Category: Wednesday’s Child

The Möbius strip, twisting back on itself in an endless loop, is how most people visualize the past, present, and – consequently – future of civilization. This seamless plane of recurrence is punctuated by popular historical concepts, such as “tyranny,” “slavery,” “war,” “revolution,” “famine,” “torture,” or else by such allegedly universal memes as “family,” “happiness”, or “wealth.”  Even those hysterically optimistic punters who believe that the history of civilization is progressive – which would imply that its topography is less like the closed loop than like an upwardly mobile parabola – cannot escape the pervasive myth of endless recurrence enshrined...

Last week I mentioned Lampedusa.  Scion of a princely family who wrote his only book aged 58 and did not live to see it published or declared a masterwork of world literature, Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa would have inherited his ancestral palazzo in Palermo – about a hundred yards from my house – had it not been for an Allied bomb that leveled it.  Later he moved to another splendid palazzo nearby, because, as the Serbs say, “caviar is eaten not by those who can afford it, but by those who are used to it,” a wise adage that I...

In short, in the professional view of a gossip columnist on an evening paper, it was bizarre that the tug of war over Second Nature – a difficult book by an obscure author brought out by a small publisher – should attract public notice.  And the truth is, it was those who so improbably saw the obscure author crying out de profundis as a threat to themselves and their own departmental peace of mind who made the ensuing imbroglio what it was.  Thus, in the Observer, ancient Anthony Burgess had been given half a page to deal with four centenary...

Apart from the indomitable Madame Defarge, all I remember about the famous novel by Dickens is that there are two cities in it. Those cities, London and Paris, were evidently symbols for the author, not merely geographic or historical entities.  And so, following his example, I offer the reader a tale of two obituaries – newspaper articles about my father, who died last month – one written in London and published in the Daily Telegraph, the other written in New York and published in the New York Times. “Lev Navrozov, who has died aged 88, was a Russian author, historian,...

The other day I came across a book that was being advertized on Amazon, and it was called Christ’s Ventriloquists.  The blurb said it was “a work of investigative history” and the author described himself as an “investigative historian.”  Now, at the risk of giving the reader apoplexy, I want to quote from this blurb. The book, burbles the blurb, “documents and describes Christianity’s creation event, which occurred in Antioch 20 years after Jesus had been crucified in Jerusalem for sedition against Roman rule. At this event, Paul broke away from the Jewish sect that Jesus had begun, and he...

“Well, where is the getting down to the nitty-gritty then, eh?  The bedroom stuff you promised us? ” What I want the reader to glean from the preceding, anticipating some of my yet stranger claims, is that the Pasternak family had been split from the beginning.  The female line, issuing from the mother, produced Boris and Josephine.  Alexander and Lydia took after the father. When it comes to genetic roulette, a special deity protects the integrity of the big loser.  Rosalia gambled away music, but ended up with a devoted husband.  Boris staked his all on being like everyone else,...