Category: Wednesday’s Child

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Wednesday’s Child: The Point of the Needle

The world is full of bad news, and most of it does not require a dedicated chronicler to record and analyze.  So one reads, for instance, how the music department of Oxford University announces that musical notation has not “shaken off its connection to its colonial past” and is “a slap in the face to some students,” while “musical skills should no longer be compulsory”  because the current focus “on white European music causes students of color great distress.”

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Wednesday’s Child: Two Gentlemen of the Rona

Gentle reader, I will be frank.  There are no two gentlemen of Verona in my story, and the one and only gentleman I dilate upon rather belongs to Sicily than to the north of Italy.  But ever since my salad days as a jobbing journalist in London I have envied my yellow press colleagues writing headlines of the “Headless Body in Topless Bar” variety….

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Wednesday’s Child: My Country Right or Wrong

Say what you will about them, but my compatriots have brains.  A new survey is just out, and though the gentle reader likely shares my own derisory view of social science, I want to use the occasion to vent some national pride.  The survey, by the Moscow think tank Levada Center, sampled 1600 adults spread over 134 locations throughout Russia who were interviewed in person in their homes.

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Wednesday’s Child: To Bell a Cat

There is a historical episode to which time and again I turn as more news of the West’s strategic enfeeblement comes over the transom. The gentle reader may find the reference obscure, but I can assure him that to most Russians of my age and background it’s textbook stuff.  The episode is the June 1937 torture and execution, on Stalin’s orders, of Marshal “Red Napoleon” Tukhachevsky.  His confession of having been all along a German agent, which survives in the archives of the secret police, “is dappled with a brown spray that was later found to be blood-spattered by a...

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Wednesday’s Child: Architecture as Confession

The gentle reader may recall that I was once a student at Yale. There, unforgettably, a preternaturally astute classmate named Steve (where is he now, I wonder?  In a nuthouse, most likely, along with everybody else who is preternaturally astute) once buttonholed me to deliver a lecture on the architecture of the university, specifically the residential colleges, the Sterling Memorial Library, and other structures of the 1930’s.