Manhattan: Top to Bottom

One Hundred Famous Views of New York

“What kinda photos you take?”

The guy at the bagel store had noticed my camera. I was in Inwood, far uptown, waiting for my friend Greg.

“Oh, you know. A bit of everything, I guess.”

“Got any kind of social media I can follow?”

Very flattered, I typed in my Instagram on his proffered phone.

“I’m not famous or anything,” I said, and took another bite of my bagel—everything, with lox, cream cheese, and onions. A New York classic.

“I’m sure you got a lotta stories with these photos, boss,” he said, very kindly.

I tried to say “thank you” but, mid chew, only managed “thnnn ynnn.”

Greg arrived five minutes later. After ordering something for himself—“There is only one type of bagel,” he proclaimed: “everything”—we headed out. We were starting our walk to the bottom of Manhattan.

At my insistence, we had started late. I hate getting up early on the weekend, and so I set our rendezvous for 1 p.m.—which, of course, meant that we didn’t get moving until 1:30.

*Where I began the walk, at Marble Hill, walking over the East River.*

It was a brilliant summer day, hot but not too hot, and blessedly not humid. Our plan, if it deserved the name, was to follow Broadway all the way from the East River to The Battery. However, we also had an agreement—nearly fatal—that we would stop at anything that caught our eye. This happened almost immediately.

To our right, we noticed an old wooden house that looked jarringly out of place. A sign proclaimed it Dyckman Farm, the oldest—and possibly, the only—extant farmhouse on the island of Manhattan. Naturally, we had to visit.

The Dyckman family was of old Dutch stock, having arrived in the 1600s. During the Revolutionary War, however, they fled upstate to avoid the British occupation, returning later to find their original property destroyed. Thus, the current structure dates from around 1785.

Yet the description did not focus exclusively on this family, instead devoting ample space to the many enslaved people who worked and lived on the property, as well as the indigenous people who lived here before. “This is definitely not how it would’ve been described when we were kids,” Greg remarked, quite truly.

The visit cost us $3 and was short and sweet. Two things stick out in my memory. One was a small exhibit about the games that were played by the family, including a playable set of nine men’s morris—a board game even older than chess—with rules printed on the wall. If we had more time, we would’ve had a go. Upstairs, in the bedroom, the walls were decorated with “samplers,” which were embroidered fabrics meant to showcase the skill, class, and devotion of a young woman, in order to secure a favorable match. Tinder profiles seem more efficient, though perhaps less worthy to be deemed family heirlooms.

Yet, for me, the most startling item on display had nothing to do with the farm at all. It was a photograph of the construction of the Dyckman Street subway station, from 1905. What is striking about the image is the almost complete lack of a visible urban presence. It is a stunning reminder of how recent the city’s explosive growth has been. (The photo also intrigues for the apparently nonsensical decision to build public transit into empty land—a paradox resolved by the assurance that the land would be quickly populated once the subway was up and running.)

*It is hard to believe that Manhattan ever looked like this.*

Our walk continued. Broadway took us alongside Fort Tryon Park, a lovely green space overlooking the Hudson River. We briefly considered visiting the Met Cloisters, which sits atop the large hill, but wisely decided it would take too much time.

Now we were in the Heights. Manhattan above Harlem hardly feels like Manhattan at all. It is another world, an outer borough. With a few exceptions, the buildings are just a few stories tall, and there are virtually no tourists to speak of. This part of town is predominantly Latino. You see just as much Spanish as English in store windows, and hear more of it spoken in the streets. Men in tank tops, sitting on folding chairs, play dominoes on the sidewalk as if it were their front lawn. At one point, we passed by a family having a full-blown cookout, with giant trays of spaghetti and rice and beans. The food looked so good that I was a millimeter away from asking for a plate—when my better judgment forced my legs to keep walking.

On any walk through Manhattan, there are some sights that are unavoidable. A fire hydrant leaking water into the streets, for example, or some pigeons having a feeding frenzy. Rats dart from beneath giant mounds of reeking garbage bags. Orange funnels in the street ooze steam into the air—a byproduct of Con Edison’s massive steam heating system belowground—and identical wooden water towers sit inexplicably above every tall building.

But perhaps the most omnipresent Manhattan sight is scaffolding. There are about 400 miles of it in New York City, on seemingly every other building. Remarking on this, Greg recommended John Wilson’s episode on scaffolding, which is a deep dive into the surprisingly strange world of pedestrian protection. I second the recommendation. But here is the short version.

*Scaffolding: a ubiquitous sight in Manhattan*

In 1979, Grace Gold, a freshman student at Barnard College, was tragically killed when a piece of debris fell off a building, striking her in the head. This led her older sister, Lori, to a dogged campaign to prevent further tragedies, culminating in the passing of Local Law 11. This mandates the inspection and maintenance of the façades of buildings over six floors tall, every five years. During this work, scaffolds (also called sidewalk sheds) are put up to protect pedestrians below.

The scaffolds present a kind of obstacle course for the pedestrian. Sometimes they provide needed shade, or a place to lean and hang out; and for many New Yorkers, they become a kind of outdoor living room. They can also narrow the sidewalk and cut off pathways, creating annoying detours and bottlenecks. Businesses hate them for decreasing foot traffic, and tourists for ruining photos of iconic buildings.

This time around, it struck me how nearly all of these classic elements of the city—the garbage bags, the water towers, the steam vents, the scaffolds, and even the fire escapes—are absent from the other city I know best: Madrid. Indeed, they are absent from most other American cities, too. Yet when I lived in New York, it never even occurred to me that these features could be unique or identifying.

Now, I have created my own detour, and must return to the walk.

Our first major city landmark was the George Washington Bridge. We passed underneath the busiest bridge in the world and were immediately waylaid by some street vendors. Greg got himself a ring and an outrageous bracelet—successfully bargaining down the price—and we were off again, heading towards Harlem.

Broadway does not take you through any of the most iconic spots in Harlem, which are further east. But it does run by one of the most grandiose and least-known museums in the city: the Hispanic Society of America.

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, its name is somewhat misleading. Though it is in a “hispanic” neighborhood, the museum is mainly devoted to Spanish cultural heritage; and is not, and has never been, a learned “society.”

The museum is housed in Audubon Terrace, a beautiful beaux-arts complex of buildings. And though it is still not fully open after its years-long renovation, it is free to visit, and was a very pleasant place to cool off for a few minutes. For me, it is a measure of the city’s internationalism that, on top of all of the cultures and countries represented in its boroughs and neighborhoods, I can find a panoramic series of paintings depicting all of the regions of my new homeland—by one of Spain’s greatest painters.

Broadway took us within striking distance of two other Harlem landmarks—Hamilton’s Grange and City College’s magnificent neogothic campus—but we powered on, down to 125th street, where we knew a bar with an excellent happy-hour deal on wine. My brother, Jay (who had previously done this walk, and so didn’t want to subject himself to it again), would meet us there, as Greg and I tried to limit our wine intake so as not to sabotage the journey.

This is, coincidentally, one of the most picturesque stretches of Broadway. The street dips low and then rises up again, which forces the adjacent Subway Line 1 to briefly become elevated above-ground. A century ago, Manhattan actually resembled Chicago in its plethora of elevated metro lines; but most train lines have since been moved underground.

For my part, though I can understand hating the noise and resenting the obstructed views, I think there is something remarkably charming about these elevated lines. The criss-crossing steel beams, looming overhead, evoke a moment in industrial history when technology was both gritty and excitingly new. And the view from the train is certainly better. In any case, the large arch over West 125th Street is worthy of a poem.

As you get into Harlem, one sight becomes omnipresent: public housing. These mainly take the form of square, red-brick buildings, surrounded by small grassy lawns. Admittedly, most of my knowledge of these housing projects comes from reading The Power Broker, wherein Caro describes how Robert Moses destroyed old neighborhoods to make way for soulless housing that was, in many respects, worse than what it replaced. But as the city—and, especially, Manhattan—confronts an ever-worsening housing crisis, it occurs to me that we may have to give the idea of public housing another look.

At one point on the walk, the sidewalk narrowed into a kind of tunnel, due to construction on the building next door. And for whatever reason, the pavement was littered with the lifeless bodies of spotted lanternflies. This is an insect pest, originally from southeast Asia, which has spread far and wide due to human activity (they lay their eggs on pieces of wood, which then get transported). Though the insect is actually quite beautiful—with brilliant red wings and an attractive spotted pattern—and though it poses no direct threat to people, New Yorkers were encouraged to kill them on sight for the threat they pose to agriculture and the environment generally.

By now, they’ve probably multiplied to such an extent that killing them doesn’t do any good; but we still did our part and murdered the three or four remaining living insects on the sidewalk.

“It’s like a level of a video game,” Greg joked, as we exited the lanternfly tunnel.

*The best picture I’ve managed to get of a lanternfly, taken from inside a bodega.*

Now we were entering the vicinity of Columbia University, whose presence stretches far beyond its main campus. One obvious sign that we were entering its orbit was the proliferation of bookstores and book stands. This was perilous for the both of us. Anyone who knows me is aware of my fondness for the written word. And Greg, well… he’s a history professor. If our odyssey was like a video game, then this level was far more challenging than the lanternflies. We had to resist the pull of knowledge.

*Greg looking phenomenal next to a strange statue adorning an empty parking lot.*

I did, however, take the opportunity to buy Greg a book I’d been recommending him for some time: Times Square Red, Times Square Blue, by science fiction writer Samuel R. Delany.

Now, to give you some background, Rudy Giuliani’s campaign to clean up Times Square has often been celebrated as an example of successful urban redevelopment. Before Giuliani’s stint as mayor—that is, from the 1960s to the early 90s—Times Square was considered a rather seedy area, full of porn theaters, peep shows, and nightclubs. Far from a tourist attraction, it was an area most people tried to avoid. Its transformation from a symbol of the city’s decline to its star attraction is thus usually heralded as a triumph.

Delany calls into question this basic narrative, and he does so with stories of his own explorations—and sexual adventures—in the old, sordid Times Square. For a sex-positive, anti-gentrification, urban studies academic, and a proud New Yorker to boot (in other words, my friend Greg), this seemed like the perfect read.

The real highlight of this part of town was a visit to Tom’s Restaurant, the diner featured on Seinfeld. For such an iconic spot, it is wonderfully unpretentious, with reasonable prices and a classic diner atmosphere. We took the opportunity to order some milkshakes, and I heartily recommend the same to anyone in the area.

We kept going, moving out of Harlem and into the Upper West Side. This is easily one of the architectural highlights of the city, mainly due to the many ostentatious apartment hotels—the Dakota, the San Remo, the Hotel Belleclaire—that were built in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, by architects such as Emery Roth. Indeed, this part of Manhattan could easily rival the heart of Paris for its elegance and beauty. Even the subway station at 72nd street is a monument. Rather than try to explain any more myself, however, I will recommend this excellent video by Architectural Digest—as well as their YouTube channel generally. It is some of the best content available about the city.

But I will pause to savor the pizza we had at one of my favorite New York spots: Freddie & Pepper’s. All of us ordered the same thing: a slice with tomato, basil, and fresh mozzarella. It was exactly what we needed to continue our walk.

Now, I would like to take a moment to consider the smells of the city. Though some, like pizza, are conspicuously good, for the most part Manhattan is malodorous: hot garbage, urine, car exhaust, bodies covered in sweat… But lately a new smell has taken over: marijuana. It is not exactly the most pleasant odor (at times it can smell remarkably like a skunk), but it is certainly omnipresent since the legalization, in 2021, of recreational cannabis.

One of the ideas behind legalization was to treat cannabis like wine or liquor, selling it at licensed stores. However, since the unlicensed distribution network was already (shall we say) quite robust, unlicensed stores and stands popped up throughout the city before the legal venues could get a foothold, much to the embarrassment of politicians. Indeed, a major government crackdown was taking place during the week of our walk, leading to the shutdown of over 750 illegal stores. Crackdowns notwithstanding, the city has certainly taken to legal weed with gusto.

The last major sight in the Upper West that we passed was Lincoln Center. We sat down to rest in the nearby Richard Tucker Park, while a bored-looking young woman sang operatic arias—quite well, really—in order to “fund her education.” Puccini and Verdi notwithstanding, I had the music of West Side Story in my head. It was here, after all, that the original movie was filmed—in the ruins of the demolished San Juan Hill neighborhood—and where the Steven Spielberg remake was set.

*Greg, looking very serious about this walk.*

Robert Moses enters this story once again, as it was the notorious commissioner who spearheaded the project—seizing the land from the working-class, multi-ethnic residents of the neighborhood, and then razing the property in order to make way for the city’s new bougie performing arts center. In other words, it was yet another chapter in the long history of Manhattan’s gentrification. At least Lincoln Center looks good.

Finally, as Broadway slowly bent eastward, we hit the next major landmark on our walk: Columbus Circle. This meant that we had finally gotten below Central Park, and were officially entering Midtown Manhattan. The entrance to the park was bustling with activity, as hot dog vendors and the drivers of horse-drawn carriages and pedicabs vied for the tourist’s attention (and money). Yet what struck our collective attention was the large monument on the park’s southwest corner. We stared at it, wondering at its significance, until Jay looked it up on his phone:

“It’s a monument to the USS Maine!”

Now, you may be forgiven for not remembering the significance of this ship. This was an armored cruiser that exploded and sank in Havana’s harbor in 1898, with the loss of 268 sailors. And though the evidence that it had been deliberately attacked by the Spanish was weak at best, the ship’s sinking became a cause célèbre which led to the Spanish American War. Nowadays, neither the Maine nor the war itself (which was basically an American colonial power-grab) are much remembered or remarked upon by Americans. Enormous monuments notwithstanding, the war had a more lasting cultural impact in Spain, as the country’s embarrassing loss to the upstart United States prompted severe self-doubt among its intellectuals, who were dubbed the Generation of ‘98.

Above us, some of the tallest buildings in Manhattan soared off into the sky. This is Billionaire’s Row, a collection of supertall, pencil-thin, ultra-luxury apartment buildings at the bottom of Central Park. For me, though the skyscrapers are impressive as feats of engineering, the buildings make a dubious addition to Manhattan’s skyline—imposingly tall, but not particularly pretty. And, of course, it is rather depressing to have the city’s silhouette dominated by properties to be used as investments for the super rich.

Almost as soon as we left Columbus Circle, we entered Times Square. Far from a discrete part of the city, Times Square seemed to spread impossibly far, its bright and suffocating tentacles strangling block after block. It seems unnecessary to describe the scene—the smothering crowds of gaping tourists, the blinding lights and flashing signs, the street acrobats occupying the sidewalks, the Elmos and Marios and Mickey Mouses (some with their helmets off, smoking a cigarette)—but I do want to mention the religious fanatic, who was standing on a street corner and yelling that Christianity had abandoned Jesus Christ. A man in a wifebeater stopped to shout “Fake news!” nonsensically at the preacher, and his young son did the same.

Greg and Jay took off like rockets—or, should I say, like real New Yorkers—once we hit Times Square, weaving and bobbing through the crowd like professional boxers. I could hardly keep up, though I did my best. It is a truth universally acknowledged by native New Yorkers that Times Square is to be avoided at all costs. And I have to admit that, by the time we got to the end of it—power walking in sullen silence through the crowds—I yearned for a few porn theaters or gogo bars to scare away the tourists. In other words, Samuel R. Delany may have had a point.

Right as we were approaching the southern end of Times Square, and the limit of our tolerance, we passed by a glowing neon American Flag, in front of which a drag queen was yelling into a megaphone, leading a boisterous anti-Trump rally. Just across the street there was a decidedly smaller pro-Trump rally, trying in vain to maintain a similar energy-level. My favorite character was a very calm black man who stood next to the Trumpers, casually holding a Black Lives Matter sign and chatting to his friend.

From here on, the walk entered its most grueling phase. The sun had set and we were all tired—especially me. In perfect frankness, I was suffering from an affliction that often plagues me during my summers in New York: chafing. Suffice to say that, by the time we got past 42nd street, every step I took was a minor agony. Added to this, I had chosen badly and worn my sandals for the walk, which meant my toes were grinding against pebbles and dirt, covering the sides of my feet in blisters.

By the time we got to 30th street, I was waddling like a duck, and in no mood to appreciate architectural treasures. In any case, the city was quite dark by now—and surprisingly dead. From 42nd street to 14th, we did not pass by a single store that attracted our attention. And though it was a Saturday in midtown Manhattan, the streets were surprisingly empty, mostly consisting of people dressed up for expensive outings elsewhere.

*A silent rave we passed, in Herald Square*

Finally, the Flatiron Building came into view. But something else attracted our attention, a large circular TV monitor. This was the New York-Dublin Portal, an art installation by Benediktas Gylys that opened this year. It is a simple but intriguing concept: a two-way video call so that residents of the two cities can wave at one another. But bad behavior shut down the portal for a week in May. People from both cities couldn’t resist exposing themselves, and a few on the Dublin side had the bright idea to display images of the September 11 attacks.

I was looking forward to waving to some Dubliners (despite the risk of getting flashed). Unfortunately for us, by the time we arrived the portal was closed for the day.

We did at least pause for a drink at an outdoor food stand. It was well past nine o’clock at night and we were all pretty ragged. The prospect of accepting defeat was seriously raised. We did not have much more in the tank. For my part, I badly wanted a shower and to change out of my sticky, stinky clothes. But I wanted to finish the walk even more. And when we saw on our phones that we had just over an hour to go, we decided we had to finish what we started.

Back on our feet—though walking slow—we got to Union Square. In normal times, this is one of my favorite parts of Manhattan (which is generally lacking in green space away from Central Park), but now I just felt a sense of relief that we were recognizably downtown.

I did pause to look up at Metronome, an art installation at the bottom of the park. It consists of a hole that periodically blows smoke rings, next to a series of numbers which don’t make any obvious sense. For years, I would wonder what the numbers might mean, to no avail. It turns out that the digits are a strange kind of clock, displaying (from left to right) the hours, minutes, and seconds from the last midnight, and then the seconds, minutes, and hours to the next one. Not particularly useful, I’d say.

However, since 2020 the display has been repurposed to make a Climate Clock, which counts down years and days to 1.5°C of warming—a number considered to be a threshold for many of the worst effects of climate change. As of this writing, we’re slated to pass over this threshhold on July 21, 2029. Yikes.

Just down the street we passed by one of my favorite spots in the whole city: The Strand Bookstore. It was probably fortunate that, by the time we limped by, it was closed for the day. We couldn’t have survived another delay.

This was the final stretch. The street numbers were falling, 4th, 3rd… until the numbers ceased, and all of the streets had names. We crossed Houston street (pronounced “Howston” in contrast to the city of “Hyooston”) and into SoHo. This was Old Manhattan, Dutch Manhattan, New Amsterdam—the original, chaotic colony, whose criss-crossing streets contrast sharply with the ordered grid of the city’s later expansion northward.

We walked on in relative silence. There was nothing more to say—except complaints. By now I looked as bad as I felt, hobbling down the sidewalk, trying my best to tune out the pain from my lower limbs. I did not have the mental energy to contemplate the African Burial Grounds National Monument, nor to even register City Hall, St. Paul’s Chapel, or Trinity Church…

It was only when we got to the financial district, and passed the iconic Bull Statue, that my spirits lifted. I could smell the water now. We were close.

The final stretch felt like a triumphal march, as we walked through the “Canyon of Heroes.” These are black granite plaques commemorating all of the ticker-tape parades held in New York’s history. You see, it used to be customary to fête important visitors with large parades, in which shredded paper would be thrown everywhere. The tradition started as a spontaneous celebration of the Statue of Liberty’s dedication. Most of the celebrants were visiting dignitaries, heads of state, military heroes, and—most prominently—great aviators. It is a rather charming reminder of the intense excitement of the early days of trans-Atlantic flight.

We finally exited Broadway and entered the Battery. The air was notably cooler, the sounds of the city mixed with crickets. There were surprisingly few people about. We turned a corner and, in the distance, Lady Liberty herself came into view—on the other side of a chain-link fence (a rather depressing image, really). I sat down heavily on a bench, too tired and sore to feel much of anything but relief. But we had made it, from the top to the bottom. It had only taken us 10 hours.

As an epilogue, I wanted to pay my respects to perhaps an unlikely hero of this post: Utagawa Hiroshige. A few weeks previous to this walk, the three of us—Greg, Jay, and I—had seen an exhibit in the Brooklyn Museum of Hiroshige’s celebrated series of woodblock prints, One Hundred Famous Views of Edo.

What impressed me most in those images was Hiroshige’s ability to display so many different aspects of the city that would become Tokyo: its parks, its seasons, its festivals, its streets and buildings, and its people—from priests to prostitutes. It struck me as remarkable that Hiroshige was able to find such beauty in familiar surroundings. But perhaps all he needed for inspiration was a very long walk.

Historic Hudson Homes: Springwood & Vanderbilt Mansion

This is part of a series on Historic Hudson Homes. For the other posts, see below:

Washington Irving’s Sunnyside
John D. Rockefeller’s Kykuit
Alexander Hamilton’s Grange
FDR’s Springwood & Vanderbilt Mansion
Thomas Cole’s Cedar Grove and Frederic Church’s Olana
Jay Gould’s Lyndhurst & Untermyer Garden

Of the many famous names associated with the Hudson Valley—John D. Rockefeller, Alexander Hamilton, Washington Irving, just to name a few—one name looms over them all: Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He needs no introduction. As president, he guided the nation through two existential threats; and he did much of his work from the home where he was born, overlooking the Hudson River.

The young cousin of the great Teddy Roosevelt—whose own stately home Long Island, Sagamore Hill, has also been turned into a monument—Franklin was from a wealthy family. His father, James, had a degree in law but chose to stop practicing, having received an ample inheritance. It was James who purchased the property in 1866, which he dubbed “Springwood” (a fairly bland name, if you ask me). And it was here, on January 30th, 1882, that his son Franklin was born.

When Franklin himself inherited the house, in 1900, he set about expanding and improving the place. Children notwithstanding, the extra space was mainly to house his collections of books, prints, model ships, stuffed birds, and other paraphernalia. He was apparently something of a packrat. But the result of this remodeling is a beautiful neoclassical structure—grand, without being grandiose.

Having been donated to the government two years before his death, the furnishings of the house are perfectly preserved. Often these are just the sort of things one might expect to see in the house of a patrician: fine furniture, oil paintings, expensive pottery. But a few things stick out in my memory. The most impressive room in the house is Franklin’s library, a beautiful space with dark, polished oak bookshelves filled to the brim. Other rooms are surprising for their simplicity. The bedrooms are anything but luxurious; and the dining room, though elegant, hardly seems big enough for the entourage of the head of state.

Undoubtedly the loveliest aspect of the house is its location. The view of the Hudson Valley from its upper floors could hardly be improved. It is no wonder that the young Franklin came to have a keen appreciation for natural scenery—doing more to expand America’s national parks than even his mustachioed cousin.

The tour of the house is relatively brief. After that, the visitor is free to explore the grounds. Nearby are the stables (Franklin’s father was an avid horse breeder), and I was amused to find a plaque for a horse named “New Deal.”

*My mom and my brother, who was in his pandemic mustache phase*

But the most moving spot on the entire property is Franklin’s tomb. As per his instructions, he is buried in his garden, where a sundial used to stand, encircled by roses. His tombstone is plain white marble, devoid of any decorations. The president died unexpectedly at the age of 63, of a brain hemorrhage, after being elected a record four times. His body was carried in a grand and somber procession to this place, as the shocked nation mourned his loss.

Interred with him is his wife, Eleanor, who died seventeen years later, in 1962. She was just as much a revolutionary as her husband, and transformed what it meant to be First Lady. If I had properly done my research, I would have gone to see her famous residence, Val-Kill, which is about two miles east of Springwood. Eleanor purchased this property along with two women’s rights activists, Nancy Cook and Marion Dickerman. There, they put into practice their idea of handicrafts (heavily influenced by the art critic John Ruskin), teaching locals to make pewter and furniture.

The site is perhaps more interesting for its LGBT history, as Cook and Marion were romantic partners, and Eleanor herself had a long relationship with the journalist Lorena Hickok. (FDR, for his part, had a prolonged affair with Lucy Mercer Rutherford, Eleanor’s social secretary. You can say that they had a modern marriage.)

Closeby is Top Cottage. Aside from Jefferson’s architectural wonders in Virginia, this is actually the only building designed by a sitting president. It is certainly not a showpiece. Indeed, the cottage was primarily designed to be more wheelchair accessible, after his bout with polio in 1921 left FDR’s legs paralyzed. Curiously, then, Val-Kill and Top Cottage reveal how two normally marginalized groups—the LGBT and the disabled communities—were connected to the center of power during one of the country’s most perilous periods.

To get back to Springwood, however, no visit to the property is complete without the museum, located in the Henry A. Wallace Center. Now, normally I am not a fan of exhibits which consist mainly of long texts with historical photos. It always strikes me that the information would be better displayed in a book or magazine, rather than distributed throughout a building. Even so, I enjoyed the long biographical exposition of FDR’s life, and learned a great deal.

The visit culminates in the basement, with FDR’s iconic Ford Phaeton. It was modified to allow him to drive with his hands, and he keenly enjoyed driving. There is an excellent chapter in Winston Churchill’s memoirs of the Second World War, in which he describes a visit to Springwood, where he was terrified by Franklin’s tendency to race around the country lanes. But Churchill had nothing but praise for the hospitality he received in Hyde Park.

Now, a visit to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Historic Site would be more than enough to fill a day. But the visitor is spoiled by being able to also pay a visit to the Vanderbilt Mansion, which is located just up the Albany Post Road.

The name Vanderbilt is nearly as synonymous with old money as Rockefeller. The dynasty began with Cornelius Vanderbilt (1764 – 1877), who managed to transform his father’s modest ferry business into a railroad empire. Upon his death he bequeathed the vast majority of his riches to his oldest son, William Henry, often called “Billy.” Understandably, the other Vanderbilt descendents were not happy with this arrangement, and this led to a lengthy court battle—which Billy eventually won, thereby becoming the richest man in America.

Billy was a careful guardian of his father’s empire. Though he survived his father by just nine short years, he managed to double the family’s wealth during that time. But he did not decide to imitate his father in leaving all of his wealth to his oldest son. Rather, he split his money between his eight children. While admirably equitable, this fairly well ended the Vanderbilt Empire, as his children proceeded to squander the family fortune, leaving very little for the next generation.

As a case in point, while Cornelius and Billy lived in (comparatively) modest circumstances, the grandchildren built a series of mansions across the United States. All told, they left 40 elaborate dwellings, many of which have become monuments. Among the best-known are Marble House, Rough Point, and The Breakers, all in Newport, Rhode Island. And the most famous of them all: Biltmore Estate, still the largest privately-owned residence in the United States, in Asheville, North Carolina.

The Vanderbilt Mansion in Hyde Park belonged to Frederick William Vanderbilt. Of all of the grandchildren, he was perhaps the most reserved and upright. The ostentatious mansion notwithstanding, he managed to preserve his inheritance and lived free of scandal, quietly devoted to his wife Louise.

But there is nothing quiet about this house. It is palatial, making the Roosevelts’ Springwood look puny by comparison. Every room is decorated to the highest standards of Gilded Age taste—the American nouveau riche imitating European aristocrats. As far as furnishings go, it is a convincing copy: a photo of the interior could easily pass for the house of an English country squire.

My clearest memory of the tour was the guide’s description of their daily routine. It was leisure elevated into a formal art, with rigid rules. Men and women both had different attires for different times of the day—for some light outdoor sport, then for cocktails, then for dinner—and each hour came with its specific sort of alcohol. I imagine mustachioed men in tuxedos, drinking copious quantities of port wine and filling the room with cigar smoke, while their wives sat on the divan in the next room, sipping sherry in elegant ball gowns. It was the transmutation of alcoholism into sophistication.

The tour ended in the servants quarters in the basement—shockingly bare and utilitarian compared with the extravagant luxury in the house above. It was a stark reminder of the huge staff whose (poorly remunerated) work was necessary to make a life like this possible.

When Frederick Vanderbilt died in 1938—having survived his wife by twelve years, and never having had children—he bequeathed his estate to his niece, Margaret. Yet by this time, the huge Gilded Age mansion was a relic from another age; and his niece understandably had little interest either in living on the property or in paying for the upkeep. Her neighbor Franklin thus easily persuaded Margaret to donate the mansion and its property to the United States government (for the token sum of $1) to be turned into a national monument. In fact, FDR occasionally used the property to house his secret service and some visiting guests.

At the end of the tour, we asked the guide (who was excellent) where we could get a local bite to eat. He recommended the nearby Eveready Diner. And as I took a bite of my hamburger, I reflected that I’d just had a wonderful—and a wonderfully American—day in the Hudson Valley.

Interview: A Trip to China

Throughout most of our relationship, I have been the traveller—visiting as many corners of Europe as time and money allowed. But recently Rebe has started surpassing me, most notably by taking a 10-day trip—by herself!—to the heart of China. This is an interview about her trip, edited for clarity. All photo credits also belong to her: Rebeca López.

ROY: To begin with, why China? Of all the countries in Asia, it’s not the trendiest place to visit. Most people I know want to go to Japan or Thailand.

REBE: Well, I got interested in learning Chinese because my childhood best friend was my chinese neighbor. Also, Chinese is just such an important language. I’ve heard that, if you can speak Chinese, Spanish, and English, you can talk with almost anyone on earth. So I started taking Chinese classes some years ago, though I still have a low level. Also, to be honest, I’ve always liked the food…

ROY: What did you have to do to prepare for your trip? Anything unusual?

REBE: It’s recommended, for some reason, to get vaccinated against Hepatitis, so I did that. Normally I would’ve needed a visa, but China has a special, temporary visa promotion for citizens of some European countries to encourag tourism, so I didn’t have to do anything special. This offer is valid until the end of 2025.

ROY: I’ve heard that using the internet in China is difficult, since they have a lot of restrictions.

REBE: Yeah, so it’s recommended to get a VPN on your phone, which allows you to get around the firewall. Even so, certain applications like Google Maps didn’t really work. Instead, I used an app called Maps.me to get around. Also, most Chinese people use WeChat as their main messaging app, but with the VPN I was able to use Whatsapp as usual. But I did use WeChat to pay for things, since I couldn’t pay directly with my Spanish bank card. Alipay is also really common.

ROY: So, what was the flight like?

REBE: Actually, it wasn’t bad. I was on the plane for 11 hours but somehow it was comfortable. I slept a lot.

ROY: What was your first stop?

REBE: I began in Beijing. I was supposed to be there for 3 days, but my original flight was overbooked and I arrived a day early.

ROY: I know that Beijing is one of the biggest cities in the world. Did it feel massive and overcrowded?

REBE: Not really. Even though there are tons of people, it doesn’t feel overwhelming due to the wide extent of the city. The metro was quite good and it was easy to get around. One thing that was weird, though, was that there were passport checks on every street corner. The police were stationed there checking everyone’s documentation, even Chinese people.

ROY: So what’d you do there?

REBE: The first thing I did was to visit the Forbidden City. It’s really massive. I read online that it has 9,999 rooms. All the buildings are made of wood and it’s really beautiful. There is an exhibition hall called Hall of Clocks and Watches with an impressive collection of luxurious clocks from the Qing Dynasty. Near the Forbidden City there is the Jingshan Park, from which you get astounding views of the palace complex. You can make stops on the way up to admire the many different pavilions that crowd the park.

The next day I visited the Temple of Heaven, built during the Ming dynasty, which is also huge. The largest building of this complex, and the most famous one, is called The Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests. It’s 38 meters tall and it’s entirely made of wood, with no nails. This was probably my favorite monument in the city. Next to the Temple of Heaven I strolled around Tian-Tan park where I saw other pavilions, such as the double-loop Longevity Pavilion. In this park it’s very common to see locals in singing groups, dance lessons or playing a popular chinese game called Jianzi, a sport like badminton that you play with your feet.

Later that day I strolled through Qianmen, a famous 570 year old shopping street. But what I really enjoyed were the Hutongs in the adjacent streets. Hutongs are historical, small grey buildings in narrow streets where people used to live in the past.

The last stop of the day was Beihai Park, with its famous White Pagoda.

ROY: Was that it for Beijing?

REBE: Well, I took a day to go visit the Great Wall. I tried to go to a part of the wall that was less touristy, but it was kind of hard to get to. I was supposed to take a bus, to another bus, and then to a shuttle bus, but I got off at the wrong stop on the first bus and ended up taking a taxi. Taxis in China are pretty cheap.

ROY: What was it like seeing the wall?

REBE: It’s weird, because it’s something you’ve seen in photos so many times, and then you see it for real. It’s a lot of stairs, a lot of going up and down. It was overcast and probably a bit too early in the year to get the best views. The trees were still bare. But of course it was great to see it.

ROY: Did you visit Tiananmen Square?

REBE: Actually I didn’t have time. I was so jet-lagged during the first few days that I fell asleep at like 6 in the afternoon. It was brutal.

ROY: So what did you do after Beijing?

REBE: My next stop was Pingyao. For a Chinese city, it’s actually pretty small, just a few thousand people. But it’s famous for being a well-preserved medieval city. The first bank of China was actually located in Pingyao. It’s surrounded by old walls and the streets look like they did hundreds of years ago. The main thing to do is to visit all the temples. There are Confucian, Taoist, and Buddhist temples. But I didn’t see many because they close by 5 o’clock.

ROY: How long were you there?

REBE: Just a day. That night, I actually slept on a kang, which is a traditional kind of wooden bed.

ROY: Was it comfortable?

REBE: Actually, yes, more than what it sounds like.

Then the next day I went on to Xi’an. This is a much bigger city, though it also has a preserved wall. There I saw the Wild Goose Pagoda, which is huge. And there’s also the Bell Tower and the Drum Tower, which I think were used to tell people the time of day.

ROY: Like a cathedral’s bells?

REBE: Yeah, the Bell Tower marked the dawn and the Drum Tower the sunset. But, anyway, Xi’an is most famous for the Terracotta Army.

ROY: Oh right! Is that inside the city?

REBE: No, but it’s close. I just took a taxi to get there.

ROY: Aren’t they in a mountain or something?

REBE: No, there’s a hill where I think the emperor is buried. But the army is in like an open pit, which has a huge roof built over it. There are three pits, and the second one is the largest. It’s very impressive to see it. There are so many soldiers—thousands. One interesting thing is that they were originally painted. Once they got exposed to the atmosphere, the paint started to fade and peel off in a matter of minutes. When I visited, there were some researchers down in one of the pits, working.

ROY: So that was it for Xi’an?

REBE: Uh, there is a Muslim Quarter in Xi’an where you can visit different mosques and eat amazing food. I also tried biangbiang noodles, which are thick and really good. Fun fact: the Chinese character for these noodles is one of the most difficult and complicated.

ROY: Weird.

REBE: My next stop, and my last destination, was Chengdu. This is the capital of Sichuan. It’s most famous for the giant panda reserve and the plentiful hot pot restaurants.

ROY: You saw pandas?

REBE: I didn’t really have time. There was other stuff I wanted to see.

ROY: So what did you do?

REBE: I went to the house of Du Fu, one of the most famous Chinese poets. It’s kind of outside the city center. The house is small, and I think it’s been reconstructed. But it was nice seeing the old, traditional space. I passed through People’s Park, where I saw professional ear cleaners working. And I also visited the Wuhou Temple, where I saw Buddhist monks singing. It reminded me a lot of Catholic monks, actually.

ROY: Different religions, the same rituals.

REBE: The best thing, by far, was the Leshan Giant Buddha. This was carved into a cliffside over a thousand years ago, and it’s absolutely gigantic. You can’t even really take a good picture when you’re standing under it, because it’s just so tall. Also, the Buddha is in an area full of stone statues of the Buddha, and many of these are really big as well. It’s just very impressive.

ROY: That’s in the city?

REBE: No, you take a train to get to Leshan, which is about an hour. And then you have to take a bus.

ROY: Ok, so then you flew back to Spain—with two stopovers, I remember. But I wanted to ask: What are your final thoughts on the trip?

REBE: Well, I saw lots of amazing things. And I even met a few locals, since some younger people are eager to talk to foreigners and practice their English. But the thing I liked most about the trip was the sensation of being so far away, in a place that is so different. Unlike visiting some touristy places in Europe, it didn’t feel like the places were made for visitors. So navigating the country felt like an adventure.

Sorolla: A Tale of Two Cities

Madrid has some of the finest museum-going in Europe, holding its own against Vienna, London, and even Paris. And this would be true if the city only had its big three: the Prado, the Thyssen, and the Reina Sofia. In addition to these heavyweight picture galleries, however, the city is also home to a great many excellent small museums. The best of these is, without a doubt, the one dedicated to Joaquín Sorolla.

It is somewhat ironic that Sorolla’s museum should be located in Madrid, as he was a valenciano by birth and disposition. His most famous and distinctive paintings are those featuring beach scenes, bathed in a kind of brilliant lucidity, every surface shimmering under the Mediterranean sun. But he was far more than a provincial painter. During his life, he became the most celebrated artist in the country—and, indeed, one of the most famous in the world. This is why he was able to afford such a fine house in the center of the nation’s capital.

The first thing the visitor will notice upon entering the museum is its lovely garden. This was designed after the Andalusian fashion, featuring colorful tiles, little aqueducts, and gurgling fountains. It is such an attractive space that some locals come here just to hang out, as it is free to enter. Sorolla designed the garden himself, and it is easy to picture him sitting here after a long day in his studio, resting his eyes.

The entrance to the ticket office is distinct from that of the museum itself. As it is a state museum, they charge the standard fee of 3€. It is free on Saturdays, but perhaps it is worth it to go on a different day, as the museum is most pleasant with fewer people. While purchasing your ticket, I recommend pausing to admire the Andalusian patio, as well as the painter’s impressive collection of Spanish ceramics. He seems to have had a keen appreciation for the rural, rustic handcrafts of his countrymen.

The first room of the museum is the picture gallery, featuring several excellent, large-scale paintings of the Spanish master. Here the visitor gets a good impression of his style. In his portraits—such as those of his wife or children—Sorolla’s work resembles other painters of his era, such as John Singer Sargent (whom Sorolla met and admired). He was more than capable of painting in a traditional manner.

His brush comes alive, however, whenever he depicts bright, shining light. No other painter has captured the sensation of Spanish sun so successfully. His human figures seem to dissolve into gleam and reflection. In his beach scenes, you can smell the saltwater and hear the waves. If you have ever stayed on a Mediterranean beach long enough to go blind from the reflections and dizzy from dehydration, you can see that, in his paintings, Sorolla captured an experiential truth.

And though Sorolla was the epitome of a bourgeois artist during his lifetime, he was capable of great artistic daring. On my last visit, I was impressed by his work Madre, which depicts a mother in bed with her baby. Their tan faces are the only points of contrast with the white pillows, sheets, and walls, making it seem as if they were floating in a sea of light. There is nothing conventional about it.

The next room features some of Sorolla’s more familial works. Among the portraits we can find Joaquín Sorolla García, his son, who was the museum’s first director. It is largely thanks to him that we have such a fine museum, as he preserved it after his father’s death and left it to a foundation in his will. Unlike so many other house museums, then, nobody else ever lived here before it was turned into a museum. Another notable offspring we may find is Elena Sorolla. She became a talented painter and sculptor in her own right, though she later abandoned art in favor of her family.

The next room, Sala III, is the showstopper of the museum. It is Sorolla’s former studio. The space is ideal for painting, with large windows, a high ceiling, and skylights. Old, dirty paint brushes stand on a table, and a painting sits on the easel, half-finished, as if Sorolla just stepped out for a cigarette. The walls are covered in his paintings—so many and so high up that it is hard to even appreciate them. In the center of the room hangs a large copy of the Portrait of Pope Innocent X, by Velázquez (one of Sorolla’s heroes). Nearby is an ornate bed in one corner, which looks barely big enough for one person, much less Sorolla and his wife. Was it just for siestas?

The visitor next climbs the stairs into the temporary exhibition space. I have been to the museum many times by now, and have consistently been impressed with the quality of these exhibits. The museum has far more paintings in its collection than it can display at any one time (Sorolla was prolific), as well as objects and artwork from Sorolla’s own substantial collections. So there is a lot to choose from.

The last time I visited, they had an exhibit commemorating the 100-year anniversary of his death: “Sorolla en 100 objetos.” This is an attempt to tell the story of his life using Sorolla’s possessions. One gets the impression of a man whose career could hardly have gone any better—of an artist who achieved success early, and was highly respected until the end of his life. He is, in other words, at the other end of the scale from Van Gogh: not the lone, eccentric genius but a pillar of his community. And yet, judging from his massive output, one cannot rate his commitment to painting as any less than the Dutchman’s.

The rest of the museum consists of rooms furnished as they were during his time, whose richness only serves to exemplify the degree of success Sorolla enjoyed. The visitor is then, once again, deposited in the lovely gardens—to either bask in aesthetic pleasure or to be consumed by envy at such a fortunate life.

At the end of your visit, you will have a good idea of both the artist and his work. And yet, to see Sorolla’s most ambitious and monumental paintings, you will have to visit another museum—one on the other side of the ocean.

The Hispanic Society of America is perhaps one of the strangest and least-known museums in New York City. The name itself is misleading in two ways: first, because it isn’t and never was a learned society; and second, because—despite being located in Washington Heights, a “Hispanic” (meaning Latino) part of the city—it is really dedicated to Spanish culture.

In many ways, the museum is a relic from another time. It is the brainchild of Archer Milton Huntington, an eccentric millionaire who had a keen interest in all things Spain. Using his money (inherited) and his many intellectual connections (he was an amateur scholar), he assembled a collection of museums around Audubon Terrace—a monumental complex of ornate Beaux-Arts buildings—and had his wife, Anna Hyatt Huntington, add the sculptures and friezes.

(It is worth noting that Mrs. Huntington was a remarkable artist, who achieved widespread success at a time when it was very rare indeed for women to be sculptors, and who left many attractive monuments all over the Americas and Spain.)

Yet I am afraid that the decoration adorning the outside of the museum will likely rub some people the wrong way nowadays. Above Anna Hyatt Huntington’s wonderful statue of El Cid Campeador—the legendary hero of the Spanish Middle Ages—there are names inscribed on the outside of the building, as if to commemorate heroes. Yet the names include Pizarro, De Soto, Ponce de León, and Cortés—conquistadores, who are now more often reviled as destroyers than celebrated as civilizers.

The museum has a collection of art and rare books from Spain that is unrivaled outside the country. There are paintings by the big three—Velázquez, El Greco, and Goya—and even a first-edition copy of Don Quixote. For many years, however, this collection hasn’t been available to the public, as the museum had to undergo extensive repairs and renovations. I was fortunate enough to see some of this during my first year in Spain, when the Prado had a temporary exhibition showcasing some of the treasures of the Hispanic Society’s collection. But during my one and only visit to the actual museum, last summer, most of its collection was still unavailable.

But I was able to see Sorolla’s magnum opus: Visions of Spain. This is a truly massive series of oil paintings, all about 4 meters in height (12ish feet) and wrapping 70 meters (over 200 feet) around the room. Amazingly, despite this huge scale, Sorolla completed nearly all of these paintings outside, working en plein air at various locations around Spain. He must have needed a stepladder and a team of helpers.

The murals depict the many regions of Spain, focusing on their most distinctive qualities. We can see a Semana Santa procession in Seville, as well as some joyful flamenco dancing; in Aragon they dance the jota and in Galicia they listen to a bagpipe; in the Basque Country they play their distinctive ball game, while in Valencia and Catalonia they prepare the day’s catch of fish. By far the biggest painting depicts a bread festival in Old Castile, with both the famous cities of Ávila and Toledo visible in the background (impossibly, since the two cities are quite distant).

Now, judged purely as paintings, the murals in this series are perhaps not as pleasing as Sorolla’s finest individual works, such as El baño del caballo. They are too busy with detail to make for clean compositions, and do not always showcase Sorolla’s exceptional gift for portraying light. Judged by their scale and ambition, however, the paintings are absolutely remarkable. For such a large work, Sorolla paid exceptional attention to details of costume and custom, attempting to make his paintings as anthropologically informative as possible. And the execution is immaculate. It is no wonder that, after completing this series, the painter felt exhausted. He would die just four years later.

If a visit to the Museo Sorolla in Madrid proves that he was a wonderful painter, then a visit to the Hispanic Society in New York proves that he was something else: a patriot. Admittedly, this is not always an admirable quality in an artist (think of Wagner); but in Sorolla it drove him, not to bigotry, but to celebration of the scintillating beauty of his homeland—and not just its famous landscapes and monuments, but its people. For any who love both fine painting and that sunbaked land, his paintings provide a peculiar delight.

Review: The Ethical Slut

The Ethical Slut: A Guide to Infinite Sexual Possibilities by Dossie Easton

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a good example of a book which I almost certainly would never have read had it not been for an excellent review on Goodreads. I refer to the one by Trevor, whose reaction pretty much sums up my thoughts as well as I can hope to. But I would still like to take a crack at it.

Polyamory has been having a kind of cultural moment lately, and I admit that my gut reaction has been consistently negative. The whole idea struck me as naïve and foolish—maybe even a bit sordid—and I resented even being made to think about the topic. But there was a corner of my brain that was unsatisfied with this reaction. After all, I studied anthropology in college, so I knew that lifelong monogamy was hardly a human universal. (Though, in fairness, I’m also unaware of any culture that practices the free love as described in this book.) In short, it seemed merely an irrational bias of mine to react so negatively, and I decided I ought not to bow to my biases.

There does seem to be a lot of confusion regarding sex lately. While tolerance of different sexualities is probably at an all-time high, sex itself seems to be on the decline. It is well known that the birthrate in the developed world has been on the wane for decades, and this isn’t due simply to widespread access to birth control. Young people actually seem to be doing less lovemaking, though nobody quite knows why. Added to this are disturbing trends like the rise of the woman-hating “incel” community, or the disheartening phenomenon of “trad wives.” One gets the impression that traditional modes of relating are breaking down, and nobody really knows what to do.

Consensual polyamory is one proposed solution that appears to be growing in popularity—or, at least, in visibility. It promises to be a sexuality for the future, free of shame, sexism, and possessiveness—a sexuality based on purely utilitarian grounds of harmless pleasure. (As a side note, it is curious that John Stuart Mill, the apostle of utilitarianism, was a devoted monogamist. Was he really promoting “the greatest good for the greatest number” by being loyal to his wife?!) However, the notion of free love is hardly new. This book was first published in 1997, and has a great many forbears—from Alfred Kinsey and Margaret Mead, all the way back to the Adamites.

In that spirit, I wanted to go through an exercise from an early chapter of this book, which advises us to think of examples of non-monogamous people we may know of. For me, the people who spring most readily to mind are Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre, whose open relationship would certainly qualify as consensual polyamory today. And, if I’m not mistaken, Bertrand Russell was an advocate of free love, though I am not sure to what extent he practiced it (besides sleeping with T.S. Eliot’s wife). Martin Heidegger had an affair with Hannah Arendt, which would make him both a polyamorist and—as Arendt was Jewish and Heidegger a member of the Nazi party—an outrageous hypocrite.

Ironically, however, the book I most often think of in this connection is Will and Ariel Durant’s massive historical series, The Story of Civilization. Will and Ariel, for their part, were models of monogamy, having married when Will was 28 and Ariel just 15, and dying one week apart. Yet one of the main takeaways from their historical writings is that seemingly no one in history (besides them) was a faithful monogamist. Kings had their mistresses, artists their muses (and lovers), and writers their brothels. Even bishops and popes were known to breed discretely (thus cheating on God Himself). And though Durant treats these sexual connections as failings or missteps, the final impression is that one has got to be very tolerant indeed if one isn’t to condemn the entire human race.

The vast majority of this behavior is admittedly non-consensual, and thus ethically dubious to say the least. Yet considering its apparent ubiquity, one is tempted to make the same argument regarding polyamory as has been made with marijuana: If everyone is already doing it, and society isn’t crumbling, then why not just change the rules and allow it? Instead of building barriers to pleasure, why not just let it rip?

The main argument leveled against polyamory (besides religious ones, which don’t concern me) is jealousy: Namely, that it is a powerful, primitive, and uncontrollable emotion, dangerous to tamper with. Judging from the local news, sexual jealousy is among the most common motivations for murder. Besides that, jealousy is the machine that drives any number of classic stories, from Odysseus viciously murdering his wife’s suitors (and the maids they slept with), to Othello choking Desdemona over a handkerchief, to Madame Bovary’s and Anna Karenina’s tragic deaths for attempting to break free from the bonds of holy matrimony. I mean, for Pete’s sake, our entire foundational theory of psychology is, thanks to Freud, based on sexual jealousy.

Perhaps because of to this cultural inheritance, many of us—myself included—are apt to think of jealousy as an implacable force, deeply rooted in our biology, that we must bow to. However, the authors of this work contest this view in their chapter on jealousy, which for me was the heart of this book.

They make many interesting points. For one, considering jealousy as an unyielding fact of our nature is a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. Lots of unpleasant things are deeply rooted in our collective psyche—envy, phobias, prejudices, violence—which we still try to combat. If we can do our best to overcome, say, fear of public speaking, why not try the same with jealousy?

What is more, despite just having one word for it, “jealousy” comprises several disparate things. It can involve many sorts of emotions—blinding rage, crippling anxiety, or just the sadness of loss—and include all sorts of thoughts, from blame to shame, not to mention all the religious and cultural baggage that comes along for the ride. This may seem like a banal point, but it at least allows you to get a hold of the sensation and examine its roots.

When you do, I suspect that you will find (as I do) that jealousy is a manifestation of anxiety regarding your own inadequacy—the fear of being found wanting in the most intimate sense. Such anxiety would seem obviously to be a “me problem.” The tricky thing about jealousy is that it encourages us to make it a “you problem”—to try to manage it by controlling other people. To use self-help speak, jealousy often involves a failure to “own your feelings,” putting yourself at the emotional mercy of somebody else rather than acknowledging that nobody but you can make you feel a certain way.

(There does seem to be some limits on the philosophy. If somebody stole my bicycle I would say that person was at least partially responsible for my feeling lousy.)

I admit that I found this view to be quite refreshing, since beforehand I was apt to think of jealousy as something unconquerable. It strikes me as far more productive to view it, instead, as just another one of the many emotional hang-ups we are prone to. And considering that jealousy can be an issue in even committed, monogamous relationships, I found the advice to be valuable indeed. I especially appreciated their realism. They don’t promise that we can achieve a Buddha-like detachment, immune from pangs of the heart. According to them, even “experienced sluts” occasionally suffer! All we can do is develop strategies to cope with it.

The rest of the book was surprisingly useful, too, even for prudes such as myself. Perhaps this should come as no surprise, as polyamorists almost by definition have the most experience dealing with relationships. Even when the information did not really apply to my situation, I found it to be of anthropological interest, as a window into another world. And while I’m not convinced that going to a sex-party is a “radical political act” (all the orgies in the world won’t stop the far-right!), I do think the authors’ sex-positive attitude is probably a lot healthier than how we often think about sex—as a commodity, a shameful secret, something to boast about, etc., etc.

So am I a convinced polyamorist? Unfortunately not. If there is one thing in which I vehemently disagree with the authors, it is their liking of complexity.

At various points, the authors describe in rapturous terms the forming of a sexual extended family, built up of present and former lovers into a “constellation.” Maybe this sounds appealing to some; but the thought of my ex-girlfriend going on a date with my current partner, who in turn call on an ex-boyfriend to look after their respective kids, while another ex takes a nap on the couch after making love to my roommate, who is also involved with both me and my partner—frankly, this sounds like a nightmare. The amount of time and energy it would take me to manage a single one of those relationships would utterly drain me. And the scope for drama is stupefying to contemplate.

I also don’t share the authors’ conviction that love is a boundless resource. Maybe some highly extroverted people may feel that they can fit any number of new people into their lives without having to boot out the old ones. But I know from experience that a few close friends, plus a romantic partner, is about as much as I can handle at any given moment. Love may not be limited, but time and energy certainly are; and true intimacy requires both.

But I don’t think this book can be fairly evaluated as an attempt to persuade people to be polyamorous. Rather, it is a how-to manual for those who are already on that path. And judged by that standard, I think the book could hardly be better.

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Review: Master of the Senate

Master of the Senate by Robert A. Caro

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

When I finish a doorstopper like this—a book of enormous scope and ambition, a genuine tour de force—I usually feel that I should reflect this weightiness in my review. After all, I spent months on this thing, bringing it up in conversation after conversation, enjoying the feeling of gradual enlightenment as I made my way from the beginning to the end. And yet, I think Caro has made his point so well, so clearly, and so forcefully that there is very little left to be said on this subject.

Apart from Lyndon Johnson, this book must be one of the best books written about the United States Senate. Indeed, one gets a sense that this was precisely Robert Caro’s goal, since he begins with a kind of book within a book, going through the entire history of the institution. In this respect, Master of the Senate can be rather depressing, since the Senate has always been, if not quite a broken, a malfunctioning body. This is largely the fault of the founders, who had the high-minded idea of creating a legislative house composed of older, wiser statesmen who could modify the rash impulses of the electorate. Instead, they created an anti-democratic institution, unresponsive to the will of the people, and historically on the side of the already rich and powerful.

The book’s central theme explores a disturbing irony: it took a bastard of historical proportions to get this legislative body to become, however briefly and modestly, a force for good. For eighty years since Reconstruction, idealistic politicians had tried to get Civil Rights legislation passed through the Senate, and they had all failed. Pure hearts, noble ideals, and moving eloquence had not made a dent in the Senate’s ability to block the legislation. But Lyndon Johnson, who loved power above all, whose personal ambition outweighed every other goal, who stole his election to the Senate, who abused his inferiors, flattered his superiors, and manipulated his equals, who was even cruel to his loving and loyal wife—this man, whom Caro had spent two volumes portraying in the least flattering possible light, had what it took to get a Civil Rights bill through the Senate.

This book thus has a dispiriting message. Put bluntly: maybe we need these Type-A assholes after all. And Johnson is perhaps the perfect representation of this cultural stereotype, all the way down to his heart attack. If you had asked me before starting on this series about this sort of person—selfish, restless, ambitious, domineering—I would have said they all ought to be sent to therapy, for their and our mutual benefit. Indeed, I occasionally fantasized about what would happen if a relatively normal person (me, for example) became president—what would happen if our government were composed of ordinary folks rather than the most power-hungry or ideological among us. The utter foolishness of this thought is demonstrated by this book. If I were suddenly appointed, say, Senate Majority Leader, I would accomplish precisely nothing.

As a final thought, a very clever friend of mine put a question to me some months ago, which at the time I couldn’t answer: Why would a Texas Democrat push so hard for civil rights, when it inevitably meant losing the support of southern whites? This book goes a considerable way in making sense of Johnson’s decision. There were many factors, but the most important in 1957 was that Johnson needed to drop the stigma of being a southern racist if he was ever to have a chance at the presidency—and the presidency was always his ultimate goal. However, this does not explain why Johnson, once president, would continue the fight. The truth seems to be that, when his overwhelming urge for power was satisfied, and other qualities of his personality were allowed to come to the fore, he did genuinely care about helping the disadvantaged. If only every type-A were like that.

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Review: The Way

The Way by Dermot C. Miller

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The story of how I came to read this book is, I think, necessary to relate before I launch into the review. It began with an invitation to a birthday party. There, amid strangers, I met a thoroughly charming Irishman named Enda, another expat (he hates the word, but it seems to fit) with a literary bent. Last year, Enda—along with his writing and business partner, María—commenced on the bold experiment of opening their own publishing company, Ybernia. This book is among the first published by this new enterprise, and I was given a free copy.

For this reason, this review can hardly be unbiased. However, there are other reasons to be suspicious of my opinion. Despite never having met Miller, I could tell quite soon that we have many experiences, tastes, and opinions in common. I am not talking about anything so lofty as a spiritual connection. Simply put, we are both guiris (another word that seems to fit) who enjoy sunny Spanish landscapes and greasy Spanish jamón. And we are both writers.

Beyond this, as another expat author, I have considered the same sorts of writerly challenges that Miller confronts in this book—namely, how to weave together stories of one’s native country with experiences abroad. I remember a review by Orwell of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer (about Miller’s—that is, Henry Miller’s—depraved time in Paris), where Orwell remarked that life abroad can convey a certain superficiality to one’s experiences—and thus one’s writings—since one is normally single and unattached, both in terms of family and of culture. Orwell himself was quite familiar with this issue, as he wrote about his time in Paris (as a plongeur in a hotel) and in Spain (fighting in the Civil War).

Now, this may seem like a trivial issue to you; but in my experience, even after years abroad, one’s imagination—the images which resonate most deeply—remains tied to where one grew up. Aside from that, in a foreign land, one is inclined to focus on the most salient cultural differences—the cuisine, the weather, the history, the great monuments—which, depending on one’s taste, can be attractive or repellent, but little more. In one’s native land, however, these features move far into the background, allowing one to write about potentially “deeper” subjects.

This, at least, is how I think of the problem confronting an expat author. And unless I am mistaken, Miller (that is, Dermot C. Miller) has confronted this same challenge here in this book. And his solution is interesting.

He settles on a bipartite design. The frame story is a trek on the Camino de Santiago, undertaken by an Irishman haunted by his past. This tragic backstory is then recounted in a series of flashbacks, which take the reader from his childhood to the events that traumatize our hero (who shares Miller’s first name and middle name). Most of this backstory takes place in Miller’s Northern Ireland, and serves to explain how he ended up here on the Iberian Peninsula. He thus hits upon a natural way of uniting his native land and his adopted home.

Both stories, taken separately, are quite well done. The backstory ultimately becomes a kind of thriller, as the protagonist eventually gets mixed up in the IRA. Meanwhile, the frame story is a travelog, in which the protagonist revels in the landscapes, folklore, and history of the Camino de Santiago. The contrast in emotional registers between these two parts gives the book its impetus—as either one, without relief, might have grown wearisome. Nevertheless, the juxtaposition is sometimes jarring, as the reader is thrown from tragedy to tourist brochure rather abruptly. I should say, however, that I did find it believable that a bookish type would use travel as a kind of nerdy therapy. It’s certainly been done before.

In terms of prose style, I actually found myself identifying with Miller—both with his strengths and his shortcomings. To his credit, he achieves the most important quality of prose—namely, readability. I made my way through these pages quite quickly, never put off by any thorny or offensively ugly sentences. If he is guilty of any writerly sins, it is (for lack of a better word) prettifying. That is to say, for my taste, Miller gives a literary polish to some parts which would have been better left simple and raw. Yet, as I am absolutely guilty of doing this myself, it would be hypocritical of me to knock him about for it. I can only say, in his (and my) defense, that if you are a relatively unknown author, it is difficult to resist the temptation to prove that you have serious literary chops.

This overlong and self-important review has been written merely to say that Miller has authored a greatly enjoyable novel. It can be read with profit by readers with an interest in the Troubles or the Way of Saint James (how much overlap is there in the two groups?), or by any reader interested in Irish or Spanish history more generally. Indeed, I would recommend this book to any expats (sorry, Enda) and guiris who want to think of ways their past and present homelands can be woven together.

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Review: The Hinge of Fate

The Second World War, Volume IV: The Hinge of Fate by Winston S. Churchill

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I find that I am liking each one of these volumes more than the last. The pleasure of this history is that, through the eyes of Winston Churchill, the war takes the shape of an enormous board game, played over months and years. Far removed from the gore of the front lines, Churchill sees the conflict as symbols on a map, which he needs to arrange in the most advantageous possible way—a game he plays brilliantly. This is not to say that he is frivolous or superficial. But warfare is far more palatable when experienced from the command chair than from the trenches.

Added to purely military decisions is the messier business of courting allies. Indeed, the best parts of this book describe Churchill’s cultivation of his relationships with Roosevelt and Stalin. Dealing with the Americans was relatively easy, as Roosevelt and Churchill seemed to have gotten along very well. Nevertheless, working so closely together required constant coordination of plans, both short-term and long-term; and Churchill sometimes struggled to get the American command to accept his military vision.

With Stalin, relations were far more tense. The Soviet leader is constantly demanding from Churchill fresh supplies and for a second front in France. Churchill, meanwhile, does his best to placate Stalin while firmly refusing to do what he feels is unwise. This culminates in his 1942 visit to Moscow, narrated in the two best chapters of the book. Churchill, sure that he will not be able to invade France in 1942, decides he must deliver this message personally if he is to maintain his working relationship with the Soviets. Stalin, at first, doesn’t take the news well, but by the end they are up all night, drinking vodka. In virtually any other circumstances, the two men would have been sworn enemies, and it is fascinating to see them try to cooperate.

The title of the book is quite apt, as it contains the battles that marked the beginning of the end for both Germany and Japan: Midway, Stalingrad, and Tunisia. These books, it should be remembered, are public memoirs rather than objective history; and so Stalingrad and Midway, being battles Churchill had nothing to do with, get only a cursory treatment. Northern Africa, on the other hand, occupies much of the book, as British and then American forces beat Rommel, invaded the Vichy territories, and finally won a decisive victory in Tunisia.

As a final thought, I am constantly surprised at how much I am learning from these books. Somehow, after a lifetime of World War II media, I knew close to nothing about operation “Torch,” and had no real idea of the significance of the Northern African campaigns. I was also unfamiliar with the Katyn massacres—Russia’s mass executions of Polish prisoners, an issue which Churchill felt he could not raise with the Soviets, for fear of hurting their relationship. Indeed, having been in Dresden just two weeks ago, I’ve had occasion to reflect that it was not only the axis who committed war crimes.

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Pacífico: My Neighborhood

The city of Madrid is divided into 21 “districts,” which are further divided into 131 neighborhoods. Pacífico belongs to the Retiro district, so named for the iconic park which it encompasses. This neighborhood—along with its sister barrio, Adelfas—composes the southernmost part of this district, where some 50,000 reside. And for the last seven years, I have been one of them.

Pacífico is central without being in the center. Extremely well-connected by public transport—the Méndez Álvaro bus station is to the south, Atocha station to the west, the bus hub of Conde de Casal to the north, and two of the most important metro lines running through it—Pacífico is nevertheless quiet and residential, with no tourism to speak of.

I have had occasion to write about my neighborhood before. The beautiful (but obscure) Pantheon of Illustrious Men is located here, along with the Basílica of Atocha, where traditionally the royal family are baptized. Nearby is the Real Fabrica de Tápices, another fascinating place that most visitors overlook. This was built as a “royal factory” in the 18th century to make luxurious tapestries and carpets for the palaces; and it maintains this function to this day, though it is now privately owned. If you reserve in advance, you can visit the factory and see the workers painstakingly assembling enormous and intricate tapestries by hand, thread by thread.

As it is close to Atocha, the neighborhood is also rich in transport history. At the extreme western edge of Pacífico is the Museo La Neomudéjar, a modern art museum with rotating exhibits in a former train workshop. It is still full of decaying industrial ambience and abandoned equipment. Closer to where I live, you can visit the Nave de Motores, where the massive original power generators of the Madrid Metro are stored.

The administrative heart of the neighborhood, where the government offices are located, has a curious history. The building complex was first constructed as warehouses to store goods imported from abroad, for which it was known as “Los Docks” (yes, in English). This business soon failed, and it was turned into a military barracks, a function it maintained until 1981. After its acquisition by the municipal government, however, several historical buildings were demolished to make room for modern offices—a move widely criticized. The surviving original buildings have since been turned into a huge public sports center, with a gym, football and basketball courts, and a gigantic pool.

This sounds quite sunny and uplifting. Yet this sports center—named Daoíz y Velarde, after the Spaniards who instigated the uprising against Napoleon’s invading troops—has been touched by tragedy. For it was very near here, in 2004, where one of the bombs went off in the infamous March 11th terrorist attack (the train tracks run right by the buildings), and the sports center had to be used as a field hospital for the victims. 250 victims were treated there, of whom 10 lost their lives. A commemorative plaque marks the event.

More recently, the Daoíz y Velarde Center has acquired an important music venue: the Real Teatro de Retiro. This is an offshoot of Spain’s royal opera house, where shows are tailored for a younger audience, with the aim of involving a new generation in classical music.

As interesting as all this history may be, it is not the reason I like to live here. Apart from being (for the moment) reasonably affordable and quite well connected by public transport, Pacífico is attractive for the wide variety of small businesses. Indeed, as an American, I am constantly surprised at the number of small, family-owned shops in Madrid. If you want to buy groceries, shoes, sports equipment, or whatever else in the United States, chances are you will find yourself at a strip mall, shopping at one of a small number of chains. Not so here.

*Some locals, dressed as chulapos, celebrating San Isidro*

My impression over all these years—though, I admit, it is little more than a vague one—is that the business landscape in Spanish cities resembles how American cities were ten or twenty years ago, before gentrification and consolidation took a toll on small business. However, I certainly do not know enough about the economy to argue the point.

Regardless, I think that these sorts of small, family-run neighborhood shops are a precious resource in any city, something worth preserving in the face of economic pressure. Thus, I set out to learn more about some of my favorite local businesses.

My first stop was my local ferretería (a hardware store and not, what some English speakers might think, a store specializing in ferrets). The Ferretería Pacífico has been around since 1995, and—judging by the constant flow of customers that made it difficult to ask questions—it is still going strong. I am a frequent customer myself, as the store sells everything from frying pans to drying racks to power tools. But my favorite service they offer is to sharpen knives.

The staff at the store are knowledgeable and friendly. And when I asked their secret to staying in business, they offered me an explanation that, though cliché, seems quite true: they offer customers personal attention. I have experience of this. When I was ineptly trying to install a curtain in my apartment, they talked me through the process and sold me everything I needed. When I asked what struggles they have remaining afloat as a business, I was given just one word in reply: “taxes.”

Somewhat further up the hill that leads to Retiro Park is my barber, Almudena. She works in the Pelúqueria Félix, a tiny barber shop on a quiet street. The shop is named after her father, who opened the business in 1966. Almudena learned her craft from him. She gives excellent haircuts, mostly eschewing the buzzer and working with a comb and scissors. When I asked about challenges, she also complained about taxes. The IVA (value-added tax) is 21%, meaning that a fifth of what is paid to her is for the government.

In addition, as somebody who is self-employed, Almudena must pay the “autónomo” tariff. This is a flat-rate fee that people who own their own businesses must pay in order to be legitimate. Strangely, this fee is relatively standard, varying only slightly depending on your income. Certainly I am in no position to judge the Spanish tax code, but as a general rule flat taxes are usually harder on the less fortunate.

The heart of the neighborhood, as far as shopping is concerned, is the traditional market—the Mercado de Pacífico. There are mercados del barrio all over the city, and they all have the same basic design: small stands selling high-quality products, often on a subterranean level. (I believe the reason that markets are often relegated to basements is to minimize the smell; fishmongers and pickled products are often present.)

There, while doing some shopping, I spoke with Francisco. He runs a fruit stand in the market, and has been at it for a long time. That’s an understatement: he is 70 now and started working in the market at the age of 13. I was delighted to notice that his scale was not in euros (adopted in 1999), but pesetas! When I offered to email Francisco this article, he showed me his old flip phone and told me that he didn’t use the internet. What a blissful existence!

Down the street is the oldest shop I was able to find, Zapatos San Román. It was opened in 1959 (as a certificate hung on the wall proudly states) by the father of the current owner, José. He has been working in the shop for 40 years, and still mans the cash register. The store is characterized by its giant “escaparate,” or old-fashioned display window. This is not limited, as in most stores, to a small cabinet out front; rather, the escaparate occupies fully half the store, wrapping around the visitor, creating a miniature landscape of shoes.

Down the street is another store devoted to footwear: Reparación de Calzado Alfaro. To be honest, I didn’t know that there were still professional cobblers in the world. The word itself, in English, calls to mind Victorian novels. But Rafael has been there for his whole professional life, following in his father’s footsteps, who opened the store in 1985. And he is doing very good business. When I visited him, so many customers came in that I had to retreat and return at a less busy time. But he does not only serve the locals, and not only the city of Madrid. Indeed, his business is not even limited to Spain. While there, he showed me an order that he had gotten from Belgium!

When I asked why he was doing so well, he said that his was a disappearing profession; and so anyone who needs a shoe fixed must search far and wide for a good cobbler. That search will, apparently, only get harder. Though Rafael inherited his business from his father, who himself learned from his own father, there will be no fourth generation of his shoe repair business. “It ends with me.” In response to my (perhaps silly) question of why people bother to get their shoes repaired, he told me a Spanish saying:“Te quiero más que a mis zapatos viejos.” That is, I love you more than my old shoes. And a pair of well-worn shoes are, indeed, something to cherish.

A bit up the block from my former apartment, on Calle de Cavanilles, there is a shop that holds a special place in my heart. It is Deportes Periso, a small sporting goods store. And it is special to me because, shortly before the Coronavirus Lockdown, I bought a pair of gray sweatpants there that got me through the isolation. Considering its size, the store has a lot of merchandise on offer—tennis rackets, sports jerseys, and lots of running shoes.

It was opened in 1978 by the current owner, Ana, and her father. As it happened, while I was there interviewing for this article, her father walked in. He’s in his 90s now and very personable. He told me about how the neighborhood had changed. Physically, he said, it has remained quite the same as it was decades ago.* But the demographics have changed. Since the 1980s, the neighborhood has gone from being mostly young to predominantly old. And of course there are more immigrants.

(*This isn’t exactly true. The big and unsightly Pedro Bosch bridge, which connects Pacífico with Méndez Álvaro, over the train tracks, was recently shortened and pedestrianized. And in general the neighborhood has become more bike friendly, with special bike lanes installed on Calle Doctor Esquerdo. However, there is still much progress to be made in that department, as evidenced by the death, just last month, of a bike delivery rider around the corner from my apartment. He was hit by a taxi in the early morning.)

But there are signs of encroaching gentrification. Across the street from Deportes Periso, for example, is an artisanal olive oil store; and considering how much the price of even store-brand olive oil has risen in the past year (well over 100%), one can imagine that people must have expendable income if they’re buying the fancy stuff.

Perhaps the most interesting small business I came across was that of Javier Pascual. He owns a merry-go-round that is parked in a small lot on the Avenida del Mediterráneo. He has been at it a long time, having established himself in the neighborhood in 1981. He comes from a family of carnival ride owners. Indeed, in the past, he owned more rides, but now operates just his “tiovivo” (as the Spanish call it, for some reason).

I have to admit that I was surprised that he could stay in business with a single carousel. Certainly it is hard for me to imagine anyone in my country making a living out of a merry-go-round. But again my expectations were disproven, as so many children came during my visit that I had to call off the interview and return later. (I didn’t have a ride myself, but it looked fun.) Javier works very hard. He’s open seven days a week, even Sundays. In the slow season, when Madrid empties out during the unbearable summer months, he packs up and goes to the fair in Cuenca. Then, he has his contraption repaired in August, ready to get back to work in September.

To round out this piece, I thought it right that I interview some of the more recent arrivals to my neighborhood. So I went to Union Frutas, a fruit stand near my house owned by a Chinese immigrant couple. I am a frequent customer, as the shop has very long hours (especially on Sunday, when so many stores close) and has extremely affordable prices. It has been open for 12 years. The husband, Diego (he goes by a Spanish name), moved to Spain in 2003 as a young man, following in the footsteps of his father, who lived in the Canary Islands. His wife, Li Fang, followed a few years later. When I asked Diego about the differences between work in Spain and his homeland, he replied that he had never had a job in China, so he couldn’t compare the experiences.

All of these stores have survived so long, in the face of competition from chains, by forging connections with the locals—something I witnessed in every shop I visited. It is small shops like these that give a neighborhood its flavor and personality, and which make Pacífico a wonderful place to live. And this is not even to mention the bars!

Review: Two Brecht Plays

Mother Courage and Her Children by Bertolt Brecht

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The poor need courage. Why? They’re lost. That they even get up in the morning is something.

It is surprising to read, from such a famously doctrinaire thinker, a work of art that is so rich in moral ambiguity. The titular character is enormously compelling, despite being neither hero nor villain. Mother Courage has moments of courage, of course, but also of capitulation, moments wherein she is admirable and when she is despicable. She is, on the one hand, a war profiteer, a kind of jackal gnawing at the scraps of human carnage. But can a person living on the edge of poverty, with hardly any other viable option to make a living, be condemned?

The world that Brecht presents is as hopeless and absurd as in any work from the previous century. It is a world where both morality and immorality are rewarded with cruelty. Two of Mother Courage’s children are killed as a direct consequence of their attempts to do the right thing, whereas her oldest son is killed for his crimes (the same crimes, ironically, that were praised in wartime). Mother Courage herself, who at least survives, is moral within the bounds of practicality. Even when life and death are on the line, she is always a business woman first and foremost, unwilling to make any sacrifice that will jeopardize her ability to make a living.

Considering Brecth’s Marxism, I am tempted to view Mother Courage as a kind of embodiment of the evils of capitalism—or, at least, as a portrait of how capitalism degrades us. And certainly she is far from ennobled by her ceaseless dealings and negotiations. In perhaps the pivotal scene in the play, she convinces a soldier that protests against the powers that be are useless. Her worldview, in other words, is materialistic and cynical.

And yet it is the war, not the economy, that is the defining element of the setting. And it is a war of religion. Is Brecht showing us, then, how capitalists lack the moral ability to oppose war? Certainly Mother Courage’s attempts to profit from the conflict ultimately destroys her family; but there doesn’t seem to be any other option open to her besides starvation.

Rather than a condemnation of capitalism or even of war, then, my final impression was of a cry of despair for the entire human race, written at one of the darkest moments of the previous century. Not cunning, nor cruelty, nor selfishness, nor martyrdom, nor religion, nor anything else can save the characters of this play from ruin. It is a portrait of an entire world gone mad.

Galileo by Bertolt Brecht

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The evidence of your eyes is a very seductive thing. Sooner or later everybody must succumb to it.

This play succeeds as a drama while failing as history, at least as a history of science. Galileo here is presented as a kind of anti-religious working-class hero—who wants to liberate the toiling masses through knowledge. However, the idea that his philosophy of the heaven’s would naturally lead to atheism and, thus, political disquiet—an argument put against him at various points in the play—would have seemed very foreign to the seventeenth century. To my knowledge, those who censured Galileo were far more afraid of the Protestant Reformation than the Proletariat Revolution.

And as Eric Bentley’s astute introduction points out, the terms of the debate are also not fairly portrayed. True, when Galileo was looking through his telescope and merely reporting what he saw, this was a case of raw observation overturning established doctrine. But in the more important case—Galileo’s advocacy of the Copernican system—it is simply not true that the heliocentric astronomy was manifestly superior to the geocentric.

On the contrary, arguments for its adoption were in the realm of abstract mathematics, far removed from the realm of simple observation. Ironically, then, Galileo was indeed not simply asking the doctrinaire philosophers to accept the evidence of their senses. He was, in a real sense, asking them to disregard it—since, as we all know, what we experience every day is the sun rising and setting, not the earth in motion.

Also, the argument that the Copernican astronomy is a blow to human vanity is also rather anachronistic. Readers of Dante’s Divine Comedy will recall that, although Earth is regarded as the center, it is hardly a privileged place in the cosmos. On the contrary, each of the heavenly spheres is the more divine the further it is from earth, with God himself furthest of all. Thus, for Galileo to place earth among the heavenly spheres was rather flattering to humanity’s stature.

Yet this is a play, not history, and must be judged as such. Written at nearly the same moment as Mother Courage and Her Children, this play—though apparently quite different—shares the central feature of a morally ambiguous hero in compromising circumstances. At various points, particularly at the end, Brecht seems to want to condemn the famous scientist, just as Brecht judges Mother Courage rather harshly. And yet, in both plays, the cowardly behavior of the protagonists is their only real option, the alternatives being a pointless martyrdom.

The ambiguous nature of Galileo—hero and coward, genius and bungler (scientifically astute and yet politically inept)—is what gives him his authentic humanity as a character, as somebody we can readily identify with. That is not to deny his greatness. For Brecht here has portrayed a truly great figure, even an authentically tragic figure, whose flaws form an integral part of his virtues. The play succeeds, then, in spite of its historical inaccuracies, through a compelling portrayal—all too rare in drama—of an intellectual struggling against his surroundings.

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Lotz in Translation

Saving the world—one long, pretentious blog post at a time.

Author: Roy Lotz