Category: Wednesday’s Child

A provincial painter of eclectic pictures, of the sort immortalised by Saki under the title “Dying Hyenas in Trafalgar Square,” wrote in to a Sunday newspaper recently to announce his resignation from the world of art.  There was no critical milieu in Britain, he lamented, sensitive enough to save him from oblivion.  “No matter what I paint, or how good or bad my works are,” he wrote in his letter, “no newspaper, magazine or gallery has shown the slightest interest.” “I am not saying that I am right and they are wrong,” the gentle creature from Stonebroom, near Alfreton, Derbyshire,...

An absurdly generous friend put us up in a hotel new to the city, The Peninsula, where a bottle of mineral water from room service would set you back $28.  Back in Palermo, that would buy me a whole roast lamb – dinner for eight to ten guests, or a wild sea bass of mammoth proportions. One of the functions I was to attend in Paris was a meeting of expat Republicans – “Republicans” as in the GOP, not in the European sense of cowardly regicides – and, when I got there, the contrast could not have been more striking. ...

Oh, how it made me wish that our late friend Curtis Cate were still here, living in the Rue des Saints-Pères and gesticulating awkwardly when lamenting this or that Soviet ploy.  I went into a tobacconist’s under the windows of his old apartment and asked the lady at the counter if she remembered Monsieur Cate, the American writer.  She said she did, supplying me with a sour smile, a packet of unfiltered Gitanes, and an English newspaper. The news was that Putin had cancelled his visit to Paris, where the new Russian “Spiritual and Cultural Center” – an almost unimaginably...

Attentive readers may recall my post back in April, “Just Don’t Call it Praetorian,” in which I compared the newly formed National Guard, Russia’s president’s 350,000-strong personal army, to Himmler’s Schutzstaffel (SS) in Nazi Germany.  One reason for its creation, I argued, was to counterbalance the army of Ramzan Kadyrov’s Kremlin loyalists, historically a clone of Röhm’s Sturmabteilung (SA). Now another reason has come to the fore, and it deserves a separate post – especially in view of the fact that I first broached the subject with an article in the June 2011 issue of a magazine that the founder...

Like any massive fraud, whether successful or unsuccessful, Russia’s recent parliamentary election is an interesting subject.  Fraud, swindle, pyramid–perpetrated or operated by all sorts of impostors, flimflam artists, and snake oil salesmen–where would world literature be without them?  Thomas Mann’s Hochstapler, or confidence man, in Confessions of Felix Krull is alone worth a million real-life fraud victims. Conrad would never have written Chance, the masterwork that pulled him out of obscurity, without its central character, the swindler Smith de Barral.  Gogol would not have written Dead Souls without Chichikov, the spectre of Western monopoly capitalism in the guise of a...

Please imagine two foes from the annals of history, say, Wellington and Napoleon, or a pair of ideological adversaries, like Burke and Robespierre.  Obviously there’s a whole ideological mythology trailing in the wake of each of these combatants, and to this day the world – whether it is conscious or oblivious of it – is divided between partisans of one or the other.  So, whether they know it or not, folks who opine that the European Union is a good thing for Europe are on Napoleon’s side; so 3.5 million Russian secret policemen endorse Robespierre, even if 3.4 million of...

I have known many rich people in my lifetime and had ample occasion to remark upon what seemed like an endless spiral of personal tragedies they invariably suffered.  As a Christian, I always found this unfair.  The rich are supposed to be thoughtless of God and careless of the salvation of their souls – with eternal anguish their likely posthumous lot – but here on earth their existence is meant to be cushy, replicating or evoking the serenity of paradise. Instead it looked like their future suffering unto eternity was merely a continuation of their present sorrows in this earthly...

The generosity of a friend, like a magic carpet, took me to Rome over the weekend, and I am glad to report that the best restaurant in the world is still there and still serves the best tripe.  Outside Italy, mastery over tripe is a useless yardstick of a chef’s eminence, since hardly anybody makes it, while a cook in England would probably get arrested if he dared to put the dish on the menu, containing as it does organic agents even more devastating to the human condition than gluten or traces of nuts.  On our blessed peninsula, however, tripe...

Everybody knows, however vaguely, that just before World War I, during his years in Vienna, Adolf Hitler made his living as a painter.  In Mein Kampf he recalled his hopes of attaining at least national renown, holding the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts responsible for eventually dashing them by denying him admission.  It is likewise remembered that the Viennese cafes where the epoch’s leading artists habitually gathered were frequented by the future dictator with a view to what today would be called networking.  In 1937, pictures by some of those artists were famously held up to ridicule in the Exhibition...