In Praise of the Egg

It is International Women’s Day. And Pancake Day! Rarely is one’s focus so tightly concentrated on the symbol of the ovum. It may seem difficult to celebrate the achievements of half the global population, but I suggest targeting your attention on the wonders of those women around you. I am blessed to be accompanied daily by women of exceptional intelligence and impeccable taste, and I salute them. To she who is most exceptional of all, I made a votive offering of my own famous pancakes. She is ascending to new heights of brilliance of late, and I count myself especially thankful for her, and for the opportunities that have been freely available to her. Onward!

Rembrandt, The Pancake Woman

Barcelona Masculine: Some Observations

The most common image on the door of gentlemen’s bathrooms in bars and restaurants in Barcelona is of Al Pacino as Michael Corleone in Godfather II. We can debate the manliness of this character, but not if he only marks the way to basic biological functions.

The nearest, and most lavish, den of iniquity to my (rather nice) hotel was called ‘Bagdad’, and offered an ‘Arabic porn show’. I deigned not to penetrate its inner sanctum.

The Olympic needle is enveloped by a feminine O, and the crucible of the Olympic flame sits atop a rather flaccid looking upright.

One of the principal city displays is the magic fountain, which gushes on a precise timetable, to the strains of Pavarotti. It’s an illuminated circle of water, fed by a lavish terraced waterfall that descends from an art museum.

At the Picasso Museum, the art is slavishly laid out in chronological order, with no mind to the apparently enormous gaps in the collection that this method reveals. And thus we get the man’s loose sketches of his arty friends alongside his cheap smut. You’ll see some gems here, but the feeling you’ll leave with will be that of Picasso’s women: the man was a stylish cad.

And finally there’s Gaudi, who was pathologically afraid of the straight line so far as I can tell. Barcelona is the best planned city in Europe, all neatly laid out in beautiful tenement blocks. But the chief attractions among these solid piles are Gaudi’s visions, giving the distinct impression that all his bricks melted in the Mediterranean sun. Twelve Euros to enter, no less; more for the premium shack.

All told, a city of the exotic and the feminine, the organic and artistic. What manliness abounds in the visible city is cast in questionable light. But I would aver that these attractions are not where people live, nor work, but are the mere attractions for the touristic gaze. In its stoic planning, the rest of the city conceals its strength in a sober anonymity.

*4th, 5th, 6th, 8th, 9th pics are mine.

Miss America

For those of you expecting a dolly bird and a bikini, you will be sorely disappointed. The truth is that I miss America. It’s been a mere six months or so since we parted, and I’m afraid I’m not over her. I wrote her this letter, but can’t bring myself to send it.

Miss America, I was never with you for your hidden depths. It was the insubstantial things I liked about you, but then feeling at home is never a matter of important things. Except, of course, all those things that aren’t important turn out to be the foundations upon which we build a life. Things like pressing our noses on the window of J. Press in Cambridge; the timbre of Peter J. Gomes’ voice – sadly nevermore to be heard – and his tired old jokes every time he sent around the plate in Harvard Memorial Church, remember?; the floodlights at Fenway Park, that signalled Americans being American; a darn good hamburger; terrible TV; and a hive of intellectual activity mixed with pheromones at the Widener Library. I really missed your autumn last year – I don’t miss hearing it referred to as the fall – but the winter you can keep.

Peter J. Gomes, who died last week

Miss America, you were so terribly self-important, but we met when you’d taken a knock to your confidence. You were hiding your light under a Bushel, and resenting every minute of it. Still, we got along. Your boys called me prep until I reminded them that I was English, and try as they might, they would never be that. We had tea parties in Boston and ate cream pie and had roast beef at Thanksgiving. It was a gesture. You fetishized me and my accent and I let you, because it was fun. But it was always only going to amount to a fling. Our paths lay in different directions, but I reminded you when I left that the world is round. Our paths would likely cross. We’ll meet again, maybe soon; maybe in a New York taxi this June. I hope you’ll remember. You haven’t forgotten me have you?

Affectionately, I remain yours,

VB

Guttenberg’s Last Stand; Or, The Tyranny of Democracy

The people want Mr. Guttenberg back. Numbers are on their side. Shouldn’t they get what they want?

A friend of mine, when first showing young undergraduates that they had never really thought about anything, used to ask them to think of all the reasons why democracy was bad. Blank looks generally abounded, and so he would say the following: 

There are nine people in a room. A motion is tabled that all nine people should wear yellow. It is put to a vote. Four people vote against, on the basis that yellow just makes them look sickly. Five people vote in favour, so all nine have to wear yellow. Why should five people tell four people what to do?

And here is the rub. If politics is really about what different people want – and let’s be clear about this, politics is about interest – then aside from the most basic of common desires, a political victory for one will always be a political failure for another. The desire for a thing, if it is allowed to be put to a vote, will almost always divide. Coming together, crossing the floor, talking about the common good – all these things work only insofar as a particular want is held in common. There will always be dissenters. When they lose, they will be unhappy. If it is a close-run thing, almost as many people will be miserable as will rejoice.

The question then, for democracy, is who gets to table a motion? If anyone can put their wish to a vote, we shall have chaos, or Switzerland, neither of which is desirable (as anyone who has followed Swiss democracy in the last couple of years would know). Who gets to decide that ‘we should all wear yellow’ should go to a ballot? In sensible places, an executive would veto such nonsense. Politics must be serious. It can not be petty, or foreground petty concerns. It concerns me that this has been so thoroughly forgotten.

A basic rule of liberty is that you may do as you please so long as it doesn’t displease anyone else. So, wear yellow; but don’t try to force me to do the same. These kinds of questions are not, and should not be, political. Democracy is often conflated with freedom, but one sees in this kind of equation that liberty and democracy are difficult bedfellows. It may be your express desire that I do not write this article, and you may find many more people who will back you up than I can find to support me. Will that make a democratic vote on the matter valid? Will it be a good advert for freedom if I am not permitted to publish it? Of course not.

I’m given to write about all this because of the extraordinary outpouring of feeling in Germany at present about the former Defence Minister, and former Ph.D holder, Mr. Guttenberg. It seems that the vast majority of Germans are aghast that this man has been forced to resign for being found wanting in integrity and character. Most people, if the numbers are to be believed, would want him re-instated. It’s one of those times that I really loathe the common notion of democracy. Just because a lot of people want something, they think they should have it. The fact that it is not right is irrelevant to them. The fact that it is not just is also irrelevant to them. And the fact that it is not in their best interests to have such a political leader, seems to have passed them by. Should these people be allowed to tell the others what to do, or what to submit to? Or should we hold to higher principles of the kind of moral fibre we should like to see in our political leaders, and hold fast to those principles regardless of what the popular clamour insists upon? In those principles we shall safeguard our freedom. In blind ‘democracy’ we may risk it.

J'Adore Dior, II

What was I saying about more elegance? I defy you not to love the latest high-profile ad by Dior, with Natalie Portman directed, apparently, by Sofia Coppola. Take a look here: Miss Dior.

We all aspire, but we are often lost as to what exactly we aspire to. Dior gives us a fantasy of elegance that directs our aspirations. What sort of man is the lucky tyke in this film? He’d have to be intelligent, of impeccable taste, a professional, and a lover. The details you may fill in for yourself. Bravo.