I recently blogged domestically about baking failure. Your reward for clicking over there is a recipe for 100% whole wheat challah.
In 1961, Thomas Szasz crystalized a particular kind of countercultural trope: the “mentally ill” genius. His The Myth of Mental Illness asserted that people can be “disabled by life.” That one sensitive to the absurdities and senselessness of life may appear mentally ill, but really tells Truth in a hostile society.
By now it’s trite: Sherlock Holmes, House, the lady in Homeland. Hannah Horvath. Gonzo.
No one’s crying about the dude in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest anymore.
But Peggy cried about Michael Ginsberg.
Yup. Another pointless remake from studios who realized that they don’t need to pay good writers anymore. Y’all can wind your watches by it–except no one wears watches anymore bc checking the time is another excuse to get sucked into the smartphones.
What about the plot about how a white, blond, wealthy, non-disabled, non-gay, non-Jewish, non-Roma, non-anything-Hitler-disliked family had to flee the Nazis or be killed?
What are they gonna do with that story?
For the Great American Novel.
Inasmuch as one ought to exist. Inasmuch as we’d know it now, if we happened upon it.
Glibly, the GAN is a bit like the Jewish Messiah: a concept that shapes our experience, that many people contest, and that, if it ever arrived, would signify the end of the world and life as we know it. And what fun would that be. Plus there’s the whole Jesus thing.
(Clearly, I’m not the kind of Jew who forswears her Twitter feed on the Shabbos. Ahem.)
For reals, here was my first reaction to Dissident Gardens, a basically plotless novel about 3 generations of secular Jewish lefties:
OH! JONATHAN LETHEM’S JEWISH!