Last night in bed, rather than watch the sixth game of the World Series, Hania read Janet Malcolm’s essay on Susan Sontag in The New Yorker. “What does ‘rebarbative’ mean?” she asked midway through the fourth inning.
It was one of those words I used to know but, through years of absence, I had forgotten. I googled it and told her “unattractive and objectionable.”
A few minutes later I came across this sentence in The Spectator, which I was reading between pitches: “Any Arnoldian attempt to separate culture from anarchy is stymied by the queasy spectacle of Yeats’s flirtation with fascism or Ezra Pound’s rebarbative anti-Semitism.”
Leaving my dentist's office yesterday I grabbed a KitKat from the bowl of Halloween candy.
"Our job security," noted the receptionist.
Yesterday at Bascom Palmer a man wearing a University of Miami Health System polo shirt came through offering juices and snacks from a cart. In addition to refreshments he gave us all the illusion that, instead of patients at the ophthalmologist’s, we were passengers on a plane.
National Geographic Traveler magazine is ceasing publication, leaving only Conde Nast Traveler and Travel + Leisure in the world of travel glossies. In its near-three-decade run, I wrote two things for Traveler: an essay shortly after it debuted on trans-Atlantic crossings, and a story about Warsaw in 2013. This second assignment stands out as the single worst freelancing experience of my career. In fact, it was so dispiriting that I kept a journal during the editing and rewriting process, which lasted over a year. The subject was a city I had lived in and grown to love, so the story was understandably favorable, but – because it was realistic – it lacked the “excitement” and “romance” Traveler editors demanded.
“Like those at the other glossy travel magazines,” I wrote in my journal, “they are in the business (truly the mot juste) of promoting travel, not explaining the world. Their ‘concern for readers’ is nothing more than an obsession with advertisers (especially in these days of economic downturn). Just as they employ people to sell ad space, they hire writers to sell destinations – why else was I urged to be more enthusiastic? – so that the former can bring in more ads. It is why they refuse to allow, even in a predominantly upbeat story, anything that might disturb or sadden or dissuade potential travelers. It is why the quotes from locals are so benign. It is why the articles are so boring.
“I realize that this is the reality of magazine publishing (which paradoxically demands, in the travel division, a denial of reality). What maddens me is the charade put on by editors, the hypocrisy of pretending – or perhaps it’s a collective delusion – that they are all about “real stories,” that they value writing over salesmanship. It creates misunderstandings that lead to wasted labors in a process that verges on psychological cruelty.”
I put yesterday's blog post on Facebook, and my friend Diana's comment was the well-mannered Southern woman's put-down "Well, bless her heart."
A former English major, I don't trust a hurricane named Dorian.