear. If you show fear they will pick on you, throw shit at you, cut you, and beat you. It could get to the point where inmates are extorting officers, making them bring in things like razors, food, and drugs. Some COs do it just to make their shift easier.

How often do you shake down the cells?

It depends on if there was an incident, or sometimes they pick random houses and find razors or shanks. A popular way to conceal razors is to wet a wad of toilet paper and then place the blade inside of it and then throw it up against the wall and smear the tissue flat until it appears to be a pice of the wall’s plaster. Inmates are legendary for keeping razors in their mouths. Being able to ‘spit out a razor” is like a magic trick in jail. You could be in the mess hall, get into an altercation with another inmate, and the next thing you know he’s spit out two razors from both sides of his mouth and your face is slashed up. I know of an incident where an inmate was handcuffed behind his back, and he was able to pull his body through his arms, get his hands in front of him, spit a razor out of his mouth, and cut someone from ear to ear. A nigga will become Houdini when it comes to survival. Spitting razors became such a problem that inmates immediately punched other inmates in the mouth as soon as an argument began. This was so that if the other inmate did have razors in his mouth, he would cut his own mouth up before even getting the opportunity to spit them out. Then there is “boofing.” That’s when an inmate who’s being taken to a visit or to court steals a rubber glove and cuts a finger off of it, then wraps a razor in toilet paper and sticks the wrapped razor blade into the cut-off finger, ties a string to it, greases his asshole, and sticks the finger in his ass. When he sees the person he wants to cut, he pulls the string and gets the razor. You can take away all access to weapons and shit, and in order to survive a nigga will adapt and get creative when his life is in danger. It is really survival of the fittest in prison—the shit is a jungle for real.

What happens if an inmate gets caught cutting someone?

Prison officials have started re-arresting people and giving them new charges, so you get extra time put to your original time. Some people are in there for jumping turnstiles and end up getting twenty-five to life because somebody cut them and the have to defend themselves and retaliate.

Tell me about some of the names they have for these cuts.

You got the “Buck Fifty,” meaning you got 150 stiches. Also the “telephone cut,” meaning you violated somebody’s telephone and the cut goes from the ear to the mouth.

Explain the phone situation.

You get six minutes on the phone a day. The officers are supposed to make sure everybody gets to use the phone, but a lot of officers are scared to do their jobs. I can understand though, because it’s serious. There’s a lot of racism on Riker’s Island, so if you’re black you cannot just walk up and use the “Puerto Rican phone,” and the vice versa. So whoever is controlling the phone is controlling the house. Every now and then someone would exceed their boundaries, and the consequences were getting cut or shanked. A lot of people cut just for recreation, to make time go by. Or if there’s an officer on duty that they don’t like, they would cut another inmate and the officer will have to stay several hours past their shift so that he/she can write a report explaining why they “allowed” the incident to take place. Meaning, now you can’t go home either.

What about the condition of the prison?

I used to do the tour at nights, and I would see rats and all types of water bugs running around. The phones are dirty and the place is just plain ol’ filthy. The food is horrible. You will be served just about anything—rotten fruit, half-cooked chicken, burned food, whatever. No one really cares, so there is no recourse. For the most part you better get used to bread and water for real. It is not a joke.

What is actually in the cell?

You have a filthy toilet with no cover, a rusty sink, and a metal frame they call a bed. Inmates use the toilet as a refrigerator in the summer to keep milk cool. This shit is just disgusting. The conditions are not fit for a human being. You are literally treated like an animal.

Why did you agree to talk to us, knowing that there might be repercussions?

For these young kids, who have no clue what’s going on in prisons. Nobody’s telling them, and it’s just hell. It’s hell for me and I go home every day, but I’m still scared for my life. I’m traumatized for life from the things I see and hear. You got adolescents coming through getting twenty-five to thirty-five years because of how they carry themselves in there. It’s a trap designed for these kids to fall in.

The Recycling Religion

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

Jack Hitt, “A Gospel According to the Earth,” Harper’s, July 2003.

Early one morning, I stepped out of my house with a large container and walked to the curb, only to look up the street and see three neighbors doing the same thing. We all nodded. In Connecticut one recycles by putting bottles and plastics in distinctive twilight-blue bins. Newspapers and cardboard are also presented to the garbage collector separately. It was an odd scene, men and women carrying what looked like votive baskets to lay them on the ground in front of their homes.

Try describing the purpose of recycling to a five-year-old daughter and you find yourself suddenly toiling like a second-year seminarian with a fresh allegory. Recycling is about redeeming old waste by transfiguring it into something new. The theological potential is almost too easy: “recycling” (Greek, “to come full circle”) and “resurrection” (Latin, “to rise again”). The first word practically clicks in the mouth like a new machine getting started; the other mumurs with that harmony of the spheres.

As a household practice, recycling is quite recent, dating only to the 1960s. According to President George W. Bush, recycling’s popularity throughout America managed to reclaim 64 million tons of the nation’s annual 230-million-ton garbage pile in 2000. When he signed into law the new America Recycles Day (November 15, in case you’ve forgotten), President Bush urged his citizenry toward more participation in order to “close the recycling circle.”

What’s most curious about recycling is that it seems bulletproof to criticism. A few years ago, The New York Times Magazine ran an article exposing curbside recycling as a sham. Turns out there are much more efficient market systems that would dispose of our trash without all that individual participation. Worse, around that time one began to hear other reports that in many locales those newspaper bundles—bound with twine at a tremendous cose of hassle, if not of time—are just trucked to the dump and bulldozed into the steaming offal.

I seriously thought I would give it up, in part because, like the author of the article, I hate to recycle. But I found I couldn’t give it up. My kids had already heard the little story about bad things being turned into good things. Somehow this puffball of a parable had staying power. It was one of those trends—you run across them from time to time in our culture—that logical argument is impossible to stop. I often brought up the pointlessness of recycling with friends. It would turn out that they, too, had read the article. Yet they always said they recycled anyway because “at least it’s something.” Such a packed word that last one.

Something?

You mean, something like a feeble sacrifice set out to slake the fury of a vengeful God angry with mankind’s … sin?

Food Container Safety

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

The House of Lords, 6th May 2003, 2:53pm. (Hansard)

Lord Harrison asked Her Majesty’s Government:

Whether, in the light of the Department of Trade and Industry’s 23rd annual report of the home and leisure accident surveillance system entitled Working for a Safer World, they will encourage the food and packaging industries to redesign food containers and cans, for example those containing corned beef.

The Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State, Department of Trade and Industry (Lord Sainsbury of Turville): My Lords, my department has not taken any specific actions with the packaging industry as a result of the 23rd HASS report. However, based on information from earlier editions of the report, during the 1990s my department published a number of research reports aimed at helping manufacturers improve the design of cans and make them easier for consumers to open safely. Statistics show that the number of accidents from corned beef cans has been declining and they are not a major cause of accidents now. Packaging, as with many products, is covered by the provisions of the general product safety directive, which imposes a general safety duty on it.

Lord Harrison: My Lords, I thank my noble friend for that Answer, but does he understand that many of us still believe corned beef tins and, indeed, other varieties of pull-top cans, to be inherently unsafe? Will he ensure that his department pursues its interest in helping to have those redesigned by the food and packaging industry? Will he also note that the report shows that some 6 million of us each year attend accident and emergency units in hospital, and that some 90 children under the age of five die as a result of accidents at home? Is he satisfied that the Government’s accident taskforce has sufficient resources and powers to reduce the incidence of these accidents at home?

Lord Sainsbury of Turville: My Lords, I am delighted that the noble Lord has asked me a Question about corned beef cans. I have been answering questions about them all my life and I regard them as one of my real areas of expertise.

There is a real problem about corned beef cans. They have a trapezoidal shape and a key kind of ring. The DTI has done much work on this issue in giving further instructions and also special coatings for the cans which enable the corned beef to be extracted more easily. There has in fact been a remarkable drop in accidents with corned beef cans. They have fallen from 8,720 per year out of 26,000 accidents caused by all tins to 3,091 out of 19,000. I should point out that the really dramatic decrease came after 1997.

Baroness Sharples: My Lords, can the noble Lord say whether ring-pull cans are safer than ordinary cans which are opened with a tin-opener? Which is safest?

Lord Sainsbury of Turville: My Lords, I am not sure that I can give exact details between the different kinds of can, but the one which is used for corned beef is particularly disliked by people, mainly because they lose the keys and then attack the corned beef can with whatever is at hand. If the noble Baroness would like to pursue this point, I can probably find her some detailed statistics.

Lord Razzall: My Lords, will the Minister allow me to rescue him from his worldwide expertise on the topic of corned beef and ask a slightly wider question? Does he agree that, taking the nub of the question of the noble Lord, Lord Harrison—working for a safer world—a reduction in the use of products which have an impact on the environment would be highly desirable? What steps are the Government taking to ensure that clear, verified information is available to consumers on the environmental impact of such products?

Lord Sainsbury of Turville: My Lords, that goes wider than my knowledge of corned beef; it strays into a completely different department and area—the impact on the environment. This report is very specifically about recording accidents which take place in accident and emergency departments of hospitals. The impact on the environment is a totally different question.

Lady Saltoun of Abernethy: My Lords, is the Minister aware that if, having taken off one end of the corned beef can with the twisty thing provided—assuming that you have not lost it—you then take a common, ordinary, household tin-opener and take off the other end, it is very easy to push the corned beef out of the tin without any danger to yourself?

Lord Sainsbury of Turville: Yes, my Lords, I was aware of that, and I am very glad that that essential piece of information is passed round for the benefit of this House.

Baroness Oppenheim-Barnes: My Lords, does the Minister agree, as the noble Baroness has demonstrated, that most home accidents are avoidable, arising out of carelessness, and that therefore paying attention is one of the best cures?

Lord Sainsbury of Turville: My Lords, I totally agree. These statistics on accidents are extremely fascinating; they prove that the British public can use practically anything in this world to hurt themselves with. It is understandable that there are an estimated 55 accidents a year from putty, while toothpaste accounts for 73. However, it is rather bizarre that 823 accidents are estimated to be the result of letters and envelopes. It is difficult to understand how they can be the cause of such serious plight. I agree with the noble Baroness that it would be helpful if people paid careful attention.

Baroness Strange: My Lords, does the Minister agree that sardine tins and anchovy tins are also very difficult to open with their tin-openers?

Lord Sainsbury of Turville: My Lords, I think I will just agree with the noble Baroness on that question.

Interviews with Skaters

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

Extracts from Skateboarder Magazine, March 2003.

Jim Greco

What does your daily routine look like these days?

Wake up and go skate till I drop. Go home and hang out with my broad, watch “The Sopranos,” crash out.

What’s up with the stalkers?

Oh, God, there’s basically kids at my house like everyday. These kids follow me home from spots or something. They could be in the bushes with binoculars right now. Some of these kids come up and want to get loaded. They come trying to give me a sack or a six-pack or something and I’m like, “Get away, I’m trying to lay hammers right now.” Dude, one day there was like 10 15-year-old kids at my house. They all brought their underage broads and all this shit’s going on. I’m like, “Look, I’ve got a girlfriend and you’re f–kin’ 15.”

Aaron Suski

Do you ever think about finishing school?

I’m interested in taking a Spanish class, maybe some anthropology or music classes, just to get a little stimulation in the brain piece. I haven’t attended school in a long while, so it’s about that time.

Alex Moul

What was it like traveling so much when you were so young?

It was great, we used to go away in the Kit Kat van. The back of it was just grated metal. Loads of people would go away—Andy Scott, Matt McMullan, Wurzel, Pete Dossett. We used to pile it up with mattresses and sleep in there. There were brown sweat stalactites on the ceiling, it was minging.

Scott Kane

What’s the most trouble you’ve gotten in off the skateboard?

My girlfriend. Not really trouble, but she wants me to be around all the time. She gets all bummed when I go skate. Right now, since I’m hurt, she’s all psyched.

Stevie Williams

Is L.A. home now?

L.A. is comfortable, but I’m definitely going to move back to Philly. I had to get a grip after what they did to Love Park. Every time I think of a new trick I think of doing it at Love. Now that dream is vanished. I’m kinda stuck thinking where I’m gonna learn this trick. I just adapt to my surroundings. Hopefully, we can get Love Park back. It ain’t that destroyed. If not, I’ll just enjoy the memories, watch it on tape. I’ve been skating there for like 11 years. I learned every single trick I know at Love. I know who was the first person to wax that ledge, who was the first person to do what on it. That’s how far I go back, when we didn’t even skate the top part. I wanna say thanks to Josh Kalis for recognizing the talent. That’s a blessing. Josh is my dog for life. He’s like my brother.

In one issue of a magazine you were in three different bearing ads. How did that go down?

It was a miscommunication. That was embarrassing man, but not really. I told certain people and they chose to use it. But I’m officially on Gold Rims, that’s my own project. Everything is straight. Much love.

Mic-E Reyes

Give us a good story from the Cadillac tour.

We went to this demo, and that’s when I met Sean Sheffey. He was backside 180-ing these big grass gaps. He was 16. We were like. “Hey, you wanna go on this tour with us?”

And he was like, “OK.”

We were like, “Do you wanna go by your house and get anything?”

He was like, “No.”

So he just got in the Cadillac and we took off. He didn’t have anything. Nothing. I think I bought him a toothbrush.

A couple of states away we bought all these fireworks. There was no room in Natas’ Caddy, so they threw all the fireworks in our car. So we were going down the highway—it was me, Alan Petersen, Julien Stranger, and [Sean] Sheffey. The drive tranny fell out, but from the rear end, so it was bouncing behind us, like, bap, bap, bap! The other Caddy was way ahead of us, so they just kept driving. We were sitting on the side of the road for like four hours. During that time, Julien and Alan took a walk for these lights way off in the distance. They found a golf range and they ended up staying there, drinking beers with these chicks. They just left us out there. So me and Sheffey just started lighting off the fireworks. We lit off like five bags of fireworks.

Then this cop finally came and was like, “What’s going on?”

We were like, “We’re bored. The car’s messed up.”

He was like, “You guys are lucky that it’s a firework-safe state.”

So we got away with it, and he ended up buying us pizza or something.

How’s it hanging with Mark Gonzales?

Dude, he’s living at my house right now. He drives me nuts. He’s nocturnal, he doesn’t sleep, and he’s drawing on everything. Everything is drawn on at my house. When he disrobes he just leaves his clothes in a pile. He reads the New York Times everyday, so there’s just a stack of paper like six feet tall in my house that he’s drawn on. I’ll use it for firewood or something.

Have you had more fist fights or girlfriends?

More fist fights. I clocked this dude the other night. He was messing with me. I just stood him up. Oh, it was great! He fell over like a tree, an uppercut right to the chin. He came running up in my face. I gave him a change and I was like, “I don’t wanna do this.” He kept on yelling at me, so I was like, “All right, this is it.” And I rang his bell so good.

Crime Scene Cleaners

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

From Gig: Americans Talk about Their Jobs at the Turn of the Millennium (ISBN: 0609807072)

Neal Smither:

I’m the President and owner of Crime Scene Cleaners. We clean up death scenes, like homicides. You know, the room where someone gets murdered. We also handle suicides, accidental deaths, meth labs, things like that. A lot of people have the assumption that police take care of the cleanup after a crime. That’s not true. It’s never been true. If Johnny or Sally gets shot in your house, or your store, and there’s brains everywhere, it’s your problem. You have to do the cleaning. It’s not the police’s responsibility at all. You clean it. Or else you call my company or one of my competitors.

The idea to start this business came to me six years ago. I was twenty-five years old. I’d just been laid off from my job as division manager at a mortgage banking firm. And there I was, wallowing for weeks in my unemployment misery, when one day, bam! I was watching the movie Pulp Fiction. And you know that scene where they blew the guy away in the back of the car and then had to bring in Harvey Keitel to clean the whole thing up? Well I saw that scene and I thought, wow, that’s intriguing. Are there people out there doing this kind of job in real life? And I did some research and found out that that the answer was yes. But there were only a few companies, and they weren’t marketing themselves to a broad based range of clients. They weren’t selling effectively. Well, I knew I could sell, I just didn’t know if I could do that kind of cleaning. So I made some phone calls.

I called every janitorial company, anyone who had anything to do with cleaning. I made literally thousands of calls. I’m a neat freak, typically, but I didn’t know how professional companies carried out their work. So I took a job with Merry Maids for a couple of weeks. Merry Maids is a residential cleaning company, sort of the McDonalds of maids, really cheap, really shitty. But working there taught me a lot about technique.

Then, next, I started contacting coroners and police, because they were going to be my target audience. I was gonna give them a percentage to give me business referrals. You know, so like somebody dies, the cops show up, they’re like, Hey, we know a guy who’ll clean this up. They send me the business, they get a cut of my fee. Good idea, right? No. Wrong. Because what I found out is that they’re not allowed to give out referrals, due to liability. They can’t give one, they have to offer a list of cleaning companies, so there’s no issue of favoritism. That was a bit discouraging, but whatever, I was into it by then. I just changed gears and I started targeting the people at mortuaries. They can give referrals.

My first job came on referral from a mortician. The victim’s sister hired us. It was a lady down in Marina Bay area of Richmond. She had terminal cancer and she’d blown her brains out—shot herself in the head with a .357. Experience-wise, it wasn’t too messy—just enough to cut my teeth and kind of get an indicator of whether I could do this. And I learned I was capable of doing it. And when the cleanup was done and I named my price, the client started cutting a check without any hesitation whatsoever. I knew immediately that this work was for me.

Of course, back then, I was totally inept. My partner and I—I used my wife as my partner on that job—we were there for three hours and I only charged two hundred and fifty dollars. Now, I’d be there an hour and we’d charge five seventy-five. So I’ve learned. I’ve learned so much.

My second job was so hardcore—I’ll never forget it. When I think of how little I knew, doing a job like that, it just makes me laugh. It was at a fairly upscale condominium complex in Oakland. A hugely fat guy had died on his hide-a-bed. Weeks, weeks and weeks had gone by and no one had discovered him. He was a loner. No one knew he was dead until they smelled it outside and by that time, it was atrocious. My assistant and I—this time it was my sister—opened the door and this ungodly smell just slammed us, big time. We hadn’t learned about wearing respirators yet. We hadn’t a clue. Well, the whole bottom of this guy’s bed was encased in plastic from the manufacturer, and the plastic had trapped all these fluids. So I was moving the bed around, and it started stirring up these juices. And when I tip the bed over, not realizing what’s going on inside of it, this rushing torrent of maggot-filled liquid spews out all over the place—all over the carpet and all over my clothing. I vomited several times. My sister started gagging uncontrollably until she just couldn’t take it anymore. So she ran out the door, and jumped over the deck, right into the pool! That one still rates as the worst decomp we’ve ever done. And we knew so little about equipment, disposal techniques, the whole thing.

The Beams of New College

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

How Buildings Learn, by Stewart Brand, pp. 130–131.

The anthropologist/philosopher Gregory Bateson used to tell a story:

New College, Oxford, is of rather late foundation, hence the name. It was founded around the late 14th century. It has, like other colleges, a great dining hall with big oak beams across the top, yes? These might be two feet square, forty-five feet long.

A century ago, so I am told, some busy entomologist went up into the roof of the dining hall with a penknife and poked at the beams and found that they were full of beetles. This was reported to the College Council, who met in some dismay, because where would they get beams of that caliber nowadays?

One of the Junior Fellows stuck his neck out and suggested that there might be on College lands some oak. These colleges are endowed with pieces of land scattered across the country. So they called in the College Forester, who of course had not been near the college itself for some years and asked him about oaks.

And he pulled his forelock and said, “Well sirs, we was wonderin’ when you’d be askin’.”

Upon further inquiry it was discovered that when the College was founded, a grove of oaks had been planted to replace the beams in the dining hall when they became beetly, because oak beams always become beetly in the end. This plan had been passed down from one Forester to the next for five hundred years. “You don’t cut them oaks. Them’s for the College Hall.”

A nice story. That’s the way to run a culture.

Every time I’ve retold this story since I first heard it from Gregory in the 1970s, someone always asks, “What about for the next time? Has a new grove of oaks been planted an protected?” I forwarded the question to the authorities at New College—the College Archivist and the Clerk of Works. They had no idea.

[New College describes this story as “nonsense.”]

David Boon: Australian Legend

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

Pssst (supplement to The Age), p. 28, September 23, 2001.

Some would plump for Hudson and Pratt’s 150 goals in a season, others would nominate Bradman’s average of 99.94. But Pssst begs to differ. The most talked about statistic attributed to an Australian sportsman is David Boon’s 52—that is, cans on the flight to London ahead of the 1989 Ashes series. So revered is the figure that it was once suggested that the Tasmanian speed limit be lowered to 52kmh as a tribute.

Adding to the legend is that the exact details of the 1989 flight have always remained slightly sketchy. Boon himself, writing in his autobiography, insisted that the whole episode never took place. In our quest for the definitive account, Pssst turned to an insider.

Former Victorian Test batsman Dean Jones was on that momentous tour, and, following his father Barney’s advice, sat next to Boon on the plane (the idea being to glean as much advice as possible about what to expect on tours, how to approach county matches and the good oil on English pitches). What he learned was a lesson of a different kind.

“Boonie never set out with the intention of breaking the record, which, from memory, was 46 by Rod Marsh, beating the previous mark of 44 by Doug Walters,” Jones said. “But not long into the flight, the Qantas staff advised us that they’d been keeping count, and Boonie was well on target.”

Jones said that he decided to pull the pin by the time the plane left Singapore, but Boon was settling into a steady rhythm, having just peeled the top off can No. 23 (not including the three he had consumed at Sydney airport). At this point, Jones retired hurt to the upper level of the jumbo, curling up to sleep in a nook behind the seats of chairman of selectors Laurie Sawle and coach Bob Simpson. In his absence, a roster of players—including Carl Rackemann, Merv Hughes, Geoff Marsh and Tom Moody—slipped into the seat beside Boon to offer their support from the non-striker’s end.

Eight hours later, Jones awoke to rousing cheers from downstairs: “Hearing all the boisterous applause, Bob Simpson thought someone had won a big card game and explained to Laurie Sawle that he’d collected a similar kitty while making the 1964 journey to England,” Jones said. “Then the captain of the plane got on to the PA system and congratulated Boonie on his fantastic effort of breaking the record.”

Jones remembers Simpson turning purple with anger, at which point Jones chipped in that should Boon be sent home, he would be prepared [to] bat at No. 3. “The flight attendants put the official count at 52, and the best part about it is that the guys were very well behaved throughout.”

He said Marsh and Walters never acknowledged the record, arguing that Boon “had a couple while the plane was on the ground in Singapore. Against that, those other two blokes were carried off the plane, whereas Boonie kind of managed to walk.”

Not as well known is what happened after Boon arrived in London. The Australians immediately headed to their hotel for a press conference, whereupon the Australian media, aware of what had unfolded on the flight, made a pledge not to ask Boon a question, praying that the English hacks would not get wind of a story. Having emerged unscathed, Boon next attended a sponsor’s cocktail party, where he had another three pints, and then “did not wake up for 36 hours and missed two training sessions.” Being Boon’s roommate, Jones was informed by Simpson that “when David waked up he should come and have a quiet chat with me.”

The story has it that the chat was not so quiet, with Boon fined $5000 and lucky to escape being sent home. “Then again,” said Jones, “he went on to make more than 500 runs for the Test series averaging more than 70, and made over 1500 runs for the tour. All in all it was a magnificent achievement.”

[More anecdotes about Australian cricket teams’ drinking exploits on the long flight to England.]

Guerrilla Bungee-Jumping: After Midnight

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

The New Yorker, July 31, 1995, p. 27–28.

High above the East River, on a dark maintenance platform under a well-known bridge, a young jeweller named Gregory crouched and, with the help of a flashlight, studied a fat rubber cord. This was long after midnight a couple of weeks ago. All around Gregory, shadowy figures climbed ladders, spread tarps, covered girders with blankets, and rigged complicated harnesses. Gregory, his jeweller’s concentration fully engaged, inspected the cord—forty feet long unflexed—lying coiled on the platform. It was composed of hundreds of thin beige strands, cinched together every foot or so. There was a fair amount of fraying, particularly toward one end. Gregory fingered the busted strands thoughtfully. Did he really want to bet his life on this thing?

A few feet above his head, trains and cars roared and whined, shaking the platform. Nearby, a steel floor plate had been removed and a coffin-size hole yawned. A hundred and thirty-five feet below, the river’s surface, seen through the hole, looked solid, a whorled gray slab in the yellow lights of the Brooklyn waterfront. There was a police car parked on the waterfront, near the base of the bridge. One of Gregory’s confederates, a bartender and college student named Ian, was monitoring the police car through a pair of binoculars while listening to police-radio transmissions on a pair of headphones. Such, such are the rigors and peculiar precautions of guerrilla bungee-jumping.

The owner of the cord was Michael O’Mahony, a former tent rigger for the Big Apple Circus. Brooklyn-born and bred, thirty years old, he was also the evening’s jumpmaster. When he had finished rigging harnesses, he addressed the group. “This will happen fast,” he said. “We got eight people jumping tonight. Some of you, it’s your first time, I know, and you may feel you need some extra time, but, with the cops sitting down there, I could be making a two-thousand-dollar mistake, so it’s three minutes in the hole each person. If you haven’t jumped after three minutes, I’ll pull you out of there, right? Now, I’m going first. Who’s going second?”

“I’ll go second,” Gregory said. The cord had apparently passed inspection.

O’Mahony set a blue night-light on a girder and demonstrated how to hook a carabiner from the jump harness to a retrieval rig that would be lowered to him. Tall and thin, with a huge head of red curls, O’Mahony made an unlikely drill sergeant, but he had plenty of commando intensity. “This life jacket has a beacon,” he said, flicking on a bright light attached to his chest. “I’ve never had an accident on one of my jumps, but if something happens and you do hit the water, hit the beacon. You’ll find razors in the pocket here. Use them to cut the cord, then kick toward shore. I’ll call 911 on this cell phone. A speedboat will come.”

O’Mahony moved to the hole in the platform, stepping carefully through it to stand on a pair of light crossbars a foot or two beneath the floor. The cord hung from his waist in a thick, vaguely obscene forty-foot loop. “Boat check!” he called.

Two people crawled away to scan the river. If O’Mahony was a strange-looking sergeant, he had some appropriately improbable recruits. They included Alison, a fashion model with slim hips and a dry wit; Eric, an angel-faced motorcycle racer with a long blond pony-tail; Chris, a round-faced bicycle salesman who admitted to “a profound fear of heights”; and Jon, a film-prop builder with the poise of a ballet dancer, a tiny steel barbell through his left eyebrow, and a powerful physique.

O’Mahony, who has led some twenty late-night bridge expeditions, finds his jumpers where he can—“I just look for people who seem ready to get out past the outer edge of life somewhat,” he says—and he claims to get an astounding positive-response rate to his invitations. (Astounding, that is, when one considers that he is proposing something illegal, dangerous, unremunerative, and terrifying.) He does it, apparently, just for the adrenaline hell of it. “And because I can,” he says. The hipster individualists whom he drafts seem surprisingly ready to submit to military-type discipline. At least, they seemed so that night—stealthily climbing catwalks onto the bridge in teams of three, giving come-aheads over walkie-talkies, using code names like Mr. Red and Mr. Black without a smirk.

The lookouts came clambering back across the platform. “No boats downriver.” “Nothing upriver.”

O’Mahony bent his big head and seemed to disappear into himself. A tarp snapped in the wind. Nobody spoke. Finally, O’Mahony jumped up slightly, brought his feet together, and was gone. He fell swiftly toward the swirling gray slab of river, his uplifted face shrinking to dot size with alarming speed. Then the cord reached its limit—a hundred and twenty feet—and he came bouncing back toward the bridge. The group peering through the hole gave a sharp collective exhalation. A few more vast human-yo-yo bounces, and it was time to send down the recovery rig. Under the direction of Glenn Vegezzi, an experienced jumper, who was the night’s second-in-command, O’Mahony was hauled back to the platform. When he arrived, grinning maniacally, he seemed, if such a thing were possible, even more wired than before.

Gregory, who was making his first jump ever, did not use a large fraction of his allotted three minutes in the hole. Talking into a tape recorder, he answered some questions from O’Mahony about his vital statistics, plus one about whether he was making this jump of his own free will. Then he was gone.

After he returned, he shyly reported feeling “hyper-alert.”

All the jumps went smoothly. The hard part, clearly, was the waiting. Jon, the film-prop builder, hunkered in the dark, silently chain-smoking, for at least an hour. Then, when his turn came to jump, a party boat appeared, chugging slowly upriver, its lights pulsating, and he had to wait, already harnessed to the cord, for many more long minutes. After his jump, his friend Alison took him aside and solemnly kissed him on the mouth.

Chris, when his turn came, muttered that he had “the shakes,” and went back to the end of the line.

Alison vamped while O’Mahony cinched the harness on her, fore and aft, and when, as she stood in the hole, he asked her age, she said, “I hope to be twenty-nine soon.” To the will-and- volition question, she replied, “Utterly, dude.”

This was her second jump. She leaped with style.

Chris went last. As he stood in the hole, answering questions for the tape recorder, O’Mahony said to him, “You are not going to die tonight.” Chris looked unconvinced. When he finally jumped, he disobeyed instructions and grabbed the cord, mildly abrading his forearm, and when the recovery rig was lowered he was disoriented and had trouble attaching the carabiner.

The eastern sky was whitening as Chris was hauled back up through the platform floor. The police car was still parked on the waterfront. O’Mahony, becoming frantic about the dissipating darkness, directed a furious restoration ot the platform, replacing the floor plate, packing up his equipment, and putting all the tarps and ladders back where the bridge workers had left them. Then the group moved out, jogging silently down the catwalks in teams of three, reconvening briefly at the base of the bridge for handshakes and goodbyes, then melting off in different directions into the dawn-crisp city.

Why English words are not pronounced as they're spelt

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

Edward Finegan and Niko Besnier, from Language: Its Structure and Use, pp. 34-35.

There are five principal reason for the discrepancy between the written representation of many English words and their actual pronunciation:

English orthography had several diverse origins with different spelling conventions:
1. The system that had evolved in Wessex before the Norman Invasion of 1066 gave us such spellings as ee for the sound in words like deed and seen.
2. The system that was overlaid on the Old English system by the Normans, with their French orthographic customs, gaves us such spellings as queen (for the earlier cween) and thief (for earlier theef).
3. A Dutch influence from Caxton, the first English printer, who was born in England but lived in Holland for thirty years, gave us such spellings as ghost (which replaced gost) and ghastly (which replaced gastlic).
4. During the Renaissance, an attempt to reform spelling along etymological (that is, historically earlier) lines gaves us debt for earlier det or dette and salmon for earlier samon.
A spelling system established several hundred years ago is still used for a language that continues to change and develop its spoken form. Thus the initial k in knock, know, knee, and certain other words was once pronounced, as was the gh in knight and thought, among others. As to vowels, change in progress when the system was developing and continuing change in pronunciation have led to such matched spelling for mismatched pronunciations as beat/great and food/foot.
English is spoken differently in different countries throughout the world (and in different regions within a single country), despite a relatively uniform standard for written orthography. Though this orthographic uniformity certainly facilitates international communication, it also increases the disparity between the way English is written and spoken in any given place.
Words (and their meaningful subparts) alter their pronunciation depending on the adjacent sounds and stress patterns. For example, in electric the second c represents the sound [k] as in kiss, but in electricity it represents the sound [s] as in silly. Compare also the pronunciation of i in senile (pronounced like the i of I’ll) with its pronunciation in senility (in which it has the i of ill).
Spoken forms differ from one set of circumstances to another—for example, in formal and informal situations. While some degree of such variation is incorporated into the written system (do not/don’t; was/’twas), there is relatively little tolerance for such spelling variation as gonna (‘going to’), wanna (‘want to’), gotcha (‘got you’), and jeat yet? (‘did you eat yet?’). Such variable spelling of variable speech would force readers to determine the pronunciation of the represented speech before arriving at meaning, instead of directly for meaning, as adult readers normally do, with the necessity of silent pronunciation.

Important Supreme Court Decisions

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

The New York Public Library Desk Reference, pp. 365-366.

1803 Marbury v. Madison
For the first time, the Supreme Court ruled an act of Congress unconstitutional, establishing the principle of judicial review.

1819 McCullock v. Maryland
The Court’s ruling upheld the constitutionality of the creation of the Bank of the United States and denied to the states the power to tax such an institution because, as Justice John Marshall put it, “the power to tax is the power to destroy.”

1819 Trustees of Dartmouth College v. Woodward
The Court ruled that a state could not arbitrarily alter the terms of a contract. Although this case applied to a college, its implications widened in later years when the same principle was used to limit states’ ability to interfere with business contracts.

1857 Dred Scott v. Sanford
The Missouri Compromise was declared unconstitutional because it deprived a person of his property (a slave) without due process of law. This was only the second time that the Court had asserted the power of judicial review. The decision also stated that slaves are not citizens of any state or of the United States

1877 Munn v. Illinois
States were allowed to regulate businesses when “a public interest” was involved. This principle was weakened by rulings in other cases in the late nineteenth century.

1895 U.S. v. E.C. Knight Co.
In stating that manufacturing and commerce are not connected, and that the Sherman Anti-Trust Act could not be applied to manufacturers, the Court seriously impaired the government’s ability to regulate monopolies.

1896 Plessy v. Ferguson
The Supreme Court ruled that state laws enforcing segregation by race are constitutional if accommodations are equal as well as separate. Subsequently overturned by Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka.

1904 Northern Securities Co. v. U.S.
The High Court backed government action against big businesses that restrained trade, in effect, putting teeth in the Sherman Anti-Trust Act.

1908 Muller v. Oregon
The Court ruled that a state could legislate maximum working hours based on evidence complied by attorney Louis Brandeis.

1911 Standard Oil Co. of New Jersey Et Al. v. U.S.
The Court dissolved the Standard Oil Trust not because of its size but because of its unreasonable restraint of trade. The principle involved is called “the rule of reason.”

1919 Schenck v. U.S.
The Court upheld the World War I Espionage Act. In a landmark decision dealing with free speech, Justice Oliver W. Holmes said that a person who encourages draft resistance during a war is a “clear and present danger.”

1935 Schechter v. U.S.
Invalidating the National Industrial Recovery Act of the New Deal, the Court declared that Congress could not delegate its powers to the President.

1951 Dennis Et Al. v. U.S.
The Supreme Court ruled the 1946 Smit Act constitutional; the act made it a crime to advocate the overthrow of the government by force. In its 1957 Yates v. U.S. decision, the Court tempered this ruling by permitting such advocacy in the abstract if it is not connected to action to achieve this goal.

1954 Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka
In an example of sociological jurisprudence, the Court held unconstitutional laws enforcing segragated schools; it called for desegregation of schools “with all deliberate speed.”

1957 Roth v. U.S.
The ruling based obscenity decisions on whether a publication appeals to “prurient interests.” The Court also said that obscene material is that which lacks any “redeeming social importance.”

1961 Mapp v. Ohio
The High Court extended the federal exclusionary rule to the states; this rule prevented prosecutors from using illegally obtained evidence in a criminal trial.

1962 Baker v. Carr
The Court held that state legislatures must be apportioned to provide equal protection under the law (Fourteenth Amendment). A follow-up decision applied the same principle to the size of congressional districts, insisting that they be approximately equal in population.

1966 Miranda v. Arizona
The case declared that before questioning suspects, police must inform them of their right to remain silent, that any statements they make can be used against them, and that they have the right to remain silent until they have an attorney, which the state will provide if they cannot afford to pay.

1972 Furman v. Georgia
The Court found unconstitutional all death penalty statues then in force in the states, but held out the possibility that if they were rewritten so as to be less subjective and randomly imposed, they might be constitutional (as the Court has subsequently held in many instances).

1973 Roe v. Wade
The Court ruled state anti-abortion laws unconstitutional, except as they apply to the last trimester of pregnancy.

1978 University of California v. Bakke
The ruling allowed a university to admit students on the basis of race if the school’s aim is to combat discrimination. Subsequent decisions of the Court have filled in the details of how government and business may use quotas to make up for past racism.

1986 Bowers v. Hardwick
In a case involving enforcement of Georgia’s law against sodomy, the Court ruled that states have the power to regulate sexual relations in private between consenting adults.

A similar, more detailed list of important Supreme Court Cases.

Kenko: In All Things One Looks Back With Regret To The Past

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

[The short-sighted–showing not much flair for history–are often found lamenting the past. Two examples follow. I would be glad to hear of others.]

Kenko (c. 1283-1382):

In all things one looks back with regret to the past. Modern fashions appear to be growing from bad to worse. It is the ancient shapes that are most pleasing in the beautiful utensils made by workers in wood. As for the style of letters, even a scrap of waste paper from olden times is admirable.

Everyday speech, too, is growing regrettably bad. Whereas they used to say ‘Lift up the carriage’ and ‘Turn up the lamps’, now they have changed the way they pronounce it. Old people say that it is a great pity that for the assembly of servants of the Household Department they now say ‘Get up and light the lamps’, and at the recital of the Golden Light Sutra, instead of saying ‘Hall of the Imperial Lecture’ they say ‘Lecture Hall’. (#22)

Lady Sarah Lennox (1745-1826), on the changes observed between 1760 and 1818:

Theatres.–Were generally well attended by people of fashion. There were well regulated; of size to see & hear the performers; the access easy and safe; every lady went to her box without interruption or offence, & return’d equally safe, whether attended or otherwise. There were always boxes upstairs set apart, & generally occupy’d by women of bad character.

Now ladies of character can’t go to the Play without gentlemen to take care of them, to guard them, to remain with them in their boxes. The avenues are filled with prostitutes & men that go to meet & talk to them, & people are liable to see & hear very improper tings. … The side boxes, which were always filled with the best company, are now frequently occupied by prentices, valets, & every body that can pay. A man who had offer’d as a cook in the morning was seen by the gentleman who had refused to hire him sitting in the side box near him with some ladies in the evening.

Manners.–Great civility was general in all ranks. … Titles were used in common, & none but by parents of the greatest intimates were ever call’d by their Christian names. Servants always call’d those they served My Lord or My Lady, My Master or My Mistress. They were in general respectful & anxious to please, & continued in the same service.

Now there is a certain rudeness or carelessness of manners affected both by men and women. Ladies pretty and young may go and seek their own carriages, & meet with no assistance; persons with or without titles are called by their Xtian names, Mary P., Louisa S., etc. Misses likewise give up their titles, Maria H., Emily B. … Every man, tradesman, or farmer is Esqr., & every prentice girl a young lady. Servants speak of their masters in the third person, Ld I. or Mr F. …

Language–has always been changing, & it has been said, as morals grow worse language grows more refined. No one can say ‘breeding’ or ‘with child’ or ‘lying in,’ without being thought indelicate. ‘In the family way’ & ‘confinement’ have taken their place. … ‘Stomach’ signifies everything. This is delicate, but to very many unintelligible, & in writing wd be entirely so, very difficult for a foreigner to translate, or a medical man to understand that was not in the high ton; ‘fair Cyprians,’ & ‘tender’ or ‘interesting connexions,’ have succeeded to ‘women on the town,’ & ‘kept mistresses.’

To My Old Master

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

Harper’s Magazine, November 2000, p. 41.

[The following letter was published in The Freedmen’s Book, a collection of African-American writings compiled by the abolitionist Lydia Maria Child in 1865. The letter is a response to a slave owner who has written to his former slave at the war’s end, asking him to return to work in Tennessee.]

To my old Master, Colonel P. H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee.

Sir, I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin’s to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy,—the folks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane and Grundy—go to school and are learning well. … We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, “Them colored people were slaves,” down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost- Marshal- General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friend-ship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earning would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor’s visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adam’s Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. … Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls. You know how it was with poor Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve—and die, if it came to that—than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting me.

From your old servant,
Jourdon Anderson

The Beard Watson Bloke Lets Go

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

From Chapter 6, They’re a Weird Mob, by Nino Culotta (John O’Grady).

We drank about three cups of tea each, while Joe told us about “a bloke I ’ad workin’ fer me one time—this bloke,” he said, “was a chemist, see. An’ ’e ’ad a beard. Reckoned ’e was trainin’ for the Olympic Games so ’e could win by a whisker. Said ’e was sick o’ bein’ a chemist, an’ wanted the exercise. I give ’im a start. … this time I’m tellin’ yez about we was buildin’ a garage. She was an excavation job, an’ we ’ad to underpin the bloody house. … there was all this and diggin’ ter get under the foundations an’ tom ’em up fer the brickwork. So I get some planks, an’ make a run fer the barrer. Were was you then, Jimmy?”

“Earlwood.”

“That’s right. Finishin’ orf that job o’ Smitty’s. I give this Beard Watson bloke a mattock an’ shovel, an’ we get stuck into ut. She was a bastard down that ’ole. Hot as ’ell. I’m trimmin’ the back face an’ chuckin’ the clay up the top, an’ ’e’s bullockin’ in under the foundations, an’ wheelin’ ’is lot up the run. Goin’ orright, too. Then I ’ear this bloody crash, an ’ere ’e is arse up under the run with the barrer on top of ’im. I though ’e’d killed ’imself until I ’ear ’im swearin.’ Pat think he c’n swear, but ’e’s only a starter compared ter this bloke. ’E’ pickin’ ’imself up any callin’ the barrow everything, an’ I told ’im, I sez, never ’ang onto a barrer mate, I sez. Let ’er go if she starts, I sez. Better a broken barrer than a broken neck, I sez. ’E sez—I tried to ’old ’er. I sez, never do that mate, I sez. ’E says I didn’ want ’er ter fall where she did. I sez don’ matter where she falls mate, let ’er go. ’E sez O.K. We was diggin’ fer about another ’alf hour, an’ ’e sez wot are yer gonna ’ave fer lunch Joe? I sez—I got me sandwiches an’ a couple o’ hunks o’ cake an’ a bit o’ fruit I sez. ’E sez—yer did ’ave. I sez wodda yer mean I did ’ave, I sez. ’E sez—ut was parked in the shade near the planks there were the barrer got away from me. I sez—yer meanter say ut’s still under that bloody heap? ’E sez—could be. ’Aven’t seen ut come out. An’ ’e just goes on diggin’ as if ’e didn’ give a bugger. I shift the clay orf ut, an’ y’ orter seen ut. Flat as Aunt Maud’s chest. Paper all torn an’ yer can’t tell wot’s sandwiches an’ wot’s dirt. ’E says yer c’n ’ave some o’ mine, I got plenty ’e sez. I sez yer know what yer c’n do with yours, dontcher? ’E sez, I don’t like ut that way, ut give me indegestion. I c’n see the funny side of ut now, but gees, I coulda killed ’im at the time.”

How I Met My Wife

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Jack Winter, the New Yorker, July 25, 1994.

It had been a rough day, so when I walked into the party I was very chalant, despite my efforts to appear gruntled and consolate.

I was furling my wieldy umbrella for the coat check when I saw her standing alone in a corner. She was a descript person, a woman in a state of total array. Her hair was kempt, her clothing shevelled, and she moved in a gainly way.

I wanted desperately to meet her, but I knew I’d have to make bones about it, since I was travelling cognito. Beknownst to me, the hostess, whom I could see both hide and hair of, was very proper, so it would be skin off my nose if anything bad happened. And even though I had only swerving loyalty to her, my manners couldn’t be peccable. Only toward and heard-of behavior would do.

Fortunately, the embarrassment that my maculate appearance might cause was evitable. There were two ways about it, but the chances that someone as flappable as I would be ept enough to become persona grata or a sung hero were slim. I was, after all, something to sneeze at, someone you could easily hold a candle to, someone who usually aroused bridled passion.

So I decided not to risk it. But then, all at once, for some apparent reason, she looked in my direction and smiled in a way that I could make head or tails of.

I was plussed. It was concerting to see that she was communicado, and it nerved me that she was interested in a pareil like me, sight seen. Normally, I had a domitable spirit, but, being corrigible, I felt capacitated—as if this were something I was great shakes at—and forgot that I had succeeded in situations like this only a told number of times. So, after a terminable delay, I acted with mitigated gall and made my way through the ruly crowd with strong givings.

Nevertheless, since this was all new hat to me and I had not time to prepare a promptu speech, I was petuous. Wanting to make only called-for remarks, I started talking about the hors d’oeuvres, trying to abuse her of the notion that I was sipid, and perhaps even bunk a few myths about myselfs.

She responded well, and I was mayed that she considered me a savoury character who was up to some good. She told me who she was. “What a perfect nomer,” I said, advertently. The conversation became more and more choate, and we spoke at length to much avail. But I was defatigable, so I had to leave at a godly hour. I asked if she wanted to come with me. To my delight, she was committal. We left the party together and have been together ever since. I have given her my love, and she has requited it.

Meet the Cripples

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

The Age, “Saturday Extra,” 9 Sep. 2000, p. 2; an extract from The Beatles Anthology.

Ringo: I remember us standing on the roof of a building in one of the cities in Australia, and all the fans were down there, chanting. We were having fun with them and one guy, who was on crutches, threw his crutches away and went into: “I can walk, I can walk!” What he felt I don’t know, but it was as if he was healed, and then he fell right on his face. He just fell over. Maybe that’s why it stuck in my head.

Crippled people were constantly being brought backstage to be touched by “a Beatle,” and it was very strange. It happened in Britain as well, not only overseas. There were some really bad cases, God help them. There were some poor little children who would be brought in in baskets. And also some really sad Thalidomide kids with little broken bodies and no arms, no legs and little feet.

The problem was, people would bring in these terrible cases and leave them in our dressing room. They’d go off for tea or whatever, and they would leave them behind. If it got very heavy we would shout, “Mal, cripples!” and that became a saying, even when there were no handicapped people present. If there were any people around we didn’t like, we’d should, “Mal, cripples!” and they’d be escorted out.

George: John was allergic to cripples. You could see he had a thing about them; I think it was a fear or something. …

We were only trying to play rock ’n’ roll and they’d be wheeling them in, not just in wheelchairs but sometimes in oxygen tents. What did they think that we would be able to do? I don’t know. I think it was that those people whose job it was to push them around wanted to see the show, and this was a way to get in. It was a case of, “How many have we got tonight, Brian?” We’d come out of the band room to go to the stage and we’d be fighting our way through all these poor unfortunate people. …

John: I don’t think I’d know a spastic from a Polaroid lens. I’m not hung up about them. When I use the term “spastic” in general conversation, I don’t mean to say it literally. I feel terrible sympathy for these people, it seems the end of the world when you see deformed spastics, and we’ve had quite a lot of them in our travels…

You want to be alone and you don’t know what to say, and they’re usually saying, “I’ve got your record,” or they can’t speak and just want to touch you. And it’s always the mother or nurse pushing them on you. They would push these people at you like you were Christ, as if there were some aura about you that would rub off on them.

… When we would open up, every night, instead of seeing kids there, we would see a row full of cripples along the front. When we’d be running through, people would be lying around. It seemed that we were just surrounded by cripples and blind people all the time, and when we would go through corridors they would all be touching us … They’d line them up, and I got the impression The Beatles were being treated as bloody faith healers … I mean, we felt sorry for them, anybody would, but it was awful.

Everything Is Fine In North Korea

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“Brilliant Guidance: For the People,” the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, No. 405, December 1989. [The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea—published in English—is (was?) essentially North Korean propaganda.]

At Dawn

Visitors to Hamhung, an industrial city, will be attracted by a magnificent building with a unique style. It is the Hamhung Grand Theatre. It was built thanks to the deep care of dear Comrade Kim Jong Il who spares nothing to provide adequate conditions for the cultural life of workers.

One day at the end of November 1979, Comrade Kim Jong Il visited Hamhung to give personal guidance in South Hamgyong Province.

It was far after three o’clock in the early morning when he arrived in the station. It was still dark but he drove to a construction site to give his direction. Although officials who accompanied him begged him to rest even for a few moments, he continued to inspect the building under construction. Day began to break. Officials now thought he would leave for his lodging.

But he asked if they could show him the design of the Hamhung Grand Theatre. Apparently he had been interested in its construction. He said that he would like to begin the day by studying the design. When a provincial offical begged him to have a rest and postpone his examination of design to next time he said, “I am very happy when you ask me to study designs of the building for the people.” He smiled and urged officials to start.

He was shown into a meeting hall where the designs were prepared. Comrade Kim Jong Il looked into blueprints. There were two types of design about the facade of the theatre: One was drawn in a rectangular shape, while the other was in a round shape. After studying each of them, Comrade Kim Jong Il selected the second one. It displayed a new conception and more attractive appearance, although it was certain that construction would be expensive and building operations would be complicated.

He observed that the stage of the theatre must be wide enough to show performances of circus and art troupes from the capital. It would be larger than the Pyongyang Grand Theatre, but its design would be welcomed. There is a large population of workers in Hamhung.

Comrade Kim Jong Il added that our working people would use the theatre and that therefore it ought to be built excellently and on a large scale.

The eastern sky was reddening at dawn. Comrade Kim Jong Il drew up the curtain and looked out at the rising sun. He remarked that it would be necessary to build a park around the theatre. At the end of work, the workers along with their family members could come there to enjoy performances or recreation and ease their fatigue.

Soon the officials began to carry out his instructions.

On the Train

The following year, in 1980, the historic Sixth Congress of the Workers’ Party of Korea was held. All people worked hard to greet the congress with the achievements. In South Hamgyong Province, the construction of varieties of buildings, including cold storage factory, was being undertaken. But the building of the theatre was neglected.

One day Comrade Kim Jong Il, who had given personal guidance in a northern province, was returning home. When his train entered South Hamgyong Province, an official of the province boarded the train to send him off.

Comrade Kim Jong Il who had been studying a pile of documents submitted to his examination, welcomed the official and put aside papers. He asked about the economic situation and the people’s living conditions in the province. When their topic came to the construction of the theatre, the official felt extremely guilty.

Two days previously, a senior official of the province was telephoned far late at night by Comrade Kim Jong Il. He was asked what progress was made in the theatre construction. Unprepared, he hesitated. After a while he answered that no progress was made because they had been so busy with construction of production projects.

Comrade Kim Jong Il was silent before remarking that the importance of production projects could never be an excuse for the delay. He urged the official to accelerate construction of both production projects and theatre.

He sensed how the official on the other side was feeling and kindly talked to him.

“We must know clearly why we are building factory or theatre. It is only for the benefit of the working people that we are working to develop economy and increase production. Therefore we must equally be concerned about increasing production and improving the cultured life of the working people.”

He added, “You may use money and supplies preferentially for the construction of large factories in order to complete them before the opening of the Party Congress. But you must not delay construction of the theatre of use the supplies for its building in another project.” He observed that he would support them and they must spare nothing for the benefit of the working people. The official was deeply moved by the nobility of mind.

Later on Comrade Kim Jong Il showed deep concern for the construction of theatre. When he learned that they met a problem in transport, he ensured that dozens of lorries were sent to the construction site. When steel products were in short supply he made sure that they were sent promptly. Even equipment for lighting and acoustics selected by him were sent.

In the Hamhung Grand Theatre, art troupes of the province and from the capital are giving frequent performances to entertain the people in Hamhung area.

Article: Kang Tae On

This issue’s Table of Contents:

The Great Leader President Kim Il Sung Pays Unofficial Visit to the People’s Republic of China—1
Conquerors of Nature, Arable Land Extends
- New Land Obtained along the Seashore—4
- Reclamation of Highland—10
Abundant Harvest and Distribution—13
Demonstration of Invincible Unity—14
The Great Leader President Kim Il Sung Receives Foreign Guests—15
Brilliant Guidance: For the People—16 (see above)
Motherland—18
“Our Country Is the Cradle of Happiness”—20
In the Embrace of My Country
- A Full Life—22
- Enjoying Great Benefits—22
Nyongbyon Silk—23
Historical Record of the Pyongyang Festival—24
Admiration for the Schoolchildren’s Art Troupe—25
40 Years with Readers—26
Violation of Human Rights in South Korea—28
The Group of Marathon Runners to Rescue Rim Su Gyong—29
In Parks and Pleasure Grounds—30
The 35th Anniversary of the Start of Algerian Revolution Marked—32
A Bright Future of Korea Assured—33
National Division Must Be Ended—33

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus

2007-09-24T21:30:34.000Z

By Francis P. Church, first published in The New York Sun on September 21, 1897.

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:

Dear Editor—

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

About the Exchange

Francis P. Church’s editorial, “Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus” was an immediate sensation, and went on to became one of the most famous editorials ever written. It first appeared in the The New York Sun in 1897, almost a hundred years ago, and was reprinted annually until 1949 when the paper went out of business.

Thirty-six years after her letter was printed, Virginia O’Hanlon recalled the events that prompted her letter:

“Quite naturally I believed in Santa Claus, for he had never disappointed me. But when less fortunate little boys and girls said there wasn’t any Santa Claus, I was filled with doubts. I asked my father, and he was a little evasive on the subject.

“It was a habit in our family that whenever any doubts came up as to how to pronounce a word or some question of historical fact was in doubt, we wrote to the Question and Answer column in The Sun. Father would always say, ‘If you see it in the The Sun, it’s so,’ and that settled the matter.

“ ‘Well, I’m just going to write The Sun and find out the real truth,’ I said to father.

“He said, ‘Go ahead, Virginia. I’m sure The Sun will give you the right answer, as it always does.’ ”

And so Virginia sat down and wrote her parents’ favorite newspaper.

Her letter found its way into the hands of a veteran editor, Francis P. Church. Son of a Baptist minister, Church had covered the Civil War for The New York Times and had worked on the The New York Sun for 20 years, more recently as an anonymous editorial writer. Church, a sardonic man, had for his personal motto, “Endeavour to clear your mind of cant.” When controversial subjects had to be tackled on the editorial page, especially those dealing with theology, the assignments were usually given to Church.

Now, he had in his hands a little girl’s letter on a most controversial matter, and he was burdened with the responsibility of answering it.

“Is there a Santa Claus?” the childish scrawl in the letter asked. At once, Church knew that there was no avoiding the question. He must answer, and he must answer truthfully. And so he turned to his desk, and he began his reply which was to become one of the most memorable editorials in newspaper history.

Church married shortly after the editorial appeared. He died in April, 1906, leaving no children.

Virginia O’Hanlon went on to graduate from Hunter College with a Bachelor of Arts degree at age 21. The following year she received her Master’s from Columbia, and in 1912 she began teaching in the New York City school system, later becoming a principal. After 47 years, she retired as an educator. Throughout her life she received a steady stream of mail about her Santa Claus letter, and to each reply she attached an attractive printed copy of the Church editorial. Virginia O’Hanlon Douglas died on May 13, 1971, at the age of 81, in a nursing home in Valatie, N.Y.

More Information

Wikipedia’s Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus article includes a nice scan of the original editorial.
More historical background and analysis from The New York Times on the occasion of the 100th Anniversary of the editorial’s publication.