It was the summer of 2022 and Europe was in the midst of an energy crisis. As a response to the rise in fuel prices, many governments attempted to make public transportation cheaper. Spain, for example, reduced the price of monthly metro cards by half and offered free train passes for commuters. Germany, meanwhile, offered a nine euro monthly pass that was valid for the bus, metro, and commuter trains for the entire country. It was an incredible deal, and I had arrived in Germany right in time to take advantage of it.
Now, this may come as a surprise if you believe in the German stereotype of efficiency and timeliness, but the trains in Germany are a mess, with constant cancellations and delays. (This is partly because, unlike in Spain or France, the high speed trains in Germany use the same tracks as the local trains.) The new 9-euro pass had only added to the chaos, since the added passengers put additional pressure on the already overburdened system.
So the train ride was not exactly quick. But I was in a good mood, nevertheless. You see, Aachen had been on my list for years, ever since I watched Kenneth Clark’s magnificent documentary Civilisation. The first episode of that series begins with the so-called Dark Ages, and culminates in the rise of Charlemagne—an event which, for Clark, signifies the rebirth of European civilization from the brink of destruction. Though many historians would, I think, dispute this dramatic conclusion, it cannot be denied that Charlemagne is a figure of paramount importance in the history of Europe. And if you want to learn about Charlemagne, Aachen is the place to be.
But my arrival was something of an anticlimax. As it happened, my train pulled into the Aachen Hauptbahnhof at almost the same moment that several appointments were made available on the Spanish government website. As I was in desperate need of an appointment (in order to get a document that would allow me to travel back to the United States while my visa was being renewed), I spent a panicked 15 minutes navigating the poorly designed and unreliable website in order to secure myself a spot. After so many years in Spain, I still feel acute and almost crippling anxiety when I have to do anything regarding my visa. My hands literally shook as I confirmed the appointment. When I realized I had been successful, relief washed over me.
Now, I could explore the town with no distractions. My route took me to one of the two surviving medieval gates of the city, the Marschiertor. (On the other side of town is the even more impressive Ponttor.) Nowadays, this huge gate stands alone, as Aachen is happily safe from foreign invaders—for the foreseeable future, at least.
Speaking of invasions, Aachen has been under the control of France on at least two occasions. First, it was ceded to France for about 15 years after Napoleon defeated the Holy Roman Empire. Then, after World War I, it was controlled by the allies until 1930. Germany lost control of the city at least once more after that, to American troops, who virtually leveled the place in the process. It was the first German city to fall to the Allies during the Second World War.
German prisoners of war marching through the ruins of Aachen.
As you can see from these snapshots of its long and somewhat turbulent history, Aachen is not the sleepy town that is status as a spa city would have you believe (its hot springs have been appreciated since Roman times). Partially this is due to its history as a capital of the Holy Roman Empire (of that, more below). But this is also because Aachen is near the borders of Belgium and the Netherlands, making it simultaneously the door to Germany (in the Second World War) and, via Belgium, the door to France (in the First).
All this has resulted in a multitude of names for this place. In German it is, of course, Aachen, while in French it is Aix-la-Chapelle. Meanwhile, in Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish, the city is called some variation of Aquisgrán. This is an awful lot of historical and linguistic weight for one town of a quarter of a million souls to bear. But, on that sunny summer day, none of the residents seemed to notice or mind.
Aachen Town Hall
My first stop was the Aachen Town Hall. This is a venerable old building that, like Aachen itself, has suffered many reversals of fortune—burned down, left to crumble, burned down again, and then finally bombed. As it stands today, it is an imposing neo-gothic structure that looks more like the abode of a nefarious count than a civic-minded mayor. But the flocks of school children on field trips, and the wedding party out front, showed that—appearances to the contrary—this is indeed a beloved part of the town. For a modest price, you can even visit the interior of the Rathaus. If for nothing else, this is worth it to see the extremely well-made replicas of the Imperial Regalia of the Holy Roman Empire. (The originals are now in Vienna.) This includes the famous Imperial Crown, which is so encrusted with jewels that it looks decidedly uncomfortable.
The Imperial Crown
St. Stephen’s Purse
My next destination was the Aachen Cathedral. This is by far the most famous sight in the city—the church built by Charlemagne himself, where 31 kings and 12 queens were crowned, one of the first places to be listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site. I walked in and was immediately awe-struck. But my amazement turned to confusion when I failed to find the legendary Throne of Charlemagne. I asked one of the tired-looking guards, in the best German I could muster, “Wo ist der Thron des Karl der Grosse?” He responded quickly, repeating the word “Führing” several times, which my dictionary told me meant “guided tour.”
With this new information, I left the cathedral and found the neighboring office, where tickets can be bought for the guided tour. Once there, I noticed an option to buy a combination ticket for the tour and the cathedral treasury—which worked out quite well for me, as it gave me something to do while I waited for the tour to begin.
Now, I have been in many cathedral treasuries by now, and most of the time I find them rather uninspiring—usually consisting of gold and silver reliquaries of various shapes and designs. But the artwork on display here was exquisite and unique. There is, for example, the Proserpina sarcophagus. Made of marble and carved in ancient Rome, it was brought here as a symbol of imperial rule by Charlemagne, who was quite possibly buried in it. Also (potentially) belonging to Charlemagne is a hunting horn and knife. But two works of the goldsmith stood out to me as the jewels of the collection.
A detail of the Proserpina Sarcophagus
One is the Cross of Lothair, made around the year 1000. On one side the gold cross is completely covered in jewels (much like the imperial crown). Strangely, in the very center of the cross is a cameo of Augustus Caesar. Now, it is possible that this pagan emperor was included to symbolize the connection between the ancient empire and the medieval so-called Holy Roman Empire. But it is just as possible that they simply did not know who it represented and thought it was a holy figure. In any case, the reverse side is certainly pious. Delicately engraved into the gold is a portrayal of the crucifixion. To modern eyes, it appears rather standard in design, if well-executed. But in 1000 the image of Christ suffering on the cross still wasn’t paramount in Christian decoration (notice the many depictions of Christ of the Last Judgments in medieval churches). This crucifix, then, is not only beautiful but artistically daring.
The other is the bust of Charlemagne, a reliquary containing a part of the king’s skull. Roughly life-sized, the bust was made hundreds of years after Charlemagne’s death, and so probably bears little resemblance to the actual king. But this portrait, however idealized, is shockingly lifelike nevertheless. The anonymous craftsmen who made it were obviously masters of their arts. The bust works on three levels, as a work of art, a religious object, and a symbol of imperial power. For example, the king’s tunic is covered with the imperial eagle and he wears a crown covered with jewels and, again, ancient Roman cameos (signifying the inheritance of the Roman Empire). It is a marvelous statue—delicate and beautiful, while authentically royal and imposing.
Now it was time to visit the cathedral. The visit began with the traditional entrance to the church, the Wolfstür. This is the subject of a legend, which (if memory serves) goes like this: The townspeople, lacking the time and resources to complete the church, made a deal with Satan. If he completed the church, he would be able to keep the soul of the first creature that entered its doors. But when it came time to honor the bargain, the townspeople craftily sent a wolf to enter the church doors, which is obviously not what Lucifer had in mind. The enraged devil tried to leave the church to punish the townspeople, but got his thumb caught in the closing door.
This story (repeated, in various forms, all over Europe and perhaps the world) has some physical manifestations. In the bronze door knocker, for example, there is a bump inside the lion’s mouth, which legend says is the satanic thumb. Once inside, there is a statue of the unfortunate wolf, and opposite that is (for whatever reason) a pine cone.
Finally we entered the church itself. The core of the structure—the so-called Palatine Chapel—goes back all the way to the year 800, though it has been so finely refurbished that you would hardly guess its age from its polished and immaculate appearance. In structure it is hardly like the typical European church, with its three names culminating in a main altar. Instead, the church is octagonal, with no natural front and back. It takes this design from the Byzantines, as the core of the church is closely modeled after Basilica San Vitale in Ravenna. Indeed, the structure even incorporates ancient marble columns taken from Rome. Clearly, Charlemagne was quite consciously forging a connection between his new kingdom and the splendor of the ancient world.
Hanging in the center of this splendid octagon is the so-called Barbarossa Chandelier, named for the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick I (who had a red beard). Looking like a giant crown, its symmetrical shape complements the octagonal space, creating a sort of tunnel view up to the mosaic on top of the cathedral.
Then, our guide took out a large key and opened the grated metal door leading up to the stairs. This was the moment I had been waiting for, as I knew that Charlemagne’s Throne was on the up there. After pausing to admire the railings, ceiling mosaics, and marble columns, we arrived at the legendary seat.
It is, at first glance, almost comically unimpressive. Far from being the gold and bejeweled seat one might expect, it is made of plain stone slabs, sitting on a platform of what appear to be cinder blocks. Apparently, however, the slabs which make up the throne are relics of some kind (there are different theories, but they all connect the stones to Jerusalem and the life of Jesus). This contrives to make the throne itself into a kind of relic. And, indeed, visiting pilgrims would crawl underneath the throne as an act of devotion.
Considering this religious nature, “throne” may not even be the best word to describe this esteemed seat—at least, as it was originally conceived. Charlemagne, for example, was not crowned here, but in Rome. And, certainly, it is strange to imagine that ruler issuing his decrees from the second floor of a cathedral. But it became a throne, if it was not one to begin with. As I mentioned, dozens of monarchs were crowned on this very spot. Napoleon, in a rare moment of humility, climbed the steps but refrained from sitting down himself. According to our guide, such scruples did not stop Heinrich Himmler.
Now it was time to enter the gothic church. The original Palatine Chapel has, you see, been supplemented with a gothic choir, of a much more conventional—not to say unattractive—design. This part of the church also has its share of famous objects. There is, for example, Henry’s Pulpit (also called an “ambon”), which is yet another example of the golden and encrusted style typical of the Carolingian period. It is covered with exquisite ivory carvings and, as typical of the Holy Roman Empire, it incorporates elements of pagan art pillaged from Italy and the Holy Land. Nearby are the Karlsschrein and the Marienschrein, two enormous gold reliquaries. The first contains the bones of Charlemagne himself (moved from the Roman sarcophagus, apparently), while the second is supposed to contain Jesus’ swaddling clothes and a dress belonging to the Virgin Mary. What is indisputable, however, is that these two are remarkable examples of medieval metalworking.
This is where the tour ended. Dazzled, I wandered back into the streets of Aachen. It had warmed up by now and my jacket was unnecessary. Extremely hungry, I was gratified to find a German sausage restaurant right around the corner. There, I tried to order the most “German” thing I could, and decided that would be a mug of beer and a plate of blood sausages, accompanied with mashed potatoes and applesauce. A bit over the top, but I enjoyed it.
Stuffed to bursting, I wandered back to the train to return to Düsseldorf, where I was going to stay. But that is a story for another post.
The bus from the airport dropped us off in front of a monster of a building. We were in Milan, and this was the city’s Centrale train station. Its enormous stone facade looms over the viewer, the pile of stone seemingly poised to crush you. It is, in a word, rather an aggressive structure—with ferocious eagles and lions staring malignantly from its walls. It should come as no surprise, then, that this grandiose design was willed into existence by the Duce himself, who wanted it to represent the power of Fascist Italy.
Rebe and I had come for a little break. It was May—international worker’s day—and the weather was sunny and warm. The first thing we did was to eat some pizza. Within five minutes of walking, we saw a place that looked good and went in. I have no idea if it was special by Italian standards, but the pizza was better than the best you can find in Madrid. Yes, we were in Italy.
This was my second time in Milan. My first had been in high school, on a class trip, when we had seen The Last Supper. Of course, I was too young to appreciate anything about the art (I was far more interested in the airlocks that controlled the atmosphere inside the room than the fresco itself). A decade and a half later, the city looked entirely unfamiliar to me. Not even a shadow of memory remained.
We had a little time to kill before we could check into the Airbnb, so we decided to visit the Castello Sforzesco. This is a lovely Renaissance fortification made of brick, which is free to visit. The castle is named after Francesco Sforza I, an important ruler of the city, who turned the erstwhile medieval castle into the palace we see today. One of his sons, Ludovico, was a great lover of the arts and contributed to the palace’s further beautification—notably, by calling on artists like Bramante and Leonardo da Vinci. Today, this castle is home to several museums, notably the city’s painting gallery.
But we did not have time to visit any museums. Instead, we took a stroll around the lovely Parco Sempione, a large landscaped park. And as it was quite warm, we helped ourselves to some gelato. (Since we had traveled with Ryanair, which charges for carry-on luggage, we only had small backpacks and didn’t need to find a luggage locker.)
After some time relaxing on the grass, it was time to go. Our Airbnb was not in the city of Milan. We only had three days to spend in Italy, and I decided that it would be more fun to explore the nearby Lago di Como rather than stay in the city of Milan. So we walked over to the Cadorna train station and took a commuter train north. Soon, we were all checked in, and exploring the city of Como, at the southern point of the lake.
It was a relief to be outside of a big city. A cool breeze blew off the lake and green hills rose up above us. As if hypnotized, we began to walk along the water.
Perhaps I was just sleep deprived and delirious, but I remember this walk with a strange intensity. Everything seemed colorful, new, and interesting. The ferries in the harbor, the blue hangar full of sea planes, the colorful concession stand selling gelato and panini with Italian flags waving on the top… Soon, we came across a large, classical building. This was the Tempio Voltiano, a temple dedicated to Como’s most famous son, Alessandro Volta. It contains some of the great scientist’s devices, including his voltaic piles—the first ever batteries. (Unfortunately, by the time we arrived it was closed.) Nearby is the War Memorial, a large concrete tower dedicated to those who fought and died in World War I. Built in 1933, the memorial looks remarkably more modern than that, perhaps because it was based on a sketch by the Italian futurist Antonio Sant’Elia, who himself was a casualty of the war.
We continued to wander along the lake. With every step, more of the landscape came into view. It seemed too pretty to be real. The deep blue of the water, the dramatic hills, the unobtrusive architecture of the structures, all of it combined to make a kind of living postcard. It is no wonder that this lake has been a favorite resort since Roman times. But it is a minor miracle, at least, that after so many centuries of human habituation the environment seems so pristine, and the human presence remains tasteful and discreet. Sometimes one really has to hand it to the Italians. They may seem stubborn and stuck in their ways, but they know what they’re doing.
Eventually, we came upon the Villa Olmo, one of a seemingly endless number of lovely mansions that dot the lakeside. Now, I normally have scant interest in the ostentatious residences of the very rich; but this villa and its garden—like everything else—fit so perfectly the aesthetic of the lake that I could not possibly object. It was especially charming because, just as we arrived, a troop of people in period costumes walked by. I have no idea what they were doing.
It was getting late now and we needed to find a place for dinner. We decided that we would take the funicular up to Brunate, a small village on top of the nearby hills, and try our luck there. We had to wait in a queue for about ten minutes for it to arrive—a time that was rendered almost intolerable by the presence of a bunch of Erasmus students talking loudly in front of us. (One student, after professing to know “some Spanish,” proceeded to butcher the conjugation of a basic verb in a way I did not think possible.) Finally, the machine arrived and we boarded (as far away as possible from the students). It was a lovely, if crowded, ride, and soon enough we were in the sleepy town of Brunate.
It seemed like a ghost town after Como. Very few people were in the streets, and the light was fading fast. We hadn’t eaten in hours and were starving by now. We had to find a restaurant. After a quick search online, I guided us to the Trattoria del Cacciatore, crossing my fingers that the place wouldn’t be packed. Indeed, we had the opposite problem: the restaurant was completely empty and they hadn’t even opened up the kitchen yet. I suppose Italians dine as late as the Spanish. We were told we would have to wait half an hour, but were invited into the restaurant’s large backyard to have a drink. The view was shockingly nice—the lake and the mountains stretching out before us, the sky red from the setting sun. I drank an aperol spritz before being called in to enjoy a fine meal. It had been a wonderful day in Italy.
Rebe posing at the restaurant. The view extends into Switzerland.
The next day we woke up early and returned to Como. This was our big day to explore the lake. The Lago di Como is shaped like an inverted Y, with the city of Como at the southern end of the western branch. Our first destination was Bellagio, which sits right at the center, where the three branches connect. To get there, we had to take a ferry. There are several routes on the lake, some local, and others express. To save time, we elected to take one of the express ferries that go there directly—making the trip in about 40 minutes, instead of over twice that much time.
The trip had a few hiccups. For one, even though surgical masks were acceptable for traveling on trains and planes in Italy (oh, the COVID times!), for some odd reason the ferry company demanded that we use the heavy-duty N95 mask. Unprepared for this requirement, we bought some masks from some entrepreneurs selling them on the street (for a significant mark-up, of course).
Because of this scramble to cover our breathing holes, we were among the last to board the ferry, meaning we had to take a seat below deck. This was quite frustrating, since we knew the views of the lake must be gorgeous. Rebe decided to take matters into her own hands and marched up the stairs to take pictures. I attempted to follow, but was immediately told by an attendant to return to my seat. I went back downstairs feeling defeated—frustrated that Rebe was enjoying the scenery while I had a view of a wall. After about ten minutes I made a second attempt, only to be told by the same young Italian man to go back to my seat. I was flabbergasted by this, since I was standing right next to Rebe, who was entirely ignored by the attendant. Was this Italian machismo, or just chivalry? (Maybe it comes to the same thing.)
We arrived in Bellagio in good time. Like everything on this lake, but even more so, it was picture-perfect—a kind of Platonic ideal of a lakeside town. If you try to imagine a place where a world-weary Romantic poet would go to recuperate his spirits, or a disenchanted millionaire would go to discover the charms of the simple life, Bellagio is what comes to mind. It is, in short, a gorgeous town. We walked first to the end of the peninsula, which had a wonderful view of the lake with snow-capped mountains beyond. There, a woman was selling a private boat rental, which we briefly considered before we looked at the price. Then, we walked through the center of town. It was crowded with tourists and full of the expected shops selling gelato and trinkets.
The main site to see in Bellagio is the Villa Melzi d’Eril and its gardens. Melzi, the man, is principally known to history for his brief stint as the Vice President of Italy under Napoleon. But he was also an art collector who was determined to make his villa one of the greatest on the lake. He succeeded. Though we didn’t enter the villa itself, the gardens are as beautifully arranged as any in the world—full of statues, excellent viewpoints, and exotic plants, trees, and flowers. As with everything on the lake, the overall effect was of overwhelming beauty—to the extent that your eyes can hardly take it in. I wonder if the residents of the lake long for brutalist concrete structures and piles of garbage, if only for a contrast.
We went back to the dock to get on the ferry to our next destination: Varenna, which is just across the water. While Bellagio, with a population of about four thousand, feels relatively compact, Varenna is positively tiny: with 800 souls calling it home. And as tiresome as it must be to hear by now, it is another jewel. Indeed, I found myself thinking on the ferry ride that the residents of this place, from Roman times onward, had collectively turned it into a kind of communal work of art—a living landscape painting that they gradually composed.
The view as we left Bellagio
The village of Varenna
There is really nothing to do in Varenna, which is the best thing about it. There is a kind of plaza that drops off into the water, and at any given time is covered with dazed tourists gazing at the scenery. After our own bit of gazing, we wandered inland, eventually ending up at what we would call in New York a “deli,” but which I believe the Italians would refer to us a salumeria. There, we got a couple sandwiches and then wandered into the local church, Chiesa San Giorgio. This modest bit of sightseeing done, we retreated to a nearby bar for campari sodas.
The main square in Varenna
A local Italian deli
The Chiesa San Giorgio
We had had an altogether lovely day on the lake. But the voyage back to Como was perhaps my favorite part. Instead of taking the express ferry, we took the local, which took nearly three hours in its meandering voyage from Varenna back to Como. If I felt deprived of lake scenery on the voyage out, I was absolutely saturated with it by the time we got back. The only thing that would have made it more enjoyable was if the ferry’s bar had been open. A nice glass of wine would have been ideal. But we were still in COVID times, and so I had to get drunk on pure aesthetic pleasure.
Our short vacation was coming to a close. The next day, we had a late flight back to Madrid. This did not leave us much time to explore Milan.
I had a great time on the ferry back.
Milan is the second largest city in Italy. A capital of finance and fashion, it does not exactly fit the stereotype that many hold of Italy—neither quaint and full of art, nor chaotic and rugged. Old women aren’t shouting from their balconies and old ruins aren’t dotted the cityscape. It is, rather, a clean and rather posh place.
Our time was extremely limited, so we went to the symbol of the city: the Duomo. When we visited (and this may still be the case) you had to buy a timed ticket in order to go onto the roof. We selected a time two hours hence, and then set about to see something of Milan.
To start, the Duomo is ringed by important buildings. There is the Palazzo dell’Arengario, for example, which now houses the Museo del Novecento (museum of the 1900s). Right nextdoor is the old Royal Palace, which now serves as a cultural center. And across the piazza is the magnificent Galleria Vittoria Emanuele II. This is a beautiful shopping gallery, consisting of two arcades that intersect at a huge glass dome. The place is full of restaurants and shops that we could hardly afford even to look at, but it was a pleasure just to explore this piece of 19th century splendor. The floor mosaic in the center—representing the regions of Italy—is especially lovely. Rome is, of course, represented by a she-wolf, while Florence is a lily. Turin, meanwhile, is a much-abused bull, whose delicate parts have been worn away by visitors spinning on their heel over them. Supposedly, this brings you good fortune. Perhaps I ought to have tried it!
That poor bull!
Then, we visited San Bernadino alle Osso, a church nearby famous for its ossuary. This is a small side-chapel that has been extensively decorated with human bones (apparently the cemetery got too full). It is free to visit and is certainly worth your time if you have any taste for the morbid.
Finally it was time for the Duomo. My first impression was of its sheer size. It is the third largest church in the world, narrowly beating the gargantuan cathedral in Seville. Stylistically, it struck me as odd. Unlike the other great Italian churches, this one is a medley of styles, owing to the ungodly long time it took to complete—from 1386 to 1965. The proliferation of spikes and spires indicates gothic (unusual in Italy, to say the least, where the Renaissance dominates), but the Milan Cathedral does not have the exuberance, the spiritual riot, of a true gothic creation. It is, rather, quite stiff and almost formalistic, the lines in its facade intersecting at right angles, ascending up in a straight line without giving a great impression of height. This sterility is due, I think, to its facade being actually neo-gothic (after all, it was completed in the 19th century).
Stepping inside, I was once again astonished by its size. I also thought the interior of the church more restrained and tasteful. The same cannot be said, however, for the cathedral’s most famous statue, Marco d’Agrate’s Saint Bartholemew Flayed. Here we can see the unfortunate saint posing like a Roman senator, his skin wrapped around him like a toga, his muscles, veins, and nerves exposed. It is a kind of tour de force of anatomy, and obviously executed with a great deal of skill. But it is hard to call such a gruesome display a masterpiece.
Next, we took an elevator up to the roof. Though it was somewhat expensive (over 30 euros a person, I believe), the visit to the roof proved to be a worthwhile experience. What was nothing but a tangle of statues hanging in the air when viewed from the ground became, from up close, a kind of stone forest. While the decorative statues, judged individually, were rather generic and unremarkable, the sensation of being surrounded by so many floating figures was genuinely uplifting. The visit culminated (pardon the pun) at the top of the roof, where visitors were stretched out on the stone as if it were just another beach.
Old and new skylines in Milan
This was it for us. After a quick lunch (more pizza), we made our way to the Centrale train station and caught a bus to the airport. It had been a wonderful trip, though we had left much undone. I was particularly disappointed that we hadn’t had time to visit the Cimetière Monumentale—the city’s massive and beautiful burying ground—or the Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan’s world class art museum. But after having seen so much beauty, it was impossible to have any regrets. Italy never disappoints.
A special thanks to Rebe, who took some of the photos in this post
My first experience of this play was of an audio recording. It did not make an especially deep impression on me, and I was on the verge of writing a review saying as much, when another reviewer alerted me to the literary importance of the stage instructions. Chastened, I decided I ought to actually read the play before I made a fool of myself, and I’m glad I did. O’Neill, after all, never intended for this work to be produced as a play. It is, rather, like Goethe’s Faust a kind of closet drama, more effective on the page than on the stage.
The play is a masterful depiction of addiction and familial dysfunction. Indeed, I found it to be almost clinical in its psychology. O’Neill was clearly writing from personal experience. He ably captures the mixture of love and resentment that an unhealthy family bond can give rise to—perpetual annoyance, an endless buildup of grievances, non-stop bickering, all built on an unshakable foundation of love. And the characters of this play do love one another, quite dearly, even if they are stuck in a vicious cycle of blame and abuse.
Woven into this dreadful dynamic is addiction. Every member of the family is an addict, and all display the tell-tale signs. They search for excuses—good new or bad news, loneliness or companionship, special occasions or recurrent problems—to justify their habit. And then there is the deferral of responsibility, most exemplified by the mother in this play, who manages to blame everything in her life—her husband, her sons, her doctors, her upbringing—except herself for her morphine addiction. Yet of course the self-deception is never really believed. This awful truth is always there, burning underneath, a gnawing feeling that the substance will never quite deaden.
These contradictions—of great affection and resentment, of excuses and self-knowledge—are so starkly on display in this play that I think even the most brilliant actor would struggle to do it justice. The shifts of tone are too abrupt, the push and pull of conflicting feelings and truths are too violent. But, somehow, it works when read. On the page, a jostled, confused, and depressing mess becomes something orderly, transparent, and deeply tragic. A potentially pathetic group of boozers and dope fiends are transformed into symbols of aching humanity.
Considering that this play is strongly autobiographical, it is frankly amazing to me that O’Neill was able to create such a masterpiece. To confront what must have been a painful and traumatic time in his life and turn it into such a drama—a drama that pulls no punches, and yet condemns no one—is deeply impressive. As this play amply demonstrates, life too often conquers art. Routine deadens us to it, money woos us from it, addiction numbs us to it, so that we lose both our sensitivity to its beauty and the time and energy to create it. But sometimes, art conquers life. And this play is an example of that.
When I first learned, many years ago, that Winston Churchill had written a history of the Second World War, I knew that I would have to read it. After all, I grew up watching documentary after documentary about the conflict (before the History Channel was all about aliens, it was mainly Hitler content). Finally, this summer, I found the complete set, cheap, at the Strand bookstore in New York. Looking at the six fat volumes on my bookshelf, I knew that I was in for a long campaign.
The book is, indeed, long (over 700 pages in this edition), but it is a surprisingly fast read. It was written in haste—if “written” is the right word, for most of the book was either dictated or excerpted from official documents—and reads like a series of dispatches or field reports. This is simultaneously the book’s weakness and its great strength. For Churchill does not attempt to give a universal, impartial overview of the war, but rather recreates what it was like for him to be in the thick of it. And although his perspective does impose serious limitations and distortions on the material, it also makes the narrative far more thrilling. The rush of events is palpable.
Half of this book is devoted to the buildup of the war. Churchill, to his credit, saw the Nazi threat coming from miles away, and tried again and again to rouse his country into action. Unfortunately, his warnings go unheeded, and Germany is allowed time and space to rebuild its military unmolested. It is truly maddening to contemplate all of the lost opportunities. When Germany invaded the Rhineland, for example—clearly violating the Treaty of Versailles—the French and English could have taken decisive action at a time when the German military was miniscule. But nothing can compare with the infamous Munich Agreement, in which a country capable of defending itself was given away to the Germans, which only further strengthened their military for the inevitable war.
One can imagine how such a book could devolve into a series of self-congratulatory told-you-sos. But Churchill, at least in print, is quite generous to his political opponents. In particular, Chamberlain, the architect of appeasement, comes off rather well in Churchill’s telling—portrayed a resolute, peace-loving man who made some very bad decisions. Indeed, I found Churchill’s narrative voice to be rather odd. He has a kind of boyish fascination with war and weapons, and a jingoistic faith in the British people and their empire. Indeed, although he was so very right about Nazi threat, I can easily imagine myself dismissing such a strong believer in king and country as a war-mongering kook.
But he was not a kook, at least not in this regard. Indeed, in his great attention to detail regarding military matters, and his ability to strike a brave, defiant note at a difficult hour, he proved that he was the right man for the moment.
The train was boarding in Budapest’s Keleti station. An elderly Hungarian woman, speaking broken German, asked me to help her with her bags. I did so, and then took a seat on the train. We were bound for Vienna.
The ride was not quite as uneventful as I had hoped. For one, I soon discovered that the ticket I purchased online (for a very reasonable price) did not come with a seat number. Thus, anytime the train made a stop, there was a chance that I would be booted by someone who did have a reserved seat. This made the trip considerably less relaxing than it could have been. Then, the train stopped at the Austro-Hungarian border, and—surprising in Europe, where borders are so permeable—a troop of armed border agents got in and started systematically checking people’s passports. We were also instructed to put on our special N95 masks, mandated at that time by Austrian law for indoor spaces. Everybody complied, though it did seem rather silly to be putting on a mask after breathing in the air for well over an hour.
(I think somebody should examine the relative COVID rates between Hungary, which had no restrictions at all, and Austria, which not only had a mask mandate, but required the heavy-duty N95 masks. It is a natural experiment.)
A little after noon, the train pulled into the Vienna Hauptbahnhof. I took a metro into the city center, deposited my luggage in one of the many storage lockers, and then set out to re-discover Vienna. My first priority was lunch. For this, I headed to a Viennese staple, Buffet Trzesniewski (the name is Polish, I believe) for some of their tiny little open-faced sandwiches. I got five—with various combinations of egg, fish, mayonnaise, and bacon—and every one was delightful. Indeed, I admit that the description of the food did not sound at all appetizing to me, but each sandwich was scrumptious. I particularly liked the small glass of beer, called a “pfiff,” to wash it down.
I later returned and had a glass of wine.
Reinforced, I was ready for Vienna’s cathedral. The last time I had visited, which was in 2018, I had balked at the entry fee for the grand church, and contented myself with a peak inside. This time, I resolved not to be so cheap. The ticket comes with the option of an audio guide. But at the time of my visit, I was in the throes of an obsession with Rick Steves, and instead elected to use his free audio guide. I’m sure it comes to the same thing, although my choice allowed me to enjoy the nasal strains of his high-pitched voice.
The roots of St. Stephen’s Cathedral go back to the Romanesque period, though the church, as it stands today, is mostly gothic in design. The visitor will likely notice two things immediately: first, the majestic south tower—a classic gothic skyscraper—and second, the colorful roof tile mosaic. Perhaps the colors are so vibrant because it was installed after a great fire gutted the cathedral and destroyed its roof in 1945. The retreating German commander actually disobeyed orders to destroy the building, but a fire caused by looting nearly did the job, anyway.
This fire also destroyed many of the bells in the cathedral, including the famous Pummerin, which had been cast from the canons of defeated Turkish invaders in 1705. Thankfully, a replacement was cast and installed in the shorter, but stabler, north tower. This new Pummerin clocks in at over 20,000 kg, the third largest bell in Europe. (For context, the Liberty Bell weighs just 940 kg, not even half of a tenth as much.) It can only be heard on special holidays and other festive occasions, so I was not lucky enough to be the person for whom the bell tolls.
(On the topic of big bells, even though it has nothing to do with Vienna, I cannot help mentioning the story of the largest bell ever made, the Great Bell of Dhammazedi. It was cast in present-day Myanmar and weighed an unbelievable 300,000 kg—or, if you’re American, over 300 Liberty Bells! The great bell was stolen in 1608 by the Portuguese “adventurer” Filipe de Brito, who hauled it by elephant to a raft, hoping—of all things—to melt it down to make cannons. His scheme unwound when his raft sank, taking his flagship with it, as the incredibly heavy bell proved to be too… well, incredibly heavy. De Brito was captured and executed by being impaled on a stick. There have been many attempts to find the bell under the river, but so far it has eluded detection. In any case, I have no idea how it could be lifted.
Anyway, back to the cathedral.)
There are several highlights on the tour around the cathedral. In one corner of the cathedral is the stately tomb of Frederick III, Holy Roman Emperor. Like so many kingly sarcophagi in Europe, this one contains the bones of a Hapsburg. Another is the beautiful Neustädter altar, a massive, folding wooden piece that is a pentaptych rather than the traditional triptych. When it is fully opened, it reveals a marvelous series of reliefs; but when folded up—and it often is—the altar reveals only an uninspiring series of paintings.
The tomb of Frederick III
Unluckily, I was there on a day when the altar was closed.
The pulpit, thankfully, is always on display, and it is marvelous. It is a perfect example of the Gothic style—gorgeous, meticulous, intricate, and heavily symbolic. As in so much Catholic art, the entire worldview seems to be represented using a panoply of saints and signs (many of them animals).
The architect of this stony florescence must have known that he had created a masterpiece, as he included a self-portrait below. You can see him peering from an open window, his compass in hand. This is known in German as the Fenstergucker (window-looker), and it is one of the most winsome self-portraits I can think of. Nearby, on a wall, is a similar figure. This time he is holding a compass and a framing square. And, like the builder himself, he symbolically holds up the cathedral at the base of an arch. By the way, it is not known who exactly this master builder was. The two prime candidates are Anton Pilgram and Niclaes Gerheart van Leyden.
It was getting late now, so I decided to visit the Weltmuseum Wien, which was open until 7pm on the day I visited. This is a large and rather miscellaneous museum located in one wing of the Hofburg Palace. The collection includes a great deal of medieval arms and armory—some of it quite beautiful, though the signs were only in German so I couldn’t learn much—as well as a smattering of objects of “anthropological” interest (meaning, from cultures outside of Europe). But I spent virtually all of my time in the collection of musical instruments.
This must be one of the greatest collections of this sort in the world. For one, there is an assortment of famous instruments—either because of who made them, or who played them. There is an Amati violin, for example, and a piano that was played by both Robert and Clara Schumann, as well as Johannes Brahms. But there are also many instruments special for their particular beauty or unusual design. After all, there is nothing inherently special about the design of a flute or a violin; anything that makes noise can be an instrument. Thus, there are bizarrely twisting horns and oddly shaped stringed contraptions. The collection goes even beyond instruments. There is a table specially designed to hold music for a string quartet; and another table, belonging to the bishop of Passau, is decorated with musical notation.
This visit put me in the ideal mood for my next destination: the Wiener Staatsoper (Vienna State Opera). Now, it is possible to buy standing-room only tickets a few hours before a performance. But I doubted that I could stand through an entire performance, and so opted to buy a cheap seat (for about $15). This price would have been worth it just to be given the privilege of exploring this fine building—a beautiful neoclassical construction fit for the Austro-Hungarian Emperor himself. Lucky for me, Carmen was playing during my visit, and I was able to see (or, rather, hear, since my seat had limited visibility) that marvelous opera performed with great panache.
In short, though I had arrived around midday, I managed to have quite a wonderful day in the Austrian capital.
As my Airbnb was nearby, I decided to start off my next day by visiting the great Schönbrunn Palace. According to Rick Steves—who would know—this is the one palace in Europe that can rival Versailles. But you would not think it from the outside. Whereas Versailles’s exterior is vast and resplendent, the Schönbrunn is, by palatial standards, relatively modest—painted plain yellow, with few frills. But if you pay the (somewhat steep) entry, you will see that the interior is indeed as sumptuous as could be desired. Even so, if you ask me, the best part of the visit is a (free) stroll through the palace gardens, which are vast and lush
Two figures loom over the Schönbrunn: Franz Joseph I and his wife, Elisabeth. Franz Joseph, the longest-reigning emperor of Austria, was born in this palace; and it is also here that he died, in 1916, at the age of 86. His wife, Elisabeth—affectionately known as “Sisi”—was quite a colorful figure. Highly neurotic and hugely dissatisfied with court life, she spent much of her time traveling around, unaccompanied by her husband. But when she was in Austria, she often retreated to this palace. Like so many public figures during this time, she was assassinated by an anarchist in 1898, making her the longest-reigning Austrian empress.
(Though it is not directly related to the palace, I cannot help inserting a little story. The marriage of Franz Joseph and Sisi produced only one son, Rudolph. This made him heir apparent to the throne; but in 1889, he died in gruesome murder-suicide pact with his lover, the 17-year old Mary Vetsera. Rudolph’s motivations are still unclear, but his marriage was very unhappy. This led to his cousin, Franz Ferdinand, becoming the new heir apparent. And, of course, his murder at the hands of Serbian nationalists kicked off the First World War, which eventually brought down the whole Empire.)
Palaces, even beautiful ones, tend to put me in a foul mood. (I suppose they bring together too many things I detest—obscene luxury, arbitrary power, and huge crowds of tourists.) To recover my spirits, I went to another of Vienna’s world class museums, the Albertina.
Located in another erstwhile palace (Vienna is full of them), the museum is named after Duke Albert, a Hapsburg Prince and art collector who used to live here. A visit to the Albertina is a complete experience. You begin by walking into an ornate foyer and exploring some of the palace rooms. Then, you get to the core of the museum: the collection of prints and drawings. Few, if any, museums in the world can rival the quality of these works. There is Dürer’s exquisite watercolor of a rabbit, Da Vinci’s study of the last supper, and a monstrous fish disgorging its insides by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. A study for Hieronymous Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights is on display, as is a muscular male nude from Michelangelo.
This riot of brilliant draftsmanship would be more than enough for any art lover. But the museum also has a substantial collection of Impressionist and Post-impressionist paintings. Indeed, with works by Picasso, Monet, Cézanne, and Magritte, this collection alone would also make a fine museum. I was particularly interested in the Munch exhibit that was on display during my visit. Aside from his famous Scream, I had known close to nothing about the Norwegian painter, and it was a pleasure to witness his artistic development.
I like to take closeup shots of paintings.
Right next to this museum is another classic Viennese attraction: the Wurst stand. It is recognizable from the large green rabbit on top (modeled after the Dürer painting). There, you can order from a range of delicious sausages for a quick and filling meal. Vienna is, of course, full of sausage vendors, though this one is the most famous.
My next destination was far outside the city center. To get there, I took the metro to the Wien-Heiligenstadt station, in the north.
Though Vienna is a beautiful city, it was a relief to be in a more humble, ordinary neighborhood, with no crowds to speak of. Vienna is so grand, so stately, and so full of tourists that it can feel like one big, outdoor palace. Now, at least, it felt like I was in a place where ordinary people lived. I wandered around a little, stumbling upon a little park named for Beethoven, and eventually decided to have lunch in a place called Mayer am Pfarrplatz. Though the place had seats for upwards of 100, it was mostly empty, and I was put at a table in the patio. I ordered the cordon bleu with the Austrian potato salad (that means vinegar and no mayo), and found it to be delicious beyond belief. The white wine was also stupendous.
While I ate, the waitress informed me that Beethoven used to live in the adjoining house. I later learned, however, that Beethoven lived in dozens of different apartments throughout his life, so this might not be such a claim to fame. Still, thinking of Beethoven did improve my dining experience.
I left in a satisfied stupor and continued to climb up the hill into the vineyards beyond the city. In no time, I was completely surrounded by fields of grape vines, and soon I came upon one of the famous wine stands. It was an Edenic vision: picnic tables full of happy people, all holding glasses of crisp white wine. I bought myself a glass and sat down. The view of the Danube and the city beyond was nearly as intoxicating as the drink; and the wine was scrumptious—light, dry, and refreshing. Indeed, I think I enjoyed those couple hours just sipping wine outside an order of magnitude more than I enjoyed visiting the palaces and museums. I highly recommend it.
This pretty much did it for my day, as far as sightseeing was concerned. After drinking so much wine, I went back to my Airbnb and had a short nap. Then, as a form of repentance, I put on my running shoes and went to the Donauinsel.
Much like Budapest, you see, Vienna has its own island park. Unlike Budapest’s Margaret Island, however, Vienna’s island is artificial. It was originally created as a form of flood control, but accidentally became the most popular recreational area in the city. The island is narrow and long. If you ran from the southern to the northern tip, and then back again, you would complete a full marathon. Yet it only takes a few minutes to go from one side to the other. When I went, the park was full of cyclists, joggers, and people out for a stroll. And for my part, I quite enjoyed running along the gravelly paths with the cool breeze coming off the water.
I woke up in a melancholy mood, as it was the last day of my trip. Lucky for me, however, my flight back was quite late in the day, so I had time to do some sightseeing. In cases like these, luggage lockers are an essential resource. I checked out of my Airbnb, stowed my bag, and was first in line at the Café Demel to get breakfast.
Now, Vienna is famous for its cafés, and justly so. They maintain the old musty smell of the Austrian Empire—with ritzy decorations, bow-tied servers, and a rack of newspapers. Demel is particularly attractive, filled as it is with sweets wrapped up in gift boxes. For breakfast, I ordered the obligatory Viennese classic: Sachertorte. This is a kind of dense chocolate cake with a bit of apricot jam in the center. To drink I ordered a “melange,” which is what the Viennese call a cappuccino for some reason. It was quite good—though, I must say, rather pricey.
From there, I got on a tram. My destination: Vienna Central Cemetery. This is an enormous cemetery which, its name notwithstanding, is on the outskirts of the city. With three million buried, it is one of the most populous cemeteries in the world. Though not as beautiful as Père Lachaise, this burying ground is an essential place of pilgrimage for music lovers. For it is here that the esteemed bodies of Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert, Strauss, and Salieri are interred.
Now, at first glance it may seem strange that Beethoven, who died in 1827, or Schubert, who died the following year, should be buried in Vienna Central—which, after all, opened in 1863. Their presence is due to a kind of marketing ploy. The cemetery was originally unpopular because of its distance from the city center, so they decided to relocate some revered corpses to make it more of a “destination.” Clearly, it worked.
Luckily for the visitor, all of these famous composers are right next to one another. For me, it is a subtly powerful experience to stand before the graves of such legendary figures. Their reputation is so enormous that they hardly seem real. But when you are standing above their bones, their humanity is palpable; and their achievements become all the more impressive for being made by somebody no different, in essence, from myself.
Aside from the musical greats, this cemetery is also interesting because of its interdenominational nature—not so common in Europe. There are sections for Catholics, Protestants, Greek Orthodox, Jews, Muslims, and even Buddhists. I was interested to find a large section devoted to Soviet soldiers who died during the Second World War.
After taking the tram back to the center, I only had a short time before I had to head to the airport. Since I was then in the throes of a Rick Steves addiction, I decided to follow his walking tour of the city. This proved to be a good choice, as it led me past a few interesting things I had missed. For example, I took some time to admire the enormous and bulbous Plague Column, which was erected in 1679 after a terrible epidemic. Strangely, the Baroque monument does capture (though perhaps unintentionally) something of the horror of a deadly pestilence.
I also was shown something I had overlooked before: the Memorial against war and fascism. This is in the Albertinaplatz, right near the museum. Designed by Alfred Hrdlicka, it consists of several free-standing sculptures made using rock quarried in the Mauthhausen mine. The monument commemorates victims of the Holocaust, as well as the innocent victims of all wars. In this spot used to stand a residential building that was struck by an Allied bomb in 1945, killing many hundreds of people—many of whom are still buried under the ground.
The “tour” ended at the Hofburg palace, the main residence of the Habsburgs. (The Schönbrunn was a summer palace.) It was strange to contemplate such a vast and monumental building which now serves no purpose except tourism. Like Vienna itself, the palace is a kind of head without a body—the wreck of foregone imperial grandeur.
But you cannot feel bad for the Viennese. After all, their city is consistently rated the most livable in the world. After just a few days, I could see why.
This is an exceptional volume of popular history. Few periods, I reckon, are as mythologized and misunderstood as the European colonization of the United States. In my public school, for example, I learned that the heroic Columbus proved the earth wasn’t flat, and that the Pilgrims lived in joyful harmony with the Wampanoag. To be fair, in high school, this ridiculously rosy picture was brought back to earth somewhat. Still, I think that many Americans (and I may still fall into this category) hold onto many misconceptions about our early history.
Taylor begins with Columbus and ends with the Russian and Spanish colonization of North America’s west coast. On the way, he discusses the Spanish conquistadores, the French fur traders, the main islands of the Caribbean, the slave trade, and of course the English colonies along the east coast. Even Captain James Cook and his fateful exploration of Hawaii gets a section. Taylor shows what dynamics in Europe motivated expansion—both the large-scale political and economic considerations, and the push and pull factors that made people want to leave. And, of course, Taylor mentions the many Native American groups who cooperated with and resisted, fought for and against, exploited and were exploited by the incoming Europeans.
This history begins with a calamity on a scale difficult for us even to imagine. European diseases ravaged the indigenous population of the United States, causing a population collapse so dramatic that it makes the bubonic plague seem mild by comparison. There is no way to exaggerate the loss this represents, both in terms of people and their lifeways. However, while Taylor does not minimize this tragedy, he also avoids falling into the opposite error of portraying the natives as innocent nature people. To the contrary, he shows how different groups adapted to European presence, often becoming essential allies and trading partners to the new colonists.
Taylor also gives ample space to that other original sin of America: slavery. It is not pleasant reading. His relatively brief coverage of the conditions aboard a slave ship, for example, is deeply disturbing. But even in this case, he does not ignore the agency of his subjects. He describes, for example, how slaves would subtly resist their overseers by feigning misunderstanding or working inefficiently. I also appreciated his explanations of how slavery operated differently in the Caribbean and on the continental United States, according to climate and economic pressures.
In sum, what emerges from these pages is a vivid portrait of a rapidly changing continent—a complicated story to which innumerable groups contributed. While Taylor does demolish the patriotic myth of heroic and benevolent European colonizers, this book is not simply a hit job. Rather, it is a rich, well-written, and dispassionate account of a one of history’s most consequential periods.
Some authors have the power to make you feel that you are just understanding the world for the first time. This is, for example, Roberto Caro’s gift. In every one of his books, he seems to expose the world of politics, revealing its inner workings like an ant colony on display in a transparent container. And this is also the consummate gift of this writing team, Simon and Burns. Here, as in Simon’s Homicide, and as in their masterpiece The Wire, these authors show you something you think you already know about: urban poverty. But you really see it for the first time.
In many ways, this book is the ideal companion to William Julius Wilson’s book, When Work Disappears, which was published just one year earlier. Wilson, a sociologist, explains urban poverty using historical trends, statistics, and surveys, whereas Simon and Burns worked like anthropologists: following around their subjects for an entire year and more, trying to understand their world through their eyes.
These different methodologies converge on the same story. When decent working-class jobs disappear from an area, it sets off a chain reaction that erodes the fabric of the society. Those with means move out; those that remain behind are left with few and stark choices. The teenagers in this story, for example, are faced with the options of attending a struggling school system, working for a minimum-wage job, or selling drugs. And while there are significant risks to this last option—risks that, sooner or later, become terrible consequences for all of them—it is undeniable that the reward is immediate and great.
Another theme of both books is how strategies and mindsets that are adaptive on “the corner” are maladaptive anywhere else. The tendency to think in the short-term, to backstab, to lie and cheat, to never show vulnerability—all of these are essential for both the addicts and dealers, though of course they become self-defeating when any of them try to leave this world. And of course many do try to leave it, earnestly and repeatedly. But with so few economic opportunities and so many barriers to government aid (the struggle to just get into a rehab center is Sisyphean), these efforts meet with scant success.
When writing of people in such difficult circumstances, it is tempting to treat them as pure victims. Yet the authors manage to convey the full humanity of their subjects—their many shortcomings and also their strivings—while never minimizing what they are up against. Indeed, this is perhaps the most impressive aspect of this book, and what makes these stories so compelling simply as stories, and not just illustrations of American decadence.
If there is any moral to this book, it is the absolute failure of the war on drugs. Simon and Burns tell of an unending, unceasing drug market—an entire ecosystem of sellers and buyers, operating 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, right in the open. Yes, the police do come and make arrests and confiscate a few vials. But the risk of incarceration is nothing compared to the force of full-fledged addiction or the endless, easy money that dealing provides. At one point, the authors aptly compare the drug war to the debacle of the Vietnam War: all the money, manpower, and machinery in the world is not enough when a war is ill-conceived to begin with.
But what is the solution? What would help? The authors—wisely, I think—refrain from any policy suggestions. Instead, we are left with a kind of mirror-image of the America that Robert Caro describes. Whereas Caro focuses on extraordinary individuals who fundamentally change their worlds, Simon and Burns show how political inertia, economic forces, and human folly conspire to trap everyone—inner-city teachers, beat cops, social workers, rehab nurses, and everyone selling and using—in an endless cycle that chews people up and spits them out, generation after generation. As in Homicide, this is a remarkable work of journalism.
What led me here (as I suspect is true of many readers) was my love of The Wire. Of all of the television I have seen, I found Simon’s masterpiece to be uniquely engrossing and thought-provoking. And despite the obvious creative license taken with the plot, what makes the show so compelling is the bedrock foundation of fact upon which the story is based. Thus, I wanted to get to know some of Simon’s source material directly.
I am glad I did. This book is a triumph in its own right—worth reading even if Simon had never gone on to be a famous television writer. This is just an excellent work of journalism. Simon was given unique access to a squad of murder detectives and their work. He hung around the office on late nights, he listened to interrogations, he read case files, he visited murder scenes, he sat through trials, he went to hospitals and morgues—in short, he did it all. And by simply organizing his observations and writing them down, he has produced a wonderfully insightful look into crime and police work.
Anyone with even a passing acquaintance with detective stories—that is, all of us—has internalized quite a few myths and preconceptions, which are battered to pieces in these pages. For one, most murders do not have a motive beyond rage, greed, or simple recklessness. They are purely impulsive, so detectives rarely bother asking “Who would want this person dead?” Indeed, the Sherlock Holmes image of the cold, rational detective motivated by his love of the common good has virtually no shred of truth to it. The detectives in this book, while decent men (and they are all men), are not on a personal mission against crime. They are motivated by professional pride, by departmental statistics, by overtime pay—and occasionally, yes, by strong feelings of justice.
While we often hear stories of cold cases being solved through innovative scientific techniques, the basic tools of the detective are quite simple: evidence, witnesses, and confessions. And the first two are usually necessary to obtain the third, since most people don’t confess unless they’re backed into a corner. The interrogation techniques Simon describes are somewhat disturbing. Though the detectives do make their suspects aware of their Miranda rights, they do so in such a way that suspects are too intimidated or confused to really stop and consider their next move. The majority don’t use their right to call a lawyer, and instead endure hours of intense interrogation, while detectives browbeat and sometimes scream at them. A surprising number of suspects break and sign confessions.
It is hard not to feel uneasy about this. Indeed, studies have found that some innocent people will even confess to crimes they didn’t commit, just to escape from the intense psychological pressure of the situation. But Simon makes the point that, if detectives were prevented from using manipulative interrogation techniques, they would hardly convict anyone. And when he details the difficulties of actually convicting murderers in court (far fewer than 50% of those arrested for murder end up convicted by a jury of their peers), it is difficult to resist his logic. And when the top brass demand a high clearance rate for the department (that is, the rate of solved to unsolved murders), it is no wonder that detectives will resort to anything to put a case from red to black.
As is usual with Simon’s work, this is the story of ordinary, fallible people who are doing their best (mostly) in a failing, dysfunctional system. The reasons that there are so many murders in Baltimore in the first place go very far beyond the walls of the police department or even the city government. So even though the detectives often do admirable work and lock up obviously dangerous individuals, there is an overwhelming sense of futility in the book. After all, the detectives only arrive after a murder has taken place. They may find the man responsible (and it is usually a man), but even with him behind bars, the next murder is just a block, or a day, or a phone call away.
Yet the book is not wholly bleak. What prevents it from being so are the personalities of the detectives. For the most part, they are smart and, often, surprisingly funny—with a dark gallows humor imposed by the job. And they are surprisingly sympathetic. Indeed, although I share very little life experience with any of these men, somehow I often found myself identifying with them. This is, in essence, the charm of the book: rather than making you fantasize about being an investigative genius, it allows you to see what it would be like if you—the real you, but in another life, perhaps—became an actual, overworked, underpaid homicide detective.
It is a rare book that dramatizes police work while neither elevating the detectives into superheroes nor demonizing them as thugs. Like a good candid photograph, Simon’s portrait is both unflattering and endearing. It is both an uncommonly good work of journalism and a work of art.
I have never met a person who has traveled to Budapest and didn’t like it. Though the city was not even on my travel radar when I arrived in Europe—not featuring prominently in any of the history I was familiar with—one glowing review after another was enough to convince me to pay the city a visit. “Not every city has a vibe,” one of my friends told me one day. “Budapest definitely has a vibe.”
I arrived in Budapest one day in early April, fully ready to be vibed (or whatever the verb might be). A variety of things immediately pleased me: the plentiful restaurants (I ate Chinese noodle soup), the convenient trams and buses, and the well-designed transport app that allowed me to buy every ticket I needed on my phone. And all of it was cheap! Perhaps I am overly attached to lucre, but when I am in a reasonably-priced place I feel immediately better than when I am somewhere expensive. Rather than having to guard my wallet with my life—which means continually fighting my impulses to do pleasurable things—I can relax and simply enjoy the experience. I was, in short, already vibing.
After my bags were dropped off, I first headed to the Hungarian National Museum. This actually wasn’t in my original plans, but by chance it was very close to my Airbnb, so I figured: why not? It was a good choice. The Hungarian National Museum covers the history of the country from prehistory to the present. It is a story that I was hardly acquainted with. To simplify matters greatly, one theme in Hungarian history is the preservation of their very distinct identity in the face of foreign domination and in spite of being at a natural crossroads between Europe and Asia. Hungary was a part of the Roman Empire, the Ottoman Empire, and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Third Reich, and the Soviet Union; and yet their culture remains highly distinct.
Apparently this is a real skull, deliberately compressed like this.
For example, the Hungarian language is, as you may know, unrelated to its Slavic or Germanic neighbors. Indeed, it is not even in the same Indo-European language tree that includes everything from English to Sanskrit—meaning that the Hungarians resisted even prehistoric invasions and expansions. Hungarian is, rather, a Uralic language, which means that it is more closely related to Finnish than it is to Russian. This is why it looks so strange to foreign visitors. I did not manage to pick up a single Hungarian word.
(I should also mention that the name for Hungary has nothing to do with appetite, but rather is a latinized form of an old Byzantine Greek name for the area. The Hungarians, for their part, call their country Magyarorszag, or “Land of the Magyars.” Their language is called “Uralic” because it is believed that the Magyars originated in the Urals, in present-day Russia.)
A detail of the museum ceiling.
He looks so friendly.
In any case, it was a wonderful museum, with Roman ruins in the basement, archaeological treasures on the ground floor (including an elongated skull), and beautiful medieval artwork on the top floor. One of the gems of the museum is a piano that once belonged to Beethoven and Hungarian virtuoso, Franz Liszt. And I was particularly gratified to learn the story of the American general, Harry Hill Bandholtz, who personally prevented Romanian forces from looting the museum in the aftermath of the First World War. The exhibit ends with the Soviet period; you walk out saying goodbye to Stalin.
After this, I was rather hungry (pun unintended but unavoidable), so I made my way to the Great Market Hall. This is exactly what it sounds like: an enormous food market in the center of the city. Opened in 1897, it was the brainchild of the first mayor of Budapest, Károly Kammermayer, and it was designed with flair. An enormous steel structure, it is big enough to be an airport hanger, and almost attractive enough to be a church. The roof is covered in colorful tiles, much like the Cathedral of Vienna, and the inside is full of all sorts of decorative touches in its steelwork. Like the Eiffel Tower, completed just ten years earlier, this is a monument of the industrial age.
It is also just a fun place to be. The basement is stinky: full of pickled products and fishmongers. The ground floor has fruit and vegetable stands, wine for sale, butchers (with delicious Hungarian sausages), and lots of vendors selling Hungarian paprika. This spice is, of course, the culinary signature of the country, though you may be surprised to learn that it became popular in the country as recently as the 1800s. (The Spanish, by contrast, have been using it since the 1600s.) Hungarian paprika may not have the deepest historical roots, then, but its fame is justified by its deep flavor. You can trust me on this, since I bought some at the market, took it home, and cooked with it.
The best part of the market is the upper floor, which is full of lots of tourist junk and, much more importantly, restaurants. I stopped at one food stand selling Hungarian staples and got a plate of chicken paprikash with a side of nokedli (Hungarian dumplings). It was phenomenal—so phenomenal that I didn’t mind sitting on the floor (the seats were occupied) and eating it from a flimsy paper plate. I ought to mention that, the following day, I returned to this market and got a Hungarian sausage with potatoes, which was also scrumptious.
Now, a few paragraphs ago, perceptive readers may have noticed the oddity that Budapest had its first mayor in the late 19th century. Isn’t it a much older city? The explanation for this is simple. Budapest was officially created in 1873, when the cities of Buda and Pest (and Óbuda) were joined. There remain significant differences between the two formerly separate cities, however: Pest is older, more touristy, and very flat, whereas Buda—which sits across the Danube—is hillier, quieter, and more residential.
My next destination was right in the center of Budapest: St. Stephen’s Basilica. Compared to many of the grand churches of Europe, this one is rather young, having been completed in 1905. Yet even if it lacks the historical interest of some other buildings, it is still worth visiting for the beautifully decorated interior, which is illuminated with golden light. The basilica is named for the first king of Hungary, who was a pious Christian at a time when many of his fellow Hungarians were pagans. His mummified hand is preserved in an ornate reliquary; and the royal appendage has had, in the words of the placard, an “adventurous fate”—having been kept in Transylvania, Dubrovnik, Vienna, and “carried west” during the Second World War. Despite all this, the best part of visiting the basilica may be the view from the top.
The rest of my first day was uneventful. I walked around the city, ate some goulash and lángos (Hungarian fried bread), and tried some Hungarian wine (very nice). I needed to build up some strength for the morrow.
I woke up early the next day and got ready in a rush. I had booked a tour in the city’s most famous and iconic landmark: the Hungarian Parliament Building. Thankfully, with the help of the excellent trams, I arrived with time to spare, and so could take a moment to enjoy the small exhibit on the building’s architecture located on its northern side. This was a kind of tunnel filled with gargoyles and spires and other stone fragments used in the building. Seeing it all up close did help me realize just how much work went into the design of this monument.
Soon it was time for the tour, and I approached the building. Of course, I had seen it in photos, but its scale is only appreciable from up close. Indeed, it is so big that I almost missed my tour by simply not being able to find the entrance. (One of the guards helped me.) I had to run, but I made it.
I should mention that tours to the Parliament Building fill up fast, so it is worth booking them well in advance. In my case, I had to sign up for a Spanish tour since there weren’t any English ones available when I looked. Occasionally it pays to be bilingual.
The tour lasted about an hour and took us through just a fraction of the building (it is, after all, the biggest building in the country). But it was a beautiful fraction. Built in 1902, the Hungarian Parliament Building is the soaring, majestic symbol of the country’s sovereignty and democracy. Every inch of it is ornately furnished, with gilded arches, stained-glass windows, and more statues than a cathedral. One highlight is the Assembly Hall, which must be among the most ostentatious settings for a legislative body in the world. The views are stunning, but I can imagine that it gets a little cramped with 199 Members of Parliament and their aides. Another showpiece of the building is the main staircase, which makes the entrances of royal palaces seem tiny by comparison. Right below the central dome is a glass case containing the Holy Crown of Hungary, which tradition states was first worn by St. Stephen himself. It may not be quite that old, but it is a beautiful example of Byzantine craftsmanship. Four liveried soldiers guard the crown, performing an elaborate changing of the guards ceremony every hour.
You cannot take a picture of the actual crown jewels, but a replica is on display in St. Mattias (see below)
Assembly Hall
It is a great shame, to say the least, that a country with such a glorious temple of democracy should be experiencing a backsliding into autocracy under the presidency of Viktor Orbán. Indeed, the danger of dictatorship was starkly obvious during my visit, as it happened just a few months into Putin’s invasion of Ukraine (which shares a border with Hungary). In addition to myself, a Ukrainian mother and child were staying in the Airbnb, refugees of the war. On a lamppost I noticed a satirical sticker linking Orbán to Putin, and I wondered if Hungarians would heed the warning of this war.
Hungary certainly has had its fair share of tyranny. Examples are not far to seek. Right in front of the Hungarian Parliament is the Shoes on the Danube Bank memorial. This is a sculpture depicting just that: empty shoes, right on the edge of the river. This memorializes the Jews and other victims who were executed by the Arrow Cross party—the Hungarian equivalent of the Nazis, who took control of the country late in the war. Victims were first told to remove their shoes (potentially valuable) and then shot into the Danube.
Quite nearby is a less depressing monument, the Széchenyi Chain Bridge. This was the first bridge to permanently unite the Buda and Pest sides of the river. When it opened, in 1849 (for context, 34 years before the Brooklyn Bridge), it was considered a kind of marvel of engineering. More importantly for the tourist, the bridge has a lovely, classical design that forms an iconic part of the Danube panorama. Unfortunately for me, however, the bridge was completely closed when I visited. It had been closed since March of 2021, and is supposed to reopen sometime this year. The bridge is named, by the way, for a politician and reformer—revered by his fellow Hungarians for his progressive ideals—István Széchenyi.
But I am afraid I must return to the topic of tyranny, for my next visit was to the House of Terror. This is a building that was used by both the aforementioned Arrow Cross as well as the ÁVH (Államvédelmi Hatóság), the secret police of the communist regime. No photos are allowed inside, so memory will have to do. The entry came with an audio guide, which gave historical context to the photos and images on display. The story was familiar, if depressing: secret police “disappearing” political dissidents and enforcing the most stringent political orthodoxy. The visit culminated in a long, slow elevator ride to the lower level, which had been used as a prison where suspects were detained, tortured, and executed.
The wall is covered with the faces of the victims.
I next paid a visit to the Dohány Street Synagogue, more commonly called the Great Synagogue. Its name is due to its size as much as its beauty—it is the largest synagogue in Europe, with seating for about 3,000 worshipers. To visit, you take a guided tour; these are available in many languages and at frequent intervals. The architecture is rather peculiar, combining elements of European churches and Islamic decoration. Yet the synagogue’s history is more compelling than its design. During the Holocaust, the Jewish ghetto was right next to the synagogue; and as a result there is a cemetery for those who died in the brutal conditions. There is also an adjoined museum of Jewish culture, in the former house of Theodor Herzl, a famous activist and journalist, considered to be one of the fathers of Zionism.
The most moving part of the visit is to Raoul Wallenberg Memorial Park, which is on the site of the aforementioned cemetery. Wallenberg, I should mention, was a Swedish diplomat who managed to save thousands of Hungarian Jews from the Nazis (though ironically, he seems to have been killed by the Soviets). His name, and those of others who helped to rescue Jews from the Holocaust, are inscribed on leaves of a statue of a weeping willow designed by Imre Varga. Yet the vast majority of these leaves bear the names of the many thousands of victims of the Nazi terror. In total, over 400,000 Hungarian Jews were killed during the Holocaust, many of them at Auschwitz. Today, there are only about 10,000 Jewish people residing in the country.
(Though I did not manage to visit it myself, I wish I had gone to the Holocaust Memorial Museum while I was there. It was the first state-sponsored Holocaust museum in Europe, and is located in a former synagogue.)
This was a lot of heavy history for one day. So after a quick dinner, I was glad to have a triumphal finale in the Hungarian State Opera House. The building was opened in 1884, just a few years after the slightly more famous Wiener Staatsoper; and from the outside the two look almost identical. The inside is marvelous, as I discovered when I arrived for an evening performance of Richard Strauss’s Die Frau Ohne Schatten. I walked up the marble staircase, below the frescoed ceilings and gilded arches, to sit in my nose-bleed seat high above the stage. The view may not have been great, but I had only paid about $10 for my ticket and felt that it was an amazing deal, all things considered.
That particular opera is known as an extremely difficult work for its many soloists, complex music, and other pyrotechnics demanded by the mythological plot. Its performance was thus a testament to the skill of everyone involved. The particular opera is also quite long, so long that it had to be broken up by three intermissions. I highly recommend any visitors to Budapest to give opera a try, even if you don’t think you like the music. The combination of the fine architecture, elegant dresses, champagne during intermission, and of course the elaborate music, make for an oddly intense experience. Nevertheless, I should admit that I left during the third break, as I didn’t want to be there until midnight.
So far, everything I have described is more or less in the center of old Pest. But Budapest is a far-flung city, with things to see and do in many of its remote corners. This may sound like a negative, but with the city’s excellent public transportation system it is easy to get anywhere. This is why, I think, Budapest does not get as claustrophobically crowded as places like Prague or Munich, which have very focused centers of activity.
Now, to explain the next group of landmarks, you need to know a date: 1896. This is the year of the great Millennium Exhibition, a celebration of the 1000-year anniversary of Hungary. That is, in the year 896, a man named Árpád, leader of the Magyars, was made prince of the newly-created Principality of Hungary. Obviously, the Hungarians of the late 19th century had to celebrate their longevity, and to do so they staged an event similar to a World’s Fair.
Especially created for this event was the first metro on the European continent, and the third in the world (after London and Liverpool). This metro line is still in operation, known simply as Metro Line M1. It was made to ferry Hungarians to and from the fairgrounds. Unlike more modern metros, this one is extremely shallow, just a few feet below Andrássy Avenue, one of Budapest’s principal thoroughfares. The journey from street to metro is almost instantaneous. The metro is also a joy to ride, with attractive cars and stations along the way.
The line ends near Heroes’ Square, the centerpiece of the Millennium Exhibition celebrations. This is a big, open plaza with a sweeping assemblage of statues in two colonnades depicting (as you might expect) heroes from Hungary’s past. The square was obviously built to accommodate masses of people, though for the solo traveler it is almost annoyingly vast. Right in the center is the Memorial Stone of Heroes (often mistaken for a tomb of the unknown soldier), which is a monument to those fallen in war defending the country. Flanking this glorious stone poem to the country’s greatness are two art museums: the Museum of Fine Arts and the Hall of Art. (Unfortunately I didn’t give myself time to visit either.)
Beyond Heroes’ Square is City Park (not very creative names, these), one of the finest parks in Budapest. As you might have guessed, this park was also created for the Millennium Exhibition, and signs of that epochal celebration are not far to seek. The most obvious is Vajdahunyad Castle, a full-scale replica of Corvin Castle, which is now in Romania. This castle was originally built of wood and cardboard and meant to be temporary, but the Budapestians liked it so much that it was rebuilt in stone. Yet aside from these architectural fantasies, the park is also simply a nice place to be. I bought a glass of steaming mulled wine from a street vendor and walked around, enjoying the sight of Hungarians at play.
One thing I did not do, but probably should have, was to visit the Széchenyi Baths. This is a massive thermal bath complex where you can go and soak in water that ranges from warm to scalding. It is one of the most distinctive and famous attractions in the city, but I felt uncomfortable going by myself. To make up for my own cowardice, I recommend you, dear reader, to give it a try.
The other park I visited in Budapest was neither on the Pest nor the Buda side, but right in the middle of the Danube. This is Margaret Island, the green oasis in the center of the city. It is named for a Hungarian Saint, and in the past was covered with churches and monasteries. But the nuns and monks fled during the Turkish invasion. Now there are only a few ruins left to remind visitors of this history. Mostly, it is just a nice place to take a walk. But I was training for a half-marathon, so I decided that I would visit at a faster pace. I soon discovered that Margaret Island is a wonderful place to run. A track—made of special, bouncy material—runs along the edge of the island, allowing you to run with a view of the Danube and the city beyond. Perhaps it was the cool breeze coming off the water, or the thrill of running in a new city, or the competition from the other runners, but I was significantly faster than usual.
So far I have covered a great many monuments on the Pest side. But there remains the other half of the city to explore—the hilly, more sedate Buda.
Perhaps the most famous attraction on the Buda side is Fisherman’s Bastion. It is a place made for Instagram. Constructed around the turn of the 20th century, it is a kind of neo-medieval fantasy castle, whose ornate walls provide an iconic view over Budapest. Its name is due to the fact that the fish market used to be nearby.
Right next door is Mattias Church, perhaps the most beautiful house of worship in the city. Though a church has been here for over 1,000 years, the building as it stands now is gothic in style. It has been through a lot. Among other tribulations, during the Ottoman period, the church was converted into a mosque; then, it was extensively remodeled for the Millennium Exhibition of 1896; and finally it was severely damaged during the Second World War. In any case, the church is absolutely lovely, both inside and out. The imposing gothic exterior—softened by the colorful tilework—yields to a playful explosion of polychrome patterns inside.
Right next door to these two monuments is Buda Castle, an enormous palace that sits on top of castle hill. The original Baroque palace was probably quite remarkable. Unfortunately, however, it was almost completely destroyed during World War II, and the rebuilt castle is not nearly as charming. Or so I hear, since I decided not to visit for myself.
A photo showing the destruction wrought by the Second World War. In the foreground is the SzéchenyiBridge, and Buda Castle is in the background.
My next stop was Gellért Hill, which is one of the highest points in Budapest. I was unlucky, however, as I discovered that the top was closed off for some sort of construction work. I had to content myself with a visit to the Garden of Philosophers. This is a bizarre park a little ways down the hill, which features an assemblage of statues of major religious leaders: Jesus, Abraham, Buddha, Laozi, and Akhenaten (the Egyptian Pharaoh who created a monotheistic cult). Also present are Gandhi, the Bodhidarma, and Saint Francis of Assissi. (Notably absent is a representative of Islam; but of course depicting Muhammad would be, to put it mildly, controversial.) All of them are gathered around a small metallic ball, which represents their common goal. This was the work of a Hungarian sculptor, Nándor Wagner, who wanted to symbolize the commonalities between different faiths. While the idea that the various religions are striving after the same thing is certainly appealing, I think the sculptures are quite compelling in themselves as human figures.
I don’t know why Akhenaten looks like an alien.
Another popular attraction on the Buda side is the Hospital in the Rock. This is exactly what it sounds like: a hospital built into the side of a hill, using a previously existing network of tunnels. These tunnels had been used for centuries by locals as food cellars. In the leadup to the Second World War, the tunnels were equipped with medical equipment and staffed with doctors. But the casualties overran the hospital’s capacity by over 600%. The guide (and you have to visit with a guide) explained that doctors had so few materials that they had to reuse bandages, with predictably grizzly results. After the war, the hospital was repurposed as a kind of nuclear shelter, though it was never used in any emergency situation again. (The guide also said that it couldn’t have withstood a nuclear attack, anyway, as it is not deep enough.) Now the tunnels are filled with hundreds of wax dummies and old equipment, providing a graphic (if silly) illustration of the hospital’s history.
All of this was wonderful enough. But my favorite thing on the Buda side—maybe in the entire city—was Memento Park.
Getting there is not easy. Located on the city limits, it is only accessible by bus. I complicated matters by taking the right bus in the wrong direction; but I realized soon enough, got out, crossed the street, and was soon on my way.
Memento Park is the dustbin of history, a place where all of the Soviet statues were put after Hungary became independent. It is located in a suburban neighborhood, but you can’t miss it: there is an enormous brick platform topped with the boots of Joseph Stalin. The complete statue was actually destroyed during the Soviet Union. In 1956, the Hungarians attempted to throw off the Soviets. The Red Army crushed the uprising in a matter of days, but not before the Hungarians had a chance to destroy this hated symbol of Soviet Rule. I went inside the base of this statue, and discovered a room full of busts of Stalin and Lenin.
Next to the entrance is one of the best statues in the park: a cubist rendition of Marx and Engels, made from granite taken from the Mauthausen Concentration Camp. The little kiosk where you buy your tickets is an attraction in itself—full of old Soviet knicknacks. You can, for example, buy a real Soviet passport or postcard, or even a CD with old Soviet anthems. With my ticket, I also purchased a little booklet that explained each of the statues on display. I was glad I had it, since otherwise there was little signage.
Walking around the park is a surreal experience. Dramatic and triumphant statues sit decaying in a field, almost as Washington D.C. would appear after a disease wiped away humanity. The bulk of these statues are in the recognizable Soviet social-realist mode—heroic soldiers, stolid workers, and the occasional full-bodied woman. As works of art, they rarely rise above propaganda, though they are wonderfully evocative of that era. And some are indeed memorable.
One favorite of mine (for obvious reasons) was a monument to the Hungarians who fought in the Spanish Civil War. Three rather frighteningly abstract soldiers stand saluting next to a pile of rocks, on which are inscribed the names of battles during that war. Another highlight is the Martyrs’ Monument, created by Kalló Viktor, which shows a barefoot man reaching out towards the sky as he collapses (presumably from being shot). Just as dramatic is the Republic of Councils monument, which shows a victorious worker rushing forward.
But my absolute favorite is the Béla Kun Monument. Kun’s life illustrates the ups and downs of the communist movement. He fought in the First World War for the Austro-Hungarian empire, was taken prisoner by the Russians, became a communist, returned to Hungary, and led a revolution in his native country. Then, when the Hungarian Soviet Republic collapsed, he escaped to Soviet Russia and participated in political purges. But he reaped what he sowed, as he was himself eventually accused of Trotskyism and executed. It was only after Stalin died that he was rehabilitated and made into an official hero, as depicted in this posthumous monument. This is unlike any statue I have ever seen. Kun stands on a platform, pointing with his hat, while a mass of soldiers march to war beneath him. The chrome plating on the soldiers and their odd, compressed dimensions made them look like toys. It is so silly that it parodies itself.
Everything I had seen and read—not least the Béla Kun Monument—indicated that communism was not a happy time for Hungary (or the Soviet Union, for that matter). Nevertheless, I admit I found it touching that ordinary workers were held in such high esteem. It may have just been propaganda, but even paying lip service to workers is better, in my opinion, than our worship of the super-rich.
All philosophizing aside, the final exhibit made it very clear what the Soviet Union was actually about. Showing in the adjacent exhibition center was a film by Gábor Zsigmond Papp, in which he had edited together films used to train the secret police. Consisting of four parts—hiding bugs, searching houses, recruiting, and networking—the film was a shocking illustration of the strategies that secret police would use to search out political dissidents. I remember scenes of agents sneaking into a gym locker room to plant a listening device, or picking a lock in an apartment when somebody wasn’t home, in order to search it. (The agents were careful to put everything back where it was, so the suspect wouldn’t know they were there. Apparently, some people would leave small objects, like a hair, stuck in a closed door, so that they would know if the house had been entered.) Clearly, privacy was not a priority during this time. If ordinary people were celebrated openly, they were persecuted secretly.
This was my final stop in Budapest. I wandered back into the bright spring day, walked into the suburbs, and caught a bus back to the city center. It had been a wonderful visit. Budapest is convenient, comfortable, cheap, and full of art and history. And it certainly does have a vibe.
I do not consider myself a superstitious person—not even remotely—but somehow I felt a deep reluctance to pick up this book. It may have taken us a long time to figure out the germ theory of diseases, yet the psychology of contagion runs deep. I had the irrational fear that even learning about cancer would somehow unleash it into my life.
But turning away from frightful things is not a good way to live. And, anyway, even though there is a lot of sadness in this book, and a lot to stoke your fears (perhaps it is best to avoid if you have a tendency toward hypochondria), but this is basically a story of innovation.
Mukherjee moves through surgery, radiation therapy, chemotherapy, cancer prevention, and modern targeted drugs, showing how each arose and developed in response to different sorts of cancer and out of the science and technology of the moment. It is a vast story, which includes the development of anasthesia and antibiotics, the discovery of genes and chromosomes, the first research into radioactivity, and the campaign against smoking. To use the obvious metaphor, it is a war waged on multiple fronts.
The challenges are manifold. I had naively thought that all cancer was basically the same disease, with its subtypes just minor variations. But it turns out that there is enormous genetic and chemical variety among cancers, so that a treatment effective for one may do little for another. Indeed, even for a single type—breast cancer, say—treatment can be unpredictable. This is what makes the story of doctor’s attempt to treat the disease so riveting, as it feels like a battle between two equally wily antagonists. At several points in this history, doctors attempt extreme cures—radical surgeries, or nearly fatal doses of chemotherapy—only to be defeated. Meanwhile, the victories can be as modest as a remission of just a few months.
It is probably best not to philosophize about a fatal disease, but there does seem to be a lot of irony in our quest to defeat cancer. For one, it has only become so prevalent in the modern period, because we have started living so long. Its appearance as the great killer, then, is a kind of perverse mark of progress. Further, there is the irony of trying to fight what is, in essence, a corrupted version of ourselves—a group of renegade cells which have figured out how to replicate and survive even better than our own body. There is great scope for metaphor here, but if there is a moral to cancer then I don’t think it is a simple one.
Mukherjee does an admirable job weaving a potentially chaotic and depressing story into something coherent and even hopeful. Though the book is composed of history, science, and his own experience as a doctor, these different threads reinforce one another rather than clash. The clinical anecdotes are sparing—just enough to connect the past to the present—and his thumbnail explanations of science are lucid and illuminating. But, most important, despite the many tragic deaths which litter these pages, the final impression is of how much can be accomplished when a researcher’s diligence, a doctor’s pledge to save life, and a patient’s will to live work together, generation after generation.
Lotz in Translation 