The gentle reader did not comment on last week’s post, so I follow the famous orchestra conductor’s advice to slow down if the audience finds your tempo sluggish. With regard to old icons – the “figure” of my metaphor, as a literary critic would say, current news being its “ground” – my meaning was clear enough, I think.
Disinformation, which we Russians lovingly nickname deza, differs from ordinary misinformation in that it is planted or spread knowingly, with malice aforethought and the intent to deceive. This looks good on paper, until a piece of fake news is actually before us and we start mulling it over, and then what is patently a case of carelessness or even of fraudulent intent may begin to take on the configurations of a gospel truth. That fake, after all, has not come out of nowhere. That fake is almost always a palimpsest of earlier fakes, and as one’s mind keeps burrowing deeper...
I’m writing this on a terrace that overlooks cerulean infinity on three sides, yet a day here is costing me less than a cocktail, with an inevitable accompaniment of olives and roasted nuts, at the Cala di Volpe or any number of similarly fancy establishments dotting the map of Italy from the Costa Smeralda upwards
Not a kind word for him anywhere, East or West. They are calling him “Europe’s last dictator,” which only makes sense if neighboring Russia is a country in Asia, and every little French politician, every sniveling British journalist, every U.S. State Department flunky, and every Kremlin lackey are gloating over his political demise, which is said to be imminent. This coming Sunday, Belorussian elections may be won by a random female candidate who is capitalizing on the protest vote against the taciturn mustachioed incumbent, and I sincerely hope this grossly maligned man manages to falsify the result to stay in...
Of everything we are to take on faith as Christians, quite the most difficult thing to believe in is the immortality of the soul. Every human being is said to possess one, yet so much evidence to the contrary seems to pile up almost daily right in front of our eyes that only the best of men can see a way of eschewing doubt on that score
Today marks the twelfth day of hearings in the Royal Courts of Justice in London, where a Hollywood film star – the “Bad” of my title – is suing News Group Newspapers, publishers of the lowbrow and bestselling Sun, for libel.
Apparently there is a neurological disorder called prosopagnosia, also known as facial agnosia or “face blindness,” affecting to greater or lesser extent some two percent of the world’s population.
The barbarians are near, we feel their corrosive breath on our necks, and unlike their predecessors these new ones cannot be absorbed…
It is curious that Theodore Roosevelt’s phrase about speaking softly and carrying a big stick is the progenitor of “big stick foreign policy,” though in fairness it should really have given us a totally opposite doctrine, “speak softly foreign policy.”
A friend wrote that he had been lent a sailboat and would be moored in Venice over the weekend, and would I want to dine in his company? With the insouciance born of longstanding habit I replied that I would with pleasure, if only he coughs up the money I need to get there
