Alan Jacobs

Much of what we think we know about Anne melts away on close inspection. We can’t say for certain what year she was born, and there are many things we don’t understand about how her violent death was contrived. Holbein created incisive portraits of Henry VIII and his courtiers, but there is no reliable contemporary likeness of Anne. The oval face, the golden “B” with the pendant pearls: the familiar image and its many variants are reconstructions, more or less romantic, prettified. The fact that some antique hand has written her name on a portrait does not mean that we are looking at Henry’s second queen. Her image, her reputation, her life history is nebulous, a drifting cloud, a mist with certain points of colour and definition. Her eyes, it was said, were “black and beautiful”. On her coronation day she walked the length of Westminster Abbey on a cloth of heaven-blue. Twice in her life at least she wore a yellow dress: once at her debut at court in 1521, and again near the end of her life, on the frozen winter’s day when, on learning of the death of Henry’s first queen, she danced.

nomington:

Yes.

I think the internet has now been officially won, has it not?

At Dirty Dick’s and Sloppy Joe’s We drank our liquor straight, Some went upstairs with Margery, And some, alas, with Kate; And two by two like cat and mouse The homeless played at keeping house.

There Wealthy Meg, the Sailor’s Friend, And Marion, cow-eyed, Opened their arms to me but I Refused to step inside; I was not looking for a cage In which to mope my old age.

The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others; Tears are round, the sea is deep: Roll them overboard and sleep.

(from The Sea and the Mirror)

Oh, one of these days around twelve o’clock
The whole wide world will reel and rock
The sinner will tremble and cry for pain
And the Lord will come in his aeroplane.

All you thirsty of every tribe
Get your tickets for an aeroplane ride;
Jesus our Saviour is coming to reign
And take you to glory in His aeroplane.

Oh, talk of rides in automobiles
Talk of fast times in motor wheels
We’ll break all records as we upwards fly
For an aeroplane joyride in the sky.

All you thirsty of every tribe
Get your tickets for an aeroplane ride;
Jesus our Saviour is coming to reign
And take you to glory in His aeroplane.

You must get ready if you take this ride
Leave all your sins and humble your pride
Furnish a lamp both bright and clean
And a vessel of oil to run the machine.

All you thirsty of every tribe
Get your tickets for an aeroplane ride;
Jesus our Saviour is coming to reign
And take you to glory in His aeroplane.

When our journey’s over and we all sit down
At the marriage supper with a robe and crown
We’ll blend our voices with a heavenly throng
And praise our Saviour as the years roll on.

All you thirsty of every tribe
Get your tickets for an aeroplane ride;
Jesus our Saviour is coming to reign
And take you to glory in His aeroplane.

(music here)

You’ve got to love Leica: who else would offer an eight-thousand-dollar camera that shoots only black-and-white photos. If I were rich I’d buy one.

Little-known fact: my first job was as a photographer. My friend Joel Cunningham had a darkroom in his basement, and we took pictures and sold them to our high-school classmates. (Good way to explain not having a date at the football game.) But we were purists: the only film we employed was Kodak’s Tri-X Pan (or in some rare circumstances Plus-X Pan), and my camera was an old Rolleiflex TLR that I had bought used for more than I could afford but way less than it was worth. That was a great camera; I wish I still had it, and I wish I still had some of the pictures I took then.

Robert Altman’s 1973 adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye was criticized, at the time, as an unfocused, ironic put-down of classic private-eye movies. In fact, it is a long goodbye to the Sixties (1964–73), the last era during which intellectuals believed that social control is exercised through anything so palpable as class domination. Like other paranoid progressives, Altman was disturbed and fascinated by the notion that what passes for life is an invisible prison, that real life (as 1968 Situationist graffiti had put it) is elsewhere. Altman’s avatar of Philip Marlowe (Elliott Gould) is neither cool, calm, nor collected; in the scene shown here, he wanders the aisles of a supermarket at night muttering to himself. The garish ranks of cat- and dog-food cans are late capitalism’s prison bars. Marlowe is more imprisoned, in this scene, than he is when he actually goes to jail. Although the antidote to such Baudelairean spleen is volupté, i.e., the freedom that we experience at the beach (which, according to the Situationist metaphor, is to be found beneath the street’s paving stones, if only we’d tear them up to form barricades), Altman’s Marlowe is forever prevented from enjoying California’s sea, sky, or sun. He is a creature of the night and the city, a scuttling cockroach (think of all those shots in which he peers out from a dark room); in this, Altman is entirely faithful to classic private-eye movies.

It works like this: My agent sells my book IDEA to a publishing house. The house pays an “advance”: a sum of money upfront that I can live on while I research and write the book. It’s not much money — in fact it’s an embarrassing amount of money and I also am fortunate enough to receive financial support from my spouse.

Without that assistance, I couldn’t do what I do. Period. Again, it’s not much money, and it’s the ONLY money I earn from my books. (If I were lucky enough to write a bang ‘em up bestseller, I’d earn more than the advance, but I’m not that lucky. Er, um, not that talented a writer.)

The self-publishers, in my opinion, have a distorted view of “books” and of “publishing.” In their minds, every writer is cranking out novels that don’t require much time to research and write, and the lag time between creation and payoff is short.

So I ask them: What happens when the agents, editors, and publishing houses go away? Who will write non-fiction then?

So when digital evangelists prognosticate about the future of publishing, as they love to do, and about what “needs” to go away, serious nonfiction is now one of the first things I think about. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older and want to read more of it and notice twentysomethings have little perceived patience for weighty tomes. Maybe it’s because I’d rather have pragmatic conversations about what categories are best suited to digital — genre fiction obviously, certain commercial strains of literary fiction, basically any book that needs to have a completed manuscript done before it’s shopped around, or can be finished very quickly post-proposal — and which ones won’t be. Maybe it’s because the very institutions that support serious nonfiction are themselves in more financial trouble than they used to be.

In my time working [at Apple], I must personally have seen years-worth, probably decades-worth (and, from afar perhaps even centuries-worth) of work simply discarded because it turned out not to be ‘right’ or ‘good’. This was done with very little animosity towards the people who did the work. There was a distinct difference between working on something that turned out bad and had to be discarded (fine - admirable, even) and doing bad work (bad)…I think this highlights two things that many other organisations would do well to learn. First, what you have is what it is, it’s not the effort that was put into it. If it’s not worth keeping, it’s not worth keeping. Second, if you want the best results, you need to give good people the room to start over without feeling like they are failing.

If you’re part of the editorial leadership at the Chronicle of Higher Education, you have a problem. You know that the American academy regularly comes under fire from conservatives who believe that universities are places where conservatism is mocked, traditional values assaulted, and students crassly indoctrinated into left-liberalism. Jonathan Haidt of the University of Virginia — no righty he — has noted in his own discipline a “statistically impossible lack of diversity” in political affiliation. So what do you do?

Well, here’s one thing: you hire as a blogger a well-known and very serious critic of the academic enterprise, Naomi Schaefer Riley. This demonstrates that you’re not afraid of harsh criticism, that you’re modeling a university culture that’s open to widely varying points of view. You know that much of what your audience holds dear will get treated pretty roughly at times, but that’s a price you’re willing to pay to demonstrate an open mind and open ears.

But then Riley writes a blog post that thousands of your readers think rather too rough, and an unapologetic follow-up. You perceive that the angry people come from your core readership. These times are not kind to the balance sheet of many periodicals, and the Chronicle isn’t immune to the general affliction — especially now that a serious rival has emerged. To keep Riley on will court further outrage in the form of boycotts and canceled subscriptions, and those consequences will be hard to face. So you can her.

That’s the story to this point.

It’s a tough situation with no clear win, but did you do the least bad thing you could have done? In the short term, maybe so. You could have tried editing — i.e., let’s admit it, policing — your bloggers more rigorously, which would mean not singling out one offender, but trying to hold everyone to certain standards of civility. But even assuming that your bloggers would consent to be edited, you don’t have the staff for that. So given the petitions and the likelihood of canceled subscriptions… .

But that’s thinking in the short term. Perhaps in the long term there’s something to be gained by keeping an advocatus diaboli around. By firing Riley you’ve pacified your base, but you’ve also created a mini-martyr and have re-solidified the liberal-indoctrination narrative. Might there not have been some virtue in writing an editorial on the necessity of tolerating a wide variety of views within the discourse about the academy — even views that most of your readers find offensive? Might you not have encouraged further responses to Riley, on the principle that the best remedy to bad speech is more and better speech? Might you not have allowed the other Brainstorm bloggers to handle whatever criticism seemed to them necessary? By taking such action, and explaining it carefully and (if necessary) repeatedly, you might have been able to create, admittedly only over the long term, a better environment for debate about the academy. I can understand why you didn’t, but I feel that the road not taken was probably the better road.