On my morning romp through TheGuardian, I bumped into Fran Lebowitz—a new acquaintance for me—and immediately took to her sardonic take on so many of the things, often political, that keep one awake at night.
Now 75, Lebowitz’s essays are well worth reading, even if they sometimes make you wince—saber-toothed witticisms worthy of jotting down. She does not suffer fools gladly, and she’d make a terrific talk-show guest; in fact, she often has.
Her best book, TheLebowitzReader (1994), remains thoroughly timely, a compendium of sharp observations on our cultural absurdities.
It may surprise you that she never attended college. A self-declared misfit, she spent high school hiding books under her desk, frequently getting caught and suspended.
She has no illusions about the times we live in, the reluctance to resist conformity, and the challenge of being an authentic self. We’d be great friends.
A consummate non-conformist, she owns no computer, no cellphone, not even a typewriter. But she does own 10,000 books and reads deeply—especially Baldwin and Fitzgerald. On Fitzgerald, she says:
“Most of my adult life I’ve been very irritated by the legend of F. Scott Fitzgerald. So every five years, I reread TheGreatGatsby, hoping it’s not that good—but unfortunately it is.”
Her political commentary is cutting. She laments the resurgence of book banning—driven largely by one political party that still enjoys the support of nearly half the nation’s voters.
A liberal Democrat, she rejects centrist Democrats who fail to stand up to corporate power. Clinton, she thought, seemed like a Republican. Reagan, to her, proved the prototype of the “dumb president,” and Trump the worst incarnation of incompetence—a “cheap hustler, lazy, but mostly dumb.”
On the indulgence of the wealthy in politics, she is characteristically blunt:
“I object to people who are rich in politics. I don’t think they should be allowed to be in politics. It is bad for everybody but rich people, and rich people don’t need any more help… No one earns a billion dollars. People earn $10 an hour; people steal a billion dollars.”
Her acerbic wit can be genuinely funny. Regarding mountain climbing—an enthusiasm she cannot fathom—she says there’s simply no substitute for a warm shower and a well-cooked meal. “Oh, but the camera views are spectacular!” Plenty of photos already exist for that. She walks extensively in New York, but always to a destination.
Space confines me, as usual, but I think my drift is clear: Lebowitz is a voice worth knowing, irritating, insightful, and just plain irresistible.
My fierce love for books has its ancient beginnings as a seven year old, sprawled on a Philly tenement floor, enthralled with a Christmas gift, Twain’s HuckleberryFinn.
Moments ago I rediscovered this passage from France’s Michel Houellebecq, who has this special capacity to rattle the cages of accepted opinion—daring, provocative, forthright—writing novels you simply don’t walk away from.
I had read his Submission several years ago, an initial novel that launched his fame. His take on literature, a dying indulgence in a digital age, is poignant with meaning for me, for literature has surely been among life’s greatest gifts to me:
“…the special thing about literature, the major art form of a Western civilization now ending before our very eyes, is not hard to define. Like literature, music can overwhelm you with sudden emotion, can move you to absolute sorrow or ecstasy; like literature, painting has the power to astonish, and to make you see the world through fresh eyes. But only literature can put you in touch with another human spirit, as a whole, with all its weaknesses and grandeurs, its limitations, its pettinesses, its obsessions, its beliefs; with whatever it finds moving, interesting, exciting, or repugnant. Only literature can grant you access to a spirit from beyond the grave—a more direct, more complete, deeper access than you’d have in conversation with a friend” (Submission).
I have not found a more eloquent articulation of my own passion for literature and think often of what I would have missed had I not been introduced to literary reads—above all, to see past the literal text and be transported into a galaxy of resonance where words could mean beyond themselves, open new vistas, shaping life, capable of numinosity, a sense that life exceeds appearances, infinite in its labyrinthian corridors, a non-ending conversation with what is, has been, and will endure.
But then I have known those who shun being touched, viewing it as infringement. Not touched much when children, they reject it as adults.
I like what I see at airports—loved ones saying hello or goodbye, affection sealed by an embrace, often accompanied with a kiss.
Research says that massaged babies thrive, put on weight faster, do well in school, and are successful as adults at work.
We have five senses, all important, but touch tells us we are loved.
The handshake may be our greeting ritual, but proves perfunctory compared to being hugged or kissed.
Our latent memories of touch begin with those first days on our mother’s breast and later, as children, tucked into bed, granted safe slumber with a forehead kiss.
There are children, too many, who have no memory of such bliss and, like a shadow, it follows them down life’s corridors. They grow up angry, lonely, wary.
“Touch is far more essential than our other senses,” says psychologist Saul Schanberg.
I like essayist Diane Ackerman’s take on touch—“Among other things, touch teaches us the difference between I and other” (A History of the Senses).
I like when poetry transcends prose:
“I’ve heard the phenomenon is called skin starvation and it’s the reason infants are laid naked on their mother’s breast the moment after birth. Because touch is how we greet one another in almost every language and say: you are here and I am with you and we are not alone” (Joy Sullivan, Instructions for Traveling West).
It has barely made the headlines, but the UN’s COP30 climate summit is now underway in Belém, Brazil. COP—the Conference of the Parties under the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change—has met annually for three decades, each gathering framed as another decisive moment for the planet.
More than 100 American environmental leaders are in attendance. Missing, however, is President Trump, who still calls climate change a “hoax.” His absence is symbolic, but not surprising: it reflects a larger political reluctance to acknowledge the crisis unfolding around us.
Even among nations that accept the science, there is growing tension between the high costs of climate mitigation and the competing pressures of social needs. Yet this framing—climate action versus human welfare—is a false narrative. Climate disruption is already degrading food systems, water security, economic stability, and public health. Inaction is the costliest option of all.
COP’s central mandate is clear: limit global temperature rise to 1.5°C above pre-industrial levels, as pledged in the 2015 Paris Agreement. Countries submit national climate plans (NDCs), augmented every five years. But despite the Agreement’s “ratchet mechanism,” current projections put us on track for 2.5°C to 3°C of warming by century’s end.
At those levels, the world becomes unmistakably harsher: failing crops, drying rivers, rising seas, disappearing species, and regions becoming uninhabitable under extreme heat. And nowhere is the alarm more urgent than in the Amazon Basin.
I’ve been studying this region for years, most recently through an eight-week online course under the auspices of the University of São Paulo.
The Amazon is not merely a forest—it is one of Earth’s greatest climate regulators. Spanning more than seven million square kilometers and home to an extraordinary share of the planet’s animals and plants, it stores 150–200 billion tons of carbon in its intact ecosystems. It cools the continent, generates rainfall, and sustains the livelihoods of millions.
But the Amazon is weakening under relentless human encroachment: logging, mining, agribusiness, hydroelectric projects, roads, railways, and shrinking indigenous territories. Fourteen percent of its pristine forest has already vanished; another seventeen percent is degraded.
Scientists warn that if deforestation—now around 14–17%—reaches 20–25%, the forest may tip into irreversible decline, releasing vast stores of carbon and destabilizing global climate systems, including the Atlantic ocean currents that moderate Europe’s weather.
This would be more than a regional tragedy. It would be a global catastrophe.
The people with the most to lose are those who have protected the forest the longest. When Europeans arrived in 1500, 8–10 million indigenous people lived throughout the Basin. Today, only about 2–2.5 million remain, yet they still speak 300 languages across more than 400 groups. Their 12,000-year history of sustainable land management is one of humanity’s greatest environmental achievements—and one of its least respected.
Meanwhile, fossil fuel interests continue drilling and recording historic profits. Their influence hangs heavily over every climate summit, often shaping negotiations more than science does.
This is the dangerous paradox at the heart of COP30: we gather each year to declare urgency, even as our actions fall fatally short of what the moment demands.
The Amazon is nearing a threshold from which we cannot retreat. The window for preserving a habitable planet is still open, but narrowing fast. What we need now—what COP30 must deliver—is not another set of distant promises but a global commitment to end deforestation, accelerate renewable energy, and center indigenous stewardship.
The science is clear. The stakes are overwhelming. What remains uncertain is our political will.
If the world cannot act decisively now, in Belém—on the doorstep of the very forest that helps stabilize the Earth—then when?
I’ve been reading A. S. Byatt’s Possession, published in 1990 and now hailed as a contemporary masterpiece.
Each year, I compile a carefully chosen list of books I hope to read. Possession was among them, though I can’t quite recall how I first came upon Byatt.
It has turned out to be an inspired choice—a rare literary mystery centered on a scholarly quest to uncover a suspected love affair, pieced together from newly discovered letters between the Victorian poet Randolph Henry Ash, modeled on the married Robert Browning, and poet Christabel LaMotte, inspired by Christina Rossetti.
If such a relationship can be proven, it would mark a major coup for the novel’s modern-day protagonists, Roland and Maud, who join forces to solve this academic puzzle.
I won’t be a spoiler; I’m still reading, mesmerized by Byatt’s creative brilliance. Drawing on her vast knowledge of Victorian literature, she invents letters, diaries, and poems that feel astonishingly authentic—plausible echoes of Browning and Rossetti themselves.
There’s also a compelling counterpoint: as Roland and Maud pursue their literary investigation, they, too, seem to fall in love. And the suspense deepens with rival scholars competing to uncover the same secret.
Possession won the Booker Prize and became an international favorite, translated into more than thirty languages. A film version followed—all of which amazes me, as I wouldn’t have expected a novel so steeped in academia to achieve bestseller status.
Byatt, an academic for many years and fluent in several languages, left teaching in 1983 to write full time. Gifted with formidable imagination, she could also be intimidating in her intellectual precision and resistance to literary fashion. Critic, novelist, short-story writer, and essayist, she produced twenty-five books and, in 1999, was made a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire (DBE) for her services to literature.
Her prose is detailed, introspective, and resonant—at times, poetic. More than any writer I’ve read, she possessed an extraordinary gift for mimicry, able to write convincingly in many voices.
I’ve especially liked this passage, though there are many others:
It is a dangerous business, reading of the passions of the dead. We try on their feelings, like garments, and for a moment we seem to stand in their light — and yet, as we close the book, we find ourselves once again alone in our own darkness, aware that our borrowed flame is only memory’s trick.
She is the writer’s writer.
As Jay Parini wrote in his 1990 New York Times review, “Possession is a tour de force that opens every narrative device of English fiction to inspection without, for a moment, ceasing to delight.”
There are many excellent Black writers, deserving of their fame, but it’s James Baldwin I keep returning to for his wisdom, sensitivity, and eloquence.
Whenever I read him, I find cleansing—a washing away of grievances, the soothing salve of empathy for those visited by life’s unfairness, the unanticipated gifts of seeing with new eyes and walking in another’s shoes.
Reading Baldwin, I find connection. Suffering is never isolated; it is universal:
“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was Dostoevsky and Dickens who taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who ever had been alive. Only if we face these open wounds in ourselves can we understand them in other people” (The Price of a Ticket, 1985).
I have now read Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses, remarkable in its stark, yet lyrical beauty reminiscent of Hemingway and Faulkner, intense in its palpable confrontation of goodness with evil; an elegy for a lost way of life; a saga of idealism’s betrayal; of mythic passage from innocence into knowledge offering no redemption, apart from the grace of endurance and a refusal to forfeit honor.
The traditional rancher spreads of west Texas have fallen on hard times, threatening a way of life. The novel opens appropriately with the death of central protagonist John Grady Cole’s grandfather, a former baron among ranch owners. The ranch, grown to 18,000 acres in 1871, has been sold, an inheritance lost. Working with horses is the only life Grady knows:
The Grady name was buried with that old man the day the norther blew the lawnchairs over the dead cemetery grass. The boy’s name was Cole. John Grady Cole.
The first of a three novels known as the Border Trilogy,All the Pretty Horses underscores the death of the Western frontier, once ripe with promise of plenitude—fortunes to be made and dreams fulfilled.
Foregrounded in historical fact, a pastoral, unfenced way of life has fallen prey to change—the dividing of holdings among family, increased taxation, a drift of young people to the cities, mechanization, the invasion of industry, government’s encroachment, relentless droughts—above all, the railroad’s ubiquity, all of which McCarthy turns into metaphor for an agrarian culture bound by hard labor and a code of honor irretrievably lost. Metaphor becomes elegy.
All the Pretty Horses narrates the journey of cowboys John Grady and his friend Lacey Rawlins from West Texas into Mexico, joined later by a mysterious youth, Jimmy Blevins, who owns a gun and rides an elegant bay mare, foreshadowing trouble ahead.
The novel abounds in resounding passages, poetic in resonance, like this one of stellar vastness, a cosmos indifferent to Man and of a fusion with nature and of a connection now severed:
He lay on his back in his blankets and looked out where the quartermoon lay cocked over the heel of the mountains. In that false blue dawn the Pleiades seemed to be rising up into the darkness above the world and dragging all the stars away, the great diamond of Orion and Cepella and the signature of Cassiopeia all rising up through the phosphorous dark like a sea-net. He lay a long time listening to the others breathing in their sleep while he contemplated the wildness about him, the wildness within.
Acquaintance with archetype helps readers tap more easily into the novel’s multiple levels of meaning—the hero archetype of initiation, trial, and return; the paradisiacal garden of northern Mexico’s La Purisima with its grassland abundance, grazing cattle of upwards of a thousand head, and 400 horses, attended by valeros, finding fulfillment in their labor; a siren temptress, Alejandra, the forbidden fruit, daughter of wealthy hacendado Don Héctor:
She passed five feet away and turned her fineboned face and looked full at him. She had blue eyes and she nodded or perhaps she only lowered her head.
The hero’s mentor appears, Dueña Alfonsa, great aunt of Alejandra, delivering stern warning from experience, that fate often annuls human wish and that economic and social determinism govern universally. Unlike traditional mentors, she’s unhelpful, even sinister, serving as forewarner and enforcer of social codes.
Not unexpectantly, trespass —Grady and Alejandra have become lovers—makes inevitable Grady’s expulsion from paradise, commencing an ordeal with uncertain outcome in a world where idealism is often judged as weakness and evil corrupts honor with impunity.
Unjustly imprisoned, Grady and Rawlins undergo brutal imprisonment for a crime they never committed. Blevins has been executed earlier by a rogue officer. We have reached the novel’s nadir, a replay of mythic hell. A Mexican prison, governed by bribery and savagery, tests their courage and capacity to endure.
Dueña Alfonso buys their freedom, under condition he not return to La Purisima, only to have Grady resist and encounter Alejandra’s rejection. Rawlings has returned to Texas.
Throughout, the novel remains faithful to its hero archetype—the hero, wiser now, returns to exact justice, wounded not only by a rifle’s bullets, but a pervasive knowledge of human capacity for caprice and injustice. Grady’s loss of his horses is inextricably linked to his identity. He returns to reclaim them, necessitating violence.
Restoration of wrong occurs, but not without a tarnished innocence and a sadness that knowledge brings.
Symbolism abounds, particularly through the horses of the narrative that give rise to the novel’s title. Virtual characters, they symbolize a dying way of life and nature’s nobility.
Grady’s affinity with horses affirms a vestige of traditional human communion with nature, once vibrant, but now vulnerable to a modern world in disconnect.
I have only one criticism, and that concerns its last fifty pages in which the prose splendor slackens and we arrive at a conclusion seemingly hurried and simplistic, anticlimactic in contrast to the mesmerizing narrative of its preceding pages that sustain a reader’s interest.
But make no mistake. McCarthy succeeds in writing an extraordinary novel, and I am embarrassed to have not caught-up with him sooner.
He passed from us in 2023 at age 89, having written twelve novels, several plays and short stories. Several of his books became movies.
He was his own person, disdaining celebrity status, living much of his life in poverty. Like Grady, he persevered. Recognition came late, beginning with Allthe Pretty Horses, which won the National Book Award, our nation’s highest literary award. He was 59 and now famous.
I intend to continue with his trilogy, then on to Blood Meridian, which many critics regard as his opus magnum.
Transcending time and geography, McCarthy rivals Faulkner as our greatest American author.
I’ve been reading Thich Nhat Hahn’s book on confronting our fears, a chapter each morning to begin my day and make it a better one.
In this morning’s reading, he tells of a woman who bought a Buddha statue at a flea market. When she brought it home, her small house offered no fitting place for it, so she set it on top of her television. When Thich Nhat Hanh later visited and saw its placement, he gently said, “Dear friends, the statue and the television don’t belong together. The Buddha helps us return to ourselves; the television helps us run away from ourselves.”
I don’t watch much television myself, but I know many who do. It so often serves as an escape—from the long day’s tensions, our restless anxieties, the quiet unease of being alone with ourselves. Such passive indulgence rarely nourishes us. It neither challenges nor enlarges us.
Today it’s not only television that distracts us. Social media reaches even deeper, its many tentacles drawing us outward until we lose touch with the stillness within. Life’s current slows; we grow older, dormant in our ways, awakening too late to realize we’ve traded what’s genuine for a shallow imitation.
Ove Knausgaard, of My Struggle fame, has often spoken of his admiration for Dostoevsky, who with Proust and Joyce, comprise for him literature’s olympian triad.
While Dostoevsky has always had his admirers that include philosophers Wittgenstein, Heidegger and Camus, he has also had a principal detractor in Vladimir Nabokov who, in his Cornell lectures, dismissed him as a “claptrap journalist and a slapdash comedian, suffering from a fundamental “lack of taste,” manipulating readers through pathos.
In his recent New Yorker essay, “The Light of the Brothers Karamazov” (October 21, 2025), Knausgaard offers readers an informative social, cultural, and authorial milieu, helpful in deriving the novel’s meaning.
Knausgaard sees the novel as a chorus of perspectives, resistant to a gradient analysis. In short, the novel is open-ended.
There isn’t anything new about this view, which emanates from Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin’s Theory of Polyphony and Dialogism, “a plurality of independent and unmerged voices and consciousnesses, a genuine polyphony of fully valid voices.”
Some will find Knausgaard’s approach the easy exit from the ambiguity that stalks this classic, each character virtually constructed apropos of a rubric.
Dimitri, immensely proud and of a violent temper, it is the military; for the middle one, Ivan, who is rational, cold, and analytical, it is the university; while for the youngest, Alyosha, who is warm, considerate, always accepting, it is the church. In addition, there is the servant Smerdyakov, presumed to be the illegitimate child of Fyodor and the intellectually disabled Lizaveta, nicknamed Stinking Lizaveta.
There exists the more traditional reading of the novel as a theological and cultural debate between Western and Slavic ways of life; of rationalism pitted against Russian spirituality, as represented in the Russian Orthodox Church.
In this view, Alyosha’s spiritual maturation and advocacy of active love constitutes the antithesis of his brother Ivan’s intellectualism, and clarifies the novel’s intended resolve, one latent with tension as to life’s purpose in the context of omnivorous suffering and evil. As Alyosha remonstrates in conversation with Ivan, “Love life more than its meaning.”
The Brother’s Karamazov is principally a wrestling with the problem of evil, the nemesis of theological belief.
In getting down to the roots of an author’s likely intent, a cultural or historical perspective is invaluable in keeping readers from superimposing their opinion on a text. Knausgaard is exemplary in providing this background,
Shortly before undertaking the novel, Dostoevsky’s epileptic son, nearly three years old, died following a three hour seizure. Filled with grief and guilt—his son had inherited his epilepsy— Dostoevsky began The Brothers Karamazov, his eleventh and final novel. The novel’s Alyosha bears the name of his son. Heeding his wife’s counsel, he sought the Church’s comfort, visiting the Optina Pustyn monastery and conversing with the monastery’s elder, Ambrose. Alyosha does the same.
Like the later Solzhenitsyn, and many Russians still, Dostoevsky was deeply devoted to the Russian Orthodox Church, and his Ivan incarnates the antithesis of Russian spirituality—Western in its secular rationalism, ultimately devoid of moral boundary. Dostoevsky is decisively slavophile.
I have been to Russia, visited Dostoevsky’s confining, upstairs apartment in St. Petersburg, where he penned his masterpiece; attended a crowded orthodox mass, where worshippers stood, movingly singing their hymns, a capella.
I came away from Russia, convinced that Russia is different—neither Western nor Asian—a repository of spirituality reflected in its literature, music and art. Russia cannot be fully comprehended apart from this awareness.
Ivan in his direct assault on Christ via The Grand Inquisitor tale, read in the context of Russia’s rampant human suffering, seems, nonetheless, to have the upper hand, reviving the oft-played notion of John Milton’s being of the devil ‘s party in writing Paradise Lost.
That the novel is best understood as polyphonous, a disparate coterie of life perspectives, undifferentiated in significance, does injustice to the novel’s complex subtlety that underpins its greatness.
The novel has its imperfections, as Nabokov noted. Like many readers, I find Alyosha insufficient as a counterweight to Ivan. When we leave off the novel, it is Ivan, not Alyosha, we remember.
Knausgaard informs us that unlike Tolstoy and Turgenev, Dostoevsky labored in poverty to support his family and suffered continuous stress to meet serial deadlines.
In her biography of her husband, his widow Anna indicated he lamented with each novel his inability to find time for revision.
Four months after the novel’s completion, Dostoevsky was dead.
Any final interpretation proves more elusive still in the aftermath of the prolonged stench of the corpse of the saintly monk Zosima, in whom Alyosha had confided. No expectant miracle occurs in liaison with his death.
What lies behind this intentional addition?
Perhaps, it represents Dostoevsky’s understandable lingering doubt, even amidst faith, or as Tennyson put it, “there is more faith in honest doubt than in half the creeds.”
Knausgaard seems to give ground to the notion of Alyosha’s centrality toward essay end:
…there is no doubt that Alyosha represents an ideal for Dostoyevsky—he bears the name of his dead son, Alexei Fyodorovich, and is the character who, in thought and in action, is most closely associated with the novel’s consistent notion of the good. But in comparison with the presence of Dmitri and Ivan—perhaps that of Dmitri in particular—he pales.
I agree with Knausgaard on the overpowering logic of Ivan’s assault on God’s inadequate justice, but then the problem of evil never evades those of genuine religious sensibility and the novel faithfully reflects this inner, cognitive dissonance.
Knausgaard undervalues the novel’s theistic thrust in embracing divergent narrator purviews, qualitatively equal. The Brother’s Karamazov, on the contrary, emerges a vigorous theodicy, defending faith in a world replete with anguish.
I am sympathetic with Albert Camus appraisal of the novel as existential, humanity granted freedom to make choices. I agree with his conclusion that the novel, in its final chapters, reaches for a religious conclusion, confirmed by Ivan’s descent into madness. Camus’ view bears semblance to Dostoevsky’s religious sensibility, however troubled.
Others argue that Dostoevsky deliberately destabilized his text, offering no firm resolution to the quandary of faith in a world of evil.
The novel’s resultant ambiguity is its strength, positing the need for repeated reading and, with it, new understanding. And for believers, sober challenge to the veracity of faith.
I like Knausgaard’s close, seemingly coming to terms with the novel’s complexity:
I write this in the certainty that this interpretation, too, will dissolve as soon as you open the book and begin to read it anew. This is what makes “The Brothers Karamazov” a great novel. It is never at rest.
It was the 7th inning of last night’s Dodger-Blue Jays World Series game, the Dodgers leading 5-4. I needed sleep, so gave up watching, but nonetheless fervently hoped the Jays would pull it out against baseball’s best team money can buy and perennial champion.
I’m glad I left the screen early. The game went 18 innings! The Blue Jays lost.
For me, baseball is metaphor for something larger than itself—each batter in existential challenge, one against a field of nine. In short, the odds of getting that hit aren’t likely, and yet batters do come through, sometimes winning a game.
As I waited for sleep to descend, I thought of how tonight’s game reflected my America, facing the hegemony of an encroached political dynasty. Would things ever change?
I fell asleep, expectant.
And so with our nation.
I refuse to give up hope. There’s yet another day, another game to be played. Sometimes the unexpected happens—the underdog breaks through. That happens in life, too. We get that hit. We score that run.
As poet Joy Sullivan tells us, “i know nothing about baseball, but something in me breaks with joy when the runner rushes in, body flung & reaching, & the umpire lifts his arms out like a prophet or a mother & makes him safe.”
Brimmings: up from the well 