This time around my impression of the town where I had spent four waterlogged years was altogether baleful. Now I was here as a stranger, and this made immersion in the tourist miasma, which locals are trained and equipped to evade, unavoidable and humiliating.
Only the eyes make us feel more vulnerable, more exposed to harm and subject to deterioration, than our teeth. But the eyes at least have eyelids, whereas our teeth stand naked and afraid before every grain of sand, every cherry pit, and every year that passes. Were they of flesh and blood, they would tremble in fear whenever we opened our mouths.
Italians always say the same thing when events like this unfold on their television screens. “The English,” they effuse, “it’s only the English who know how to do it.” The event in question was, in this case, the Coronation of King Charles III, but I’d heard the phrase and observed the facial expression that accompanies it on many a past occasion – funerals, weddings, and whatnot.
Our times reverberate with observations, which are just as often laments, of the ubiquity of certain objects and modes of deportment with which these are associated. I doubt that the umbrella and the bicycle caused as much speculation about the future of the world as the smartphone and the electric scooter do at present, though I recall that a New York Times editorial once condemned the word “automobile” as a neologism combining Greek and Latin roots “which is so near to indecent that we print it with hesitation.”
The English language does not seem to have a single word for “old age,” which exists, for instance, in Russian (starost’) and Italian (vecchiaia). A native speaker can easily spend days or years pondering this lacuna because, whatever its significance, it is significant. We do not say “young age,” we say “youth,” and at once there opens a very specific psychological and ethical panorama. None such exists for youth’s antonym, suggesting that language itself does not so much as bother looking in this direction. Yet how can there be night without twilight?
My bright college years in America were roughly the epoch of Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche. I never read the book, whose title was on the lips of my contemporaries as a kind of mantra of masculinity. But it wasn’t as though they sensed what the future held. The magic, I reckon, lay simply in the innate ridiculousness of the word “quiche,” so swishy, hissy, and, as one might reflect now, forty years later, tranny. Just say the silly word and straightaway you’re in the audience of RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Some years ago, when my wife and I were in London, a car passed by at full tilt as we stood on a street corner by Sloane Square. The passengers inside were amusing themselves by throwing ball bearings out the window. One pea-sized steel ball flew just inches from Olga’s face and crashed into the asphalt at our feet.
Seeing that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences understands film about as much as the United Nations understands anything, this week I’m giving out my own Oscars. Admittedly my choices are the haul of a lifetime rather than of a single year gone by, as I haven’t been to the cinema or watched a film by any other means for at least a decade.
It is an irony of fate, like something out of a Shakespeare history play, that the daughter of a tyrant should have married a man with the same surname as his archenemy and likely nemesis, yet Mrs. Zelensky is not in the least fictional.
In Soviet times, “nationality” – meaning race – was, just like a subject’s given name and surname, a legally obligatory declaration. The famous “Fifth Line” on his internal passport was part of his destiny, perhaps the most important part, because once he was “Russian,” “Jew” or “Tatar,” his education, employment, and other material opportunities were set in stone. He was labeled for life.
