My Latest Story in The Puritan/Toronto: Murderers, Whoremongers, Liars and Worse

My most recent story can be viewed at or directly below. If “Murderers, Whoremongers, Liars and Worse” interests you, check out The Puritan. I have published one other story there, “Chekhov’s Confession.” The editors seem attracted to fiction that is out of the ordinary in character and setting.

Murderers, Whoremongers, Liars, and Worse

by Robert Earle

Two rooms in Pyongyang. 1930s. The room in back with sleeping pallets, cast-iron wood stove, cooking utensils they made themselves, and a chamber pot next to the food box. The room on the street only a half room with an awning open like a mouth in daytime and shut like an eyelid at night. No space to work safely. Sung Wei’s father, mother, and sister deliberately bumped him. Why? His father said to teach him lessons. Metal work was dangerous.

“This chisel? Puncture your chest. This lathe? Skin your fingers to bone. Stay out of the way!”

With his drill press his father could make metal curl out of holes like noodles, but better not touch them. Sharp as razor blades. He also had a small forge. Sung Wei would watch his father heat metal orange-hot, pull it onto the anvil with tongs and pound it with his hammer. Even iron did what his father told it to do.

Everyone worked. Sung Wei’s job was to scour the city for metal and bring it back. Tin, steel, iron, brass, wire, screws, nails. When he found something, how would he carry it? Never easy. If he returned with too little, he’d be sent out again. Long, long days.

A legless man on a wooden plank with wheels—a mechanic’s creeper—saw him one day. “Boy, I’ve been watching you. Work, work, work! How old?”

Sung Wei did not know how old he was.

The man said, “Five.”

Sung Wei wanted to be older. “Six.”

“Liar!” the man said.

“Okay, I don’t know.”

The man said, “I can help you if you help me. First, we be practical, then we meet God.”

Sung Wei already had lots of experiences. There were women who pointed to where he might find something. Sometimes they were right, sometimes only teasing. There were boys who stole what he collected. When he hid pieces of metal in his shirt, they knocked him down and rolled him in the dirt to hurt him.

The legless man’s practical suggestion was this: “You are metal worker’s son, right? Okay, the back wheel on this creeper wobbles. Get your father to fix it, and in the future if I am not busy, I will let you use it to carry what you collect.”

His father said to Sung Wei, “Fix it yourself!”

Sung Wei turned the creeper over and saw the brace of one wheel had crumpled. All afternoon, he worked with a screwdriver, a hammer he could barely lift, and a saw that cut his fingers. But he fixed it. Then he took it back to the legless man.

“Boy, you take forever!” the legless man cried. “Now get me a cigarette! Get me tea! Go, or I chase you!”

The man’s long ashy beard and Mongolian eyes were terrifying. Sung Wei ran down the street and crashed into the cigarette seller’s hut, pretending he just fell. Cigarettes scattered everywhere. Sung Wei took a few as he helped clean up. Now, tea? He ran home, snuck in the back door, took a cup, and filled it with tea.

The man on the creeper smiled with his three teeth. He exhaled the cigarette’s smoke through his nostrils; these grey dragon tails fascinated Sung Wei.

“Your name?”

Sung Wei hated this question. “Yukio Matsuke.”

“Lie again!”

“I don’t lie!”

He had been born Sung Wei, but to please the Japanese invaders, his father said to the family one night, “We change our names.”

His mother asked, “What is my name?”

“Aimi Matsuke.”

His sister asked, “What is my name?”

His father said, “Hikari Matsuke.

Sung Wei asked, “Me?”

“Yukio Matsuke.”

Sung Wei protested, “I don’t want to be Yukio Matsuke.”

His father asked, “Do you think I want to be Aoki Matsuke? We have no choice.”

The Japanese police would take whatever they wanted from under the awning. They also would confiscate things Sung Wei was carrying home. One policeman kicked Sung Wei. Punishment for stealing things from the empire.

“Even iron did what his father told it to do.”

“Next we have to learn Japanese,” his father said because he had been taken to the sub-prefecture and told they were not Korean anymore—not Japanese, either, but on a path that began with names and language. The first to learn Japanese would be Sung Wei. If he learned it well, he could interpret for the rest of them.

“Or if you don’t understand, you can apologize. The Japanese always want apologies. Say you are Yukio Matsuke and you are sorry. Whatever it is, you are sorry. Learn those words first.”

“I want to be Sung Wei!”

“No, Sung Wei sounds too Chinese.”

“I think we were Chinese before Korean,” his mother said.

“Not anymore,” his father said.

So Sung Wei told the legless man on the mechanic’s creeper his name was Yukio Matsuke.

The man said his name was Chao Li Peng, but names didn’t matter if you were Christian. Nothing mattered but Jesus. He could live without legs, ride in wagons, on trains, even be pulled behind horses. All he needed was Jesus. He pulled a slim book out of his coat pocket. Silky, whispery paper.

“This is the New Testament. Word of God from the Beginning to End. Jesus is born, dies, and will return. We will be saved but all the dogs, murderers, whoremongers, liars, and worse will be cast into the flames of hell.”

“You called me a liar!”

“It’s okay. You weren’t Christian yet. We have time to fix this.”

When Sung Wei was an old man with oxygen tubes in his nostrils and riches beyond measure with churches all over the world and great companies and thousands of employees and followers, he would reflect on what made his life one thing and not another. For instance, meeting Chao Li Peng, who would never say how he lost his legs. Was he born without legs? Did someone cut them off? Sung Wei sometimes posed this question to his deacons: born was the easiest answer, but maybe an accident, war, or the revenge of a furious husband. Then Sung Wei would laugh because no one could know. They also could not know the answer to the next question: Would Sung Wei have found the Lord if he had not met Chao Li Peng? Sung Wei liked to laugh, even if it made him gasp and lose his oxygen tubes so that his wife had to put them back in place.

Chao Li Peng gave him use of the mechanic’s creeper in return for memorizing the New Testament in Korean, not Japanese. The Japanese weren’t Christians like the Koreans. The Japanese were the Romans of the East, and the Koreans were their Palestine, and they also wanted to conquer China the way Rome wanted to conquer Egypt, Syria, all of Asia Minor.

“So fuck the Japanese!” Chao Li Peng said. “That’s why we need Jesus to return and defend us!”

Sung Wei knew what fuck meant. In the back room, his father and mother fucked. He came upon his sister fucking a boy there once. Sometimes he had what he and other boys called a stiffy. Your thing would get hard and go up. The boys tittered and looked at each others’ things when they were stiff. Sung Wei’s was the biggest. He also could piss the farthest. Just something to do. They could do anything now because they were Japanese, and who expected decency from the Japanese?

When Chao Li Peng realized he was going to die because he could not push his creeper anymore, he gave Sung Wei two things: the creeper and the New Testament. But he made Sung Wei promise that he would hide the New Testament and never let anyone get it from him.

Chao Li Peng died when Sung Wei was eight. The Japanese soaked him with kerosene and burned him on the Korean body dump. Sung Wei watched Chao Li Peng curl up like a large black fist.

“The Japanese were the Romans of the East, and the Koreans were their Palestine …”

Even in old age Sung Wei never joked about some things. He had met God and received God’s blessing and mission and God allowed him to be hard as steel and urged him to belittle the queer scribblings of experience that plagued a man’s life—he loved The Book of Job, for instance, and always laughed out loud when he read it. Oh, stupid, stupid Job—no Korean would be so stupid! But certain experiences, no. Remembering the large black fist of Chao Li Peng’s burned corpse never made him laugh.

He took the New Testament home and decorated a tin box with engravings of Japanese dragons and Shinto shrines to make it seem what it was not. He hid the thin little New Testament under a piece of velvet cloth. He didn’t know it all by heart yet. How could he? But he would take it out in secret and recite what he knew.

One day he pulled his creeper home with lead pipes and metal window frames, proud of his work. Whenever he saw a Japanese official, he greeted him in Japanese and passed unmolested. As a Christian, he was beginning to think he could live with the Japanese, maybe change them. But when he got home, he discovered that his father had found his box and put it out to sell and a Japanese official took it away, paying nothing.

He told his father he was a cunt for the Japanese to fuck whenever they wanted.

His father struck him on the side of the head. “You’re not my son! You’re a bastard! You have no father!”

Sung Wei lay on the ground. No one helped him up.

When the great war came, the Japanese put Sung Wei’s father in a Japanese soldier’s uniform. Sung Wei cried out to him as he was marched away, “Father, don’t kill!” His father ignored him. Next, the Japanese took Sung Wei’s mother and sister and made them whores who had to fuck Japanese soldiers day and night.

Sung Wei knew by now where dogs, whoremongers, murders, liars, and worse came from. The Book of Revelation also told him that the cataclysm exploding around him would cast these evil ones to one side and the good to another. But from the dark into the dark, Sung Wei had to work for the Japanese like a demon. He fixed guns, patched canteens and pots, rebuilt carburetors, fuel pumps, and starter motors. He got under jeeps and trucks on his creeper, tapped and twisted, cleaned and bolted. The jeeps and trucks drove away. New ones arrived.

“He told his father he was a cunt for the Japanese to fuck whenever they wanted.”

People wanted shelter in his two rooms. He said yes if they would bring metal and food and listen to the New Testament at night. Who wouldn’t say yes? Which Korean wasn’t Jesus in agony on the cross of life? Hear the Revelation of the End and rejoice. Hell for the evildoers, Heaven for the good!

Then someone told the Japanese that Sung Wei laughed at them. He declared their defeat was God’s wrath against the Romans of the East. What else could whoremongers and murderers expect? No wonder Sung Wei laughed.

The Japanese sub-prefect arrested him. He asked about Sung Wei’s beliefs. Sung Wei said the Japanese were like female fish, spewing their eggs so that Korean men could come along and cover them with seeds. Only then could Japan fulfill its destiny.

The Japanese sub-prefect broke wind and told Sung Wei, “Eat my fart.”

He ordered Sung Wei to jail.

That was a mistake. In the cell there were twelve men. They all wanted to beat Sung Wei, stab him, maybe fuck him. He took on two and three at a time because he was a bull with powerful hands and forearms from metalworking since he was a child. He could twist a nose until it broke. He could snap fingers like twigs. They could get him down, but he kneed balls and butted heads and laughed when he smashed an elbow into an attacker’s eye.

That crazy laugh. His crazy cry, “If you want women to fuck, I will give them to you, more than you can dream. So many dead Japanese soldiers now, what do you think their women want? You!”

He just wouldn’t stop fighting and laughing at them, confusing and hurting them so much that they gave up.

The old Sung Wei didn’t tell all these stories. He thought about them, though, concentrating on the presence of God in his trials and salvation, doing so much that Jesus didn’t do. “The Gospel is life,” he sometimes said, and then stopped because he didn’t want to diminish the divine with the dirty, even if the divine came out of the dirty, born in its filth.

In the prison they lay on a damp concrete floor in a windowless cell with no pallets and a corner where they pissed and shit, creating a stinking anthill of runny feces.

Much of the day Sung Wei taught the New Testament. There would be group recitation and discussion. The men were grateful to pass the time to learn the Truth. Among the lot, two already were Christians. A discussion arose. Could there be only one Christ? Sung Wei said there would be another, according to the Book of Revelation, which was a very difficult book.

The fact that the men were twelve and Sung Wei appeared to teach what had happened and eventually would happen made the obvious question present itself. Was Sung Wei that Second Coming? Sung Wei laughed into the gloom. But still the men wondered.

They asked him, How do you make someone love you who hates you?

Sung Wei said by telling him you were only fucking his wife to warm her up.

Now it was the men’s turn to laugh. Oh, they liked that. So another question.

Was Jesus perfect? they asked.

Sung Wei had thought about this more than anything else and decided no. He said Jesus had erred. He took no wife, he had no children. “When He left us, only words remained. Words are not enough. That was His mistake.”

Having no sex drove the men to say things and joke and feel like fools because one thing in the cell was stronger than the smell of shit, and Sung Wei had said it: they had no women, and men had to have women. He was right. Jesus was afraid of life and therefore imperfect. Therefore, this mighty Second Coming appeared right before their eyes. Everything Sung Wei said was always true.

“Forget your swords and spears and bayonets and rifles,” he counseled. “Use your dicks right up to the hilt.”

The Japanese didn’t know what to do with him. They could hear the recitations and threats to fuck their women

“Put him in solitary confinement,” the Japanese sub-prefect said.

This is where he was found when the Soviets crashed into the north of Korea, foaming with a scum of Korean lackeys, and they set about freeing and renaming the Koreans who had survived the Japanese annexation. Sung Wei would be Ivan Oblonsky and was told to shut up about God.

As an old man Sung Wei could no longer easily recall himself as an eighteen-year-old, returning to the metal shop and rebuilding it. He almost could not remember how strong he had been, how upright his posture, how long he could work with little food and no companionship, just him and the rusting, scattered tools and the collapsed roof and shreds of awning. Then there were women, several of them, who cooked and fought and flirted and brought their children into the shed that became a kind of little house, and he chose one woman to be his only woman without expelling the other women or the men who were attracted to them. Let everyone fuck! But he had to be powerful and determined, and the thought made him smile. They were such good years between the war with the Japanese and then the war between the Koreans themselves. When that war came, he said no, he would not fight for the communists against other Koreans. About this, Jesus had been right and perfect. Sung Wei must love, and in the fullness of human love, he would not call himself Ivan Oblonsky, either, or shut up about God.

“Remembering the large black fist of Chao Li Peng’s burned corpse never made him laugh.”

So the communist North Korean police chief sent him to a prison camp and that was the last time he saw his first wife and child.

In that prison camp, Sung Wei’s behaviour convinced many guards and prisoners that he was deaf and dumb. The sounds of bombs and cannons, yes, he heard them, but they spoke without meaning. Airplanes droning above, no meaning. Machine guns cracking and thudding, no meaning. All the time, the other men in the camp shrieked that they would die, why must they die, who ordered this? Terrible forces came this way, came that way, but what forces were they? Chinese, Koreans, Americans? No one knew.

Sung Wei’s bowels seized; he was spiritless and could not repeat the New Testament. The secret of life, he thought, was death. He wanted to die.

Within the camp, a captured American, built like Sung Wei but more shrunken with hunger, would sit with his back to the fence and his arms behind him and dig with his fingers. At the same time, a frail Korean man whose broken glasses only had one lens sat beside him. They were teaching each other their languages.

Sung Wei sat near them, heard words in English, repeated them to himself, and estimated how long the American would have to dig to accomplish anything, especially when all he could do was loosen the dirt and then, before he rose, smooth it back in place.

Such a funny posture. It was as though the man had angel wings tucked behind him.

Sung Wei struggled with this thought. If they ever tried to crawl under the fence, they would be shot in the open field before they reached the woods. Yet day after day they sat there, teaching each other a new language as the American carefully dug and dug. Such effort, such faith. In comparison, all the rest in the camp, the prisoners and guards, too, were dead. Sung Wei saw this in their skin, eyes, and shriveled mouths. The ink of death had blackened them and would blacken Sung Wei, too. How could he not drink its poison? Yet this angel and scrawny Korean with broken glasses …

Sung Wei trembled with disgust at his own cowardice—an orphaned, widowed, childless bastard. What a pitiful scrap of cast-off flesh he had become. Chao Li Peng would have crawled to be free. Why couldn’t Sung Wei?

“Was Sung Wei that Second Coming? Sung Wei laughed into the gloom. But still the men wondered.”

God must have forewarned him the night the two men would attempt their escape. How else could he have known? He thought he would be tortured to death if he joined them, but he lay there—not palsied, not quaking, not afraid. The lights were turned off. Two guards stood at the only door. One smoked a cigarette whose glowing tip whispered, Kill me first. The American grabbed and punched him and beat him unconscious with his own rifle. The Korean with the broken glasses tried to do the same to the other guard but he was too weak. The other guard raised up his rifle to smash the Korean with the broken glasses. Sung Wei grabbed the rifle, twisted it loose, and slammed it into the guard’s face. When the guard fell to his knees, Sung Wei knew he must kill him. He felt nausea, he heard the hammer blows of his father on the anvil, he rained rifle blows on this man’s softening bloody head.

The American, the Korean with the broken glasses, and Sung Wei ran to the place where the American had been digging and they pawed away the loose dirt. Sung Wei put his hands on the barbs along the wire—he’d done such things all his life—and lifted it so the others could go through. Then the American and Korean did the same for him.

They made the moon their compass. Twelve miles, cold and breathless.

That night God told him if he failed, God would fail; God told him if he lived, God would live.

Sung Wei was powerful. He pulled the Korean with the broken glasses with one hand and pushed the American with the other. That’s how they crossed a freezing river in search of dawn.

God did not fail; God lived.

Where would Sung Wei be if he had not joined those men? Not just in old age, but all his life? Over the years he asked that question many times and laughed to himself that the American was no angel, the Korean a little bit worse. But the freezing river washed away their greatest sins. Kill to do good? How could this be? Impossible except for God, who taught Sung Wei that even in the last instant of life, there was hope. So this is what Sung Wei preached. Be terrible; you are human. But be saved. How else could a refugee from a prison camp in the north escape to Seoul, establish a metal shop, build a church, build scores of churches, build scores of businesses, and be followed by countless believers who let him marry them by the hundreds to partners they did not even know? What did it matter who they knew? God knew, didn’t He? When you live, Sung Wei believed, live!

And fuck the Japanese.

As his heart and lungs weakened, he would sit and pretend to doze so no one would bother him. He was bolstered and pillowed and covered with a beautiful shawl. As always, he insisted on dressing in a blue suit, a fine shirt, a beautiful tie. But the sharp moments of his life, vivid and startling, did not wear such splendid garments; they all happened in filth and rags before he was twenty, more than seventy years ago. It was better to have learned from Chao Li Peng, to have built his secret box and lost it, to have been struck by his father and seen him march away disgraced by a Japanese uniform, to have never seen his first wife and child again when he himself was marched away. But he did not say these things. His life was not the public secret people thought, the Revelation of His Second Coming. No, his life was the private secret, his memories of all the things God did to him that no one else would believe, worse than what He did to Job.

Posted in Short Stories, The relationship between fiction and fact | Leave a comment

John F. Kennedy by Alan Brinkley

Historian Alan Brinkley’s biography of John F. Kennedy is a succinct and balanced account of an enormously complex, cunning and yet cautious man whose attitude toward the American presidency seems to have been that power, once attained, is better preserved than employed. He won The White House by a very narrow margin, never had control of his own party in Congress, and saw more wisdom in postponing battles than taking them on.

In a sense Kennedy wasn’t the liberal, activist politician that is part of his legend. He spoke better than he acted. He only did two or three remarkable things as president. The Cuban Missile Crisis, which he helped provoke by letting the Soviets think he was a push-over, may have been his greatest moment on the world stage. As we now know, he got the best out of his divided advisors, relied heavily on his brother, Robert, and ultimately made the right moves to avert a terrible escalation.

Domestic affairs did not interest JFK much, nor did he really understanding the workings of the American economy. He was slow to embrace the Civil Rights movement, and one could say he never really did. He always feared a white Southern backlash against him in his own party. The strongest things his administration did for black Americans were driven by Robert Kennedy, the Attorney General.

JFK’s charm, wit, good looks and eloquence had their dark sides. He was a pathological womanizer who had grown up rich, spoiled, and sickly. He chased women to make up for lost time, because he could get away with it, and perhaps because he was hyper-sexed due to the drugs that kept him upright. He also could be vulgar in word and behavior, a spoiled brat kind of man.

Brinkley does a good job of incorporating the views of other policymakers and historians in his mixed account of JFK. The final chapters dwell on Vietnam. Kennedy had traveled the world and met many world leaders. He wasn’t ignorant, but he was as naive about Vietnam as his successor, Lyndon Johnson, and lacked the cynical but strategic mind of Johnson’s successor, Richard Nixon. Brinkley reserves judgment, but it is difficult to believe that Kennedy would not have taken us further into Vietnam had he been reelected. Having endured the fiasco of the Bay of Pigs in Cuba, he wanted to win something somewhere, and he did not know enough about Asia to realize that it wasn’t a good place for him to take a stand.

JFK’s popularity was remarkably high throughout his presidency. People liked what they saw of him, his wife and children. The public had no idea that he carried on more sordidly than any president before or after him, though I’m sure he would have defended himself by saying it was all in good fun.

Then came JFK’s death. If you were alive then, as I was, you remember everything because you saw it all non-stop. It was a shocking, searing event. The country (and the world) was riveted to the TV and filled with a sense of loss and confusion and disgust and dismay. Brinkley doesn’t go into, “Who shot JFK?”, so I won’t either. The problem was that he was dead, the king was dead, and the heir apparent was a titanic, unappealing political force who did great things in terms of Civil Rights and other social programs and terrible things in terms of Vietnam.

Brinkley’s book is a good, quick refresher course in the contradictions of JFK. It’s well-written and fair. JFK may have been the most charismatic of our presidents, but he only began to grow into his job toward the end of his time in office. I suspect his second term, however, would have been less productive than his first. By Brinkley’s account, he couldn’t have handled the Civil Rights movement, continuing Soviet provocations, and Vietnam. He didn’t really like problems and the fact that problems are the essence of the presidency.

Posted in Political Idealism, U.S. Foreign Policy | Leave a comment

Michael Kohlhaas by Heinrich von Kleist

Heinrich von Kleist’s novella, Michael Kohlhaas, is a work of peculiar power for a variety of reasons.

The first reason is undoubtedly why Franz Kafka chose to read parts of Michael Kohlhaas in public (he only read works by another author in public twice in his life). This story, originating in a 16th century legend about a wronged horse dealer, has a modern, bureaucratic ring to to it. Though written in the early 19th century, it presents the city-state realms of disunified Germany as controlled by an endlessly devious and contradictory set of aristocratic courts, seats of judgment, higher authorities, and obscure religious influences. There’s a strong element of Kafka’s The Trial in this tale. There also is an element of Kafka’s dark and bitter humor. In the end, Kohlhaas essentially receives justice (in terms of compensation for losses inflicted on him by a Saxon nobleman) minutes before he is hanged (in punishment for the wild raids and uproar he provoked prior to receiving any justice at all.)

This is a story about the little man and the big men, but it’s also a story about how big the little man is. In Kafka, of course, the victims (Joseph K, for instance) don’t fight back. Kohlhaas’s rebellion is appealing because it is right, even if it is overdone. Certain peculiarities of the legend/ballad tradition appear untouched here, i.e., certain events just happen, aren’t explained . . . a figure like Martin Luther appears, then recedes . . . and the nobility of Kohlhaas’s death, its stoicism, has a crude if helpless and hopeless grandeur about it. Of course a reader wants the higher authorities to die, not Kohlhaas, but they don’t. Kleist lets this injustice stand.

The stylistic strength of Michael Kohlhaas relies, it seems to me, on its compactness, even density. There are sentences in it that rival Cicero for their length and complexity. This, of course, is a feature of the German language, but it’s rare that a German writer exploits the language’s characteristics with such strength and firmness. A great deal of this work contradicts the “show/don’t tell” mania that afflicts contemporary editorial tastes in America, particularly in university writing programs. Kleist tells his tale with speed and completeness. He manages reversals in two or three muscular sentences and then he’s off, telling us what happened next . . . and next . . . . I suspect that what he is doing here is preserving the “heard” quality that accompanies most myths and legends. We don’t know, we can’t see . . . but we have heard . . . and this is what we heard, and that absolutely can work in the hands of a master.

Posted in The relationship between fiction and fact | Leave a comment

Woodrow Wilson by Scott Berg

Scott Berg’s biography, Wilson, published in 2013, presents a candid, complete, and well-rounded portrait of an American president whose impact places him among a small group of U.S. presidents, including Washington, Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt, and Truman.

The critical issue, Wilson’s vision of egalitarian democracy, self-determination and the rights of small countries remains relevant today. He famously championed the League of Nations after WWI to prevent a similar war from occurring, and he famously failed to achieve Senate ratification of what he had negotiated in Paris. A “coven” (not an inappropriate word used by Berg) of Republican senators acted
under the leadership of Henry Cabot Lodge just as Republican senators have acted under the direction of current senator Mitch McConnell, who vowed the day Barrack Obama was inaugurated that the priority was to ensure he would not be re-elected. Lodge’s pre-Versailles plan was to scuttle whatever Wilson negotiated, not knowing what that would be. This kind of cheap partisanship found its target more fatally in Wilson’s case than Obama’s. But Obama has paid a steep price nonetheless.

What Wilson foresaw was that Europe and the world would head into another terrible war if the peace of 1919 was not just and far-sighted. He was right. He also predicted that the United States, if it withdrew into itself, soon would head into a domestic depression. Right again.

But history makes it almost impossible to explain exactly what Wilson had in mind. By this I mean, he envisioned the impossible. He wanted a community of nations to act in concert, preserving peace and declining to pursue narrow national interests. Clemenceau of France and Lloyd George of England said yes to this but were lying even as they spoke. They had revenge and imperial interests on their minds. The latest example of such cynical leadership is Vladimir Putin, who is pressuring Ukraine because it boosts him politically, if not economically, at home, and accords with a sense of Russian grandeur. Meanwhile, Ukraine struggles to stay afloat. The United Nations, which finally came into being post-WWII and assumed the mantle of the League of Nations with greater authority and more “buy-in” is effectively helpless in thwarting Putin. Large powers like the U.S. and the E.U. have to resist him on Ukraine’s behalf, but the game is a delicate balance of interests. The U.S. objects to the bullying and destabilizing effect Putin is having not only on Ukraine but Europe at large. The E.U., more cautiously, needs to preserve natural gas flows from Russia while struggling to keep Ukraine oriented in Europe’s direction. What we see here is not egalitarian democracy, self-determination, and the rights of the small against the large, and it’s almost 100 years since Wilson offered us what seems, in truth, an ethereal vision of a world that can never be so pure, so self-restrained, so lacking in vindictiveness and overwhelming self-interest. The affairs of humankind do not seem destined to work that way . . . ever. This applies domestically in curious, perverse ways as well. If a president today attempted to champion a campaign to save us from climate change spoke with the eloquence, tenacity, and passion of Wilson championing the League of Nations, he or she would meet the same fate as Wilson. He or she would fall to “interests.”

Lincoln, Wilson, and FDR were three U.S. leaders who had to take the United States into and through great wars that Americans questioned and resisted. Each literally gave his life to his cause, assassinated or so worn out with the effort that he expired .

When we look at the craven stupidity of George Bush in Iraq or the naiveté of JFK and Lyndon Johnson in Vietnam, we see American presidents behaving more like the leaders of other countries. This is not to say that there have not been great idealists elsewhere or that all leaders of other countries are craven and naive. It’s only to say that the idealistic exceptions are few.

Berg presents a Wilson I didn’t know: he had his light side, his deeply romantic side, and apparently a spellbinding eloquence both as a college professor and president. The secret to his effectiveness as a speaker is one I’ve always believed in: talk to a thousand people as if you are talking to one, don’t talk down, the more extreme your rhetoric, the more quietly you should express it, give people a simple scheme of what you intend to say at the outset so that they can better understand what you will say at greater length later on.

Wilson’s complexity is more than I could address in a book review, but it seems that Wilson’s experience growing up in the defeated American South deeply affected his vision of how reconciliation should proceed. He agreed that slavery was an abomination and worth fighting against; in other words, he was a southerner who did not defend the practice, but he was a paternalistic figure who pushed the full integration of African-Americans into U.S. society very, very slowly. He did not give American blacks the respect he accorded citizens of other countries: the right to self-determination, protection from larger powers, and full participation in the democratic process. This, he believed, would take time, more time than he had at his disposal. Segregation in various forms made sense to him. Perhaps he was only a realist about this. Decades would pass in America before the Civil Rights movement. More decades would pass before Obama would be elected, and even then an undercurrent of persistent racism has trebled the difficulty of his job.

The most compelling portions of Berg’s book are the penultimate chapters following Wilson on his train campaign across America, preaching to huge crowds that the League of Nations was the right answer for America and the world. He had not been a well man for many years. He had had strokes and he had intestinal problems and he had severe headaches. But the crowds drew the best from him until he ultimately could not leave his train to undertake the last five or six scheduled events.

At that point he rolled back to Washington and remained in seclusion for months, and we come to the passages where his second wife, Edith, and his doctor, Admiral Grayson, conspired to shield him from prying eyes and assist him in carrying out the functions of his office.

The poet who most reminds me of Wilson is Rilke. Rilke had the same ethereal qualities, the same impossible-to-pinpoint faith in spirits and angels and ideals. It strains the mind to follow his otherworldly visions, and yet there is beauty and hope, passion and desperation, that make Rilke intriguing. The same can be said for the professor who became president. He always wanted to be a politician, but that did not enable him to do what he set out to do–change the world.

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A Sport of Nature by Nadine Gordimer

A Sport of Nature by Nadine Gordimer recounts the life a white Jewish girl named Hillela whose mother abandoned her as a child, who was raised by two aunts, who ran away from a middle-class South African life and became, through sundry love affairs, the widow of a black South African revolutionary and the wife of a successful president in a country (not named) neighboring South Africa.
The concept here is that a “sport of nature” is an aberration, perhaps a felicitous aberration, and that Hillela mysteriously adapts to mysterious circumstances, becoming a political force in her own right–well-versed in international affairs as well as in romantic affairs.
In a sense, she is a natural blank slate upon which many different individuals are permitted to write. Her cousin, Sasha, is one. A South African informer, pretending to be a journalist in sympathy with anti-apartheid forces, is another. Then comes the love of her life, the high-ranking black South African who is assassinated on the threshold of their temporary home in exile, where he is planning and executing military actions against the white South African government.
All this makes for colorful, interesting reading. Hillela never resolves into what Gordimer claims for her–a personage who really understands her own purposes and is obscure simply because she keeps her own counsel–but she gets caught up in the spirit of the times and is willing to cross boundaries few white women would cross in the apartheid days of South Africa.
The peculiar quality of the novel’s heroine is matched in some ways by Gordimer’s curious style. She writes as if she’s taking notes, jumping here and there, starting sentences she doesn’t quite know how to finish, all in the service of exploring the intimacy of life under oppression and in revolt. I’ve read other novels and stories written by Gordimer that were not so distractingly expressed. In the end, I can’t help but feel that her inability to really get at Hillela (as Henry James got at Isabel Archer, for instance) made her stumble.
Having said that, A Sport of Nature has fascinating scope, many fine passages, and historical value. Here we encounter the conscience of anti-apartheid whites, their frustrations, the risks they took, and the limits of what they could contribute to the cause.
Gordimer takes some pains at one point to almost marry Hillela off to a New Republic-style American liberal who lives in a fine brownstone and knows all the right people. Given Hillela’s exotic past and taste in men, these passages read like a lame attempt to work in some anti-Americanism. Naturally Hillela breaks off their engagement when she falls in love with the revolutionary who would become president (for the second time) of the aforementioned neighboring country. This fellow is a lion of a man who is tough to take, or believe in: he’s shrewd, tenacious, brave, and wise. With Hillela as his mate, he does a hell of a lot of good for his country. I spent some time trying to determine what country Gordimer had in mind because I’m not aware of many countries in Southern Africa where things have turned out well.
At novel’s end, Mandela takes the stage and the overthrow of the whites is complete. Structurally, this is odd. Gordimer clearly is determined to focus on the politics of South Africa per se rather than on the psychology and personal life of Hillela the presidential consort who has, by this time, not that much to contribute to what her assassinated first husband helped bring about. She lives elsewhere, after all. By way of compensation, Gordimer focuses on the miserable fate of the one cousin (Sasha) who stayed behind and really suffered (and was imprisoned) as a result of his anti-apartheid efforts.
For about two-thirds of this almost 19th century novel, I thought I was reading something exceptionally good, and I’m still sure I was reading something interesting. But what I now think is that the conclusion devolves into a kind of sloganeering posing as a novel. In different contexts, Solzhenitsyn and Dos Passos actually used journalistic excerpts from the times about which they wrote as a way of penetrating further into their stories. That wouldn’t work here because, despite Gordimer’s themes, she really doesn’t seem to have been a deeply political writer. This isn’t to question the staunchness of her beliefs–it’s to suggest she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too. Her strong literary personality leaves the stage at the end of A Sport of Nature and it’s just too late in the book to bow down before History and serve as its rapporteur.

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The Angel Esmeralda by Don DeLillo

The Angel Esmeralda by Don DeLillo is a collection of stories written between the late 1970s and 2011. Each story seems to be based on a strong central idea–a story idea–that decays into DeLillo’s vision of the world and his way of expressing it. When he writes novels, there are enough events to give this DeLillo vision a kind of rhythm that rescues it from its monotony and repetitiveness. Here, the singularity of the story-idea gradually erodes even as it crests. I know that’s contradictory, but I don’t know a better way to express the effect of story after story.

The flatness, the dullness, the boringness of DeLillo’s prose in this collection points in the direction of his central theme–estrangement–and his secondary theme (which is is his primary theme in novels)–conspiracy.

DeLillo’s estrangement is somewhat different from what Camus offered in The Stranger. It is the constant representation of life and things and people as unique and fascinating and bewildering and not belonging to any controlling order. Much of what DeLillo depicts is grubby urban reality (New York reality) that feels momentary and arbitrary, as though buildings were the mourners at a funeral, gathered around a grave, who soon will all go off in different directions and may never meet again. DeLillo’s characters are equally estranged from one another, arbitrarily, coincidentally, or perhaps indifferently tied together. I could love you, I could love someone else, it doesn’t matter because I don’t know what love means in the first place.

In story after story, the cadence of details and exchanges seems to be building toward a release DeLillo deliberately subverts. Estrangement always leads to the revelation of vacancy. The final story, “The Starveling,” reveals the backbone of this march toward emptiness. That backbone is a code of conduct, almost a religious rite, that disallows variations. One must always do the same things and expect the same thing, nothing.

The face of conspiracy in DeLillo is variable. Sometimes it is the unknown and unknowable, sometimes it is the intrusion of mystery, sometimes it is the laughter of a parallel world recorded and projected in the media. In one story, “The Ivory Acrobat,” conspiracy even takes the form of post-earthquake aftershocks. These earthly rumblings must be telling us something, mustn’t they? The question is whether they are telling us about the arbitrariness of nature or the desperate contingency of self.

So there is something grueling about The Angel Esmeralda, but in that there are rewards. The first reward is that we all see things we don’t see. We are unobservant. We don’t have room in our thoughts for the mute statements that hurtle at us all the time. DeLillo rectifies that. The second reward is DeLillo’s apparent belief that we should not force a malign interpretation on the weirdness of the world. Many of his characters are frozen in a protective, paranoid crouch, but their discomfort is not necessarily terminal or definitive. In DeLillo’s world, it’s possible that what seems to be be really isn’t, and it’s possible that what happens doesn’t happen because a cosmic hostility is pursuing us, and it’s possible that the ultimate emptiness of things isn’t so ultimate. He seems to be saying that whatever we have invented and allowed to become our internal guidance system could have been, and still could be, invented otherwise. So we’re trapped–another contradiction, I admit.

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Open Secrets by Alice Munro

Open Secrets by Alice Munro is a collection of her stories published in 1994 that I had not read before, which was something of a surprise to me since I’ve read so much of her work with so much pleasure.

Here she continues to achieve her almost novelistic effects in the most deceptively simple way: she often sticks to one location in rural Canada, a mill town on the way down, she builds significant changes in time into her narratives, and she manages to conclude her stories with a sense that the fullness of a life has now been revealed.

One story, “The Albanian Virgin,” is a classic captivity story that almost seduces the captive—a woman—into accepting her fate but for the intervention of a Franciscan priest, who, one speculates, connects with her in freedom later on.

Another story, “The Jack Randa Hotel,” plays a game of hide-and-seek between a separated couple who have to travel from Canada to Australia to reach one another. Or maybe it’s a game of tag . . . could be.

Munro writes with specificity about faces, moods, landscapes, and characteristics. Her subjects have not yet found the homogenizing effect of Prozac and other hi-tech drugs that squeeze the weirdness out of them. A girl from an orphanage is married to a young man setting out in the wilds to build a farm with his brother, but as the story unfolds, great uncertainty develops as to how the young married man actually died. At the end, we know, although the girl from the orphanage still keeps many secrets to herself.

I particularly like two tricks Munro plays with time: Sometimes she shifts into the present tense without explanation, only to return to the past tense, also without explanation. No explanation is necessary, of course. The present tense, when used judiciously, intensifies a story. Munro also occasionally drops a piece of a narrative in a spot that is chronologically all wrong but creates an out-of-time fulness and completion, even though it suggests the same story, the one that has just been told, is now going to be told all over again.

Without a doubt, Munro is a lady, meaning a gentlewoman, but her writing can be earthy and spicy and quite realistic about old men who want their younger wives to talk dirty to them or boys who want to jump girls so bad they call them ugly first, as if to drive them away, not embrace them.

Not infrequently Munro flashes forward toward the end of a story to show how things turned out decades after the main events. Two things stand out about this: the characters have gotten old and feeble and suffered many losses . . . and hypocrites usually receive what they always had coming to them.

Perhaps Munro’s effectiveness in deploying all these techniques lies in the humbleness and unpretentiousness of her principal characters and settings and her straightforward, clean style.

She goes to the heart of the matter—how life grabs you there and makes your pulse race or seize up. She’s not a writer who blinks at joy or misery. She lets each have its due.

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