The Writer’s Almanac for October 7, 2018

I died for Beauty––but was scarce by Emily Dickinson. Public domain.

I died for Beauty––but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb,
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room––

He questioned softly “Why I failed”?
“For Beauty”, I replied––
“And I––for Truth––Themself are One­­––
We Brethren, are”, He said––

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night––
We talked between the Rooms––
Until the Moss had reached our lips––
And covered up––our names––


It’s the birthday of Amiri Baraka, (books by this author) born Everett LeRoi Jones in Newark, New Jersey (1934). He published more than 40 books of poems, essays, and plays.

He was the poet laureate of New Jersey during the September 11 attacks, and a year later, he read his poem “Somebody Blew Up America” at a poetry festival. In it, he suggested that Israel knew about the attack beforehand; the poem was labeled anti-Semitic and caused a huge controversy. The governor of New Jersey tried to fire Baraka, but discovered that it wasn’t legally possible to fire a poet laureate. So the state passed a bill that dissolved the position, and since then, there has not been a poet laureate of New Jersey.


It was on this date that two major airlines were founded.

In 1919, KLM was founded, the Royal Dutch Airline. KLM is the acronym for the Dutch phrase meaning “Royal Aviation Society,” and it’s the oldest airline that still operates under its original name.

In 1903, the Wright brothers made their first brief, successful attempts at flying a controlled and powered airplane, at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. In 1909, the first official airlines had gotten off the ground. Headquartered in Frankfurt, it went by the acronym DELAG. But DELAG was an airline for airships, or dirigibles, not airplanes as we know them. It used airships made by the Zeppelin company.

Ten years later, when KLM was founded, they were ready to use airplanes. Their first flight was in 1920 from London to Amsterdam, on a biplane, a refined version of the basic design used by the Wright brothers. The biplane had capacity for four passengers, and KLM’s first flight carried just two journalists, plus a lot of newspapers. By the end of the year KLM had transported 345 passengers, 22 tons of cargo, and three tons of mail.


It’s the birthday of the labor organizer and songwriter Joe Hill, born Joel Hägglund in Gävle, Sweden (1879). He grew up in a big, devout Lutheran family. They played music together and encouraged Joe’s musical talent, but they never discussed politics. His dad worked for the railroad but it was dangerous work, and he got injured and died on the operating table when Joe was eight. Joe went to work right away, working in a rope factory when he was nine, then as a fireman, and more odd jobs of one sort of another. And he kept playing music.

In 1902, his mother died. The six children sold the family home, divided up the money, and Joe and one of his brothers used their portion to buy passage to America. For the next 12 years, Joe Hill was all over the place, hard to keep tabs on — partly because so many myths about him were written down as fact later on. He spent time in New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. He was fired from one job for trying to unionize the workers; he joined the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) and organized for them; and he published political songs like “The Preacher and the Slave,” “The Tramp,” and “Casey Jones — The Union Scab.” He invented the phrase “pie in the sky” for his song “The Preacher and the Slave,” sung to the tune of “In The Sweet Bye and Bye.” It went: “You will eat, bye and bye, / In that glorious land above the sky; / Work and pray, live on hay, / You’ll get pie in the sky when you die.” He played banjo, guitar, violin, and piano all over the country, in migrant worker camps or hobo jungles, spreading his songs and ideas, making money where he could. He surfaced briefly in Mexico, in British Columbia, in Portland, and maybe in Hawaii — always working different, temporary jobs, and always organizing for workers’ rights. He was arrested in 1912 in San Pedro, where he was supporting the dock workers’ strike by serving as the secretary of the strike committee and playing music.

In 1913, Joe Hill was working for a mine outside Salt Lake City. On the evening of January 10th, 1914, Hill sought medical treatment from a doctor named McHugh for a bullet wound in his chest, which he told the doctor he had received because of a fight over another man’s wife. He got a ride home late that night, and he tossed a gun out the car, a fact that he never really explained.

That same evening, two men were murdered in Salt Lake City: a storekeeper, John G. Morrison, and his son Arling. Morrison was a former policeman. The only witness who survived was Morrison’s son Merlin, who saw two men in red bandannas enter the store and shoot his father and brother. There was a trail of blood leading out of the store.

Several suspects in the case were identified immediately. They assumed it wasn’t a robbery attempt since the cash register remained full, so all the newspapers announced that it was someone seeking revenge. Two masked men had attempted to hold up Morrison before, and he had seriously injured one of the men when he shot at them, so there was speculation that it might be those two men back to finish their task. Only a few days before he was murdered, Morrison told a police officer that he wished he had never joined the police force, because now he lived in constant fear that the people he had arrested would come back to get him. And he told his wife that there were two men who lived in his neighborhood who were his enemies and that if anything happened to him he wanted her to know their names.

First the police picked up a man named Wilson, a recently released inmate whom Morrison had arrested, who had declared revenge on Morrison, and who was wanted for crimes in other states. They also picked up W.J. Williams, who had a bloodstained handkerchief in his pocket. They didn’t want to pursue the names of the men whom Morrison had named to his wife because they were considered good citizens.

After Dr. McHugh read about the murders in the paper, he called the chief of police and told him about his patient with a bullet wound. Joe Hill was arrested immediately. The evidence against him was shaky. Even though Merlin initially said that Joe Hill didn’t look at all like the men in the store, he changed his testimony in court. Apart from the fact that he had been shot and vague physical similarities to one of the two gunmen (mostly that he was tall), the biggest piece of evidence against Joe Hill was that he owned a red handkerchief. Hill and his attorneys were confident he would be acquitted, since there was only circumstantial evidence and, most of all, no motive was ever produced, certainly not a revenge motive.

But Joe Hill’s refusal to explain where he had gotten the gunshot wound worked against him. And he often just sat back and let the prosecution make claims against him. He refused over and over to establish an alibi. He claimed that he didn’t want to ruin the reputation of the lady in question, but that was all he would say. Some biographers interpret all this as a sign of his innocence — he was so sure that he wouldn’t be convicted that he didn’t fight back hard in court. Some people think that he was in bed with a married woman and didn’t want to ruin her honor. Other biographers see his vagueness and his fatalism as a sign of his guilt. Many surmise that he sat back and let the prosecution do its worst so that he could be the ultimate martyr for the labor movement, symbolizing the total injustice of the justice system. The attorney he met with after his conviction said to a newspaper: “That Hill is a strange one. It’s almost as if he needs to be a symbol for a cause.”

Whatever the case, there is no doubt that he was convicted without enough evidence, without even a motive. And not only was he convicted, but he was also sentenced to death.

Joe Hill did become a perfect martyr for the labor movement. His body was taken to Chicago, where it was met by a huge crowd, and his ashes were sent to an IWW chapter in every state (except Utah) and to supporters all around the world. On May 1st, International Workers’ Day, his ashes were simultaneously scattered. One envelope had been confiscated by the U.S. Postal Service in 1917 and turned up in 1988; those ashes were scattered in various places, and the leftist singer Billy Bragg even ate some of them.

In 1950, Wallace Stegner published Joe Hill: A Biographical Novel. Although a work of fiction, Stegner researched so thoroughly that he had the warden of the Salt Lake City penitentiary walk him blindfolded from Joe Hill’s cell and through all the steps of a mock execution, so that he could feel what it would be like.


It’s the birthday of journalist, nonfiction author, and writing teacher William Zinsser (books by this author), born in New York City in 1922. He’s written several books, including a couple of memoirs and books about travel, jazz, and baseball. His best-known work is On Writing Well (1976). In it he advocates a clean, spare style: “Clutter is the disease of American writing. We are a society strangling in unnecessary words, circular constructions, pompous frills, and meaningless jargon.”

He has a bit of advice for would-be authors of memoir: “Be yourself and your readers will follow you anywhere. Try to commit an act of writing and they will jump overboard to get away.”


It’s the birthday of poet and author Diane Ackerman, born Diane Fink in Waukegan, Illinois (1948) (books by this author). She has a knack for blending science and literary art; she wrote her first book of poetry entirely about astronomy. It was called The Planets: A Cosmic Pastoral, and it was published in 1976, while she was working on her doctorate at Cornell. Carl Sagan served as a technical advisor for the book, and he was also on her dissertation committee. One of her most widely read books is A Natural History of the Senses (1990), which inspired a five-part Nova miniseries, Mystery of the Senses, which she hosted. She even has a molecule named after her: dianeackerone.

In 1970, she married novelist and poet Paul West. They shared a playful obsession with words that was central to their expressions of love for each other. In 2005, Paul suffered a stroke and, as Ackerman wrote, “In the cruelest of ironies for a man whose life revolved around words, with one of the largest working English vocabularies on earth, he had suffered immense damage to the key language areas of his brain and could no longer process language in any form.” His vast vocabulary was reduced to a single syllable: mem.

Even when he recovered the ability to speak, his brain kept substituting wrong words for the right ones, but she encouraged him not to fight his brain, but to just go with it, to say what it was giving him to say. As a result, the hundred little pet names he used to have for her before the stroke have been replaced with non-sequiturs like “my little spice owl,” “my little bucket of hair,” and “blithe sickness of Araby.” Ackerman wrote about the stroke and Paul’s journey back to language in One Hundred Names for Love (2011).

Her book The Zookeeper’s Wife (2007), the true story of how the directors of the Warsaw Zoo saved the lives of 300 Jews following the Nazi invasion of Poland in 1939, was turned into a feature film last year.

Diane Ackerman wrote, “It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery, but what a savage and beautiful country lies in between.”


Today is the birthday of Nobel Prize-winning Danish physicist Niels Bohr, born in Copenhagen (1885). Bohr theorized that atoms were composed of a small, dense nucleus that is orbited by electrons at a fixed distance from the nucleus. He also came up with the revolutionary principle of complementarity: that things like light or electrons can have a dual nature — as a particle and a wave, for example — but we can only experience one aspect of their nature at a time.

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Having reached the end, he continues

The real news these days is about science, and last week the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that life expectancy is dropping in the U.S., and the American male’s average life expectancy is 76.1 years, a figure I reached in October. My expiration date has passed. This comes as a shock, to think that I’m expected to die now, in a state of ignorance, still trying to figure out the basics (What am I here for? Why do rainy days make me happy? Where are my glasses?).

The CDC says life expectancy is declining due to substance abuse and an increase in suicide rates, neither of which apply to me, unless the substances include coffee or unless they now consider lack of daily strenuous exercise to be suicidal. So I am hopeful that I will exceed the average. My dad made it to 88, my mom to 97, so I am counting on reaching 94.

President George Bush reached 94 and that is why his eulogies have been so kind and gentle. The world is not generally so kind to oilmen and Texas Republicans, especially one known for his tangled syntax, whose job for a time was to defend Richard Nixon, but Mr. Bush, as a one-termer, got into less trouble and he outlived his controversies. And he was married to a gallant woman who once said, “I married him because he made me laugh.” A Republican could hope for no greater recommendation.

On the heels of the CDC report came the news from China — the birth of the first genetically edited babies — the door opening to a whole new phase of history, well-designed human beings. Babies coming down the chute, each with an IQ of 143, no allergies or addictive tendencies, no syndromes or complexes, good teeth and strong bones, and eyes and hair in your choice of the many colors available.

We 76.1-year-olds shudder at the thought but we know that our descendants will accept this as commonplace, just as we accept social media as a useful replacement of actual conversation. Designer babies: why not?

I grew up with kids who were deeply flawed in so many ways. There was no therapy back then, just people yelling at you to shape up. I was a very quiet boy, kept to myself, didn’t say much — which back then people thought meant I was gifted, so I went along under that illusion — now they’d say “high-functioning end of the autism spectrum” but autism hadn’t been invented yet — so I was gifted instead. Ignorance spared us from knowing the severity of our problems.

Cruelty was rampant in the schoolyard of my day. We played Pom-pom-pullaway and for most of us it was enough to simply tag a runner, not tackle, kick, or bite him, but for others it was open warfare. In the boys’ lavatory, you had to beware of boys who, as you stood at the trough, would jerk your trousers up so that you’d wet yourself. I’ve lost track of the bullies in my class — I assume they’re in federal penal institutions — and would I feel deprived if genetic editing had been around back then so that everyone would be just as nice as I? I don’t think so.

I sat at supper last night next to a friend with a basketball under her blouse, a little girl fetus due to make her big entrance in mid-January, and so the future is on my mind and what sort of life this heroine will enjoy. She’ll grow up in a house in the woods and I hope the natural world brings her pleasure and at the same time she comes to love our language and to devour it in books. I hope she’ll have a dog. When I am 92, I’d love to see her, tall and rangy, take a pass, go high in the air, and hit a swisher from the free-throw line. Or sit at a piano and play a Chopin étude. Or both. And one day a door will open — maybe math, physics, history, poetry, art — and she’ll go marching through it.

Meanwhile, I must figure out what to do with these bonus years I have coming to me. At 76.1, one’s world gets smaller, the ambition to triumph and conquer has pretty much receded. My glasses sit beside the computer, next to the coffee cup, and there is bread in the kitchen waiting to be toasted and spread with peanut butter. Onward.

One more week, its little successes, etc.

It’s a father’s duty to take at least one long trip with each of his children, the two of you, nobody else along, and now that my daughter and I have traveled by rail, the old 20th Century Limited route from Chicago to New York, the trip Cary Grant took with Eva Marie Saint in North By Northwest, we are ready to take another. Nineteen hours from Chicago’s magnificent Union Station to Manhattan’s wretched Penn Station, including a fast run along the Mohawk and Hudson rivers, and the bond between young woman and her old man is sealed solid.

Highly recommended, especially for us newspaper readers constantly fussed-up over national crises — from a train, you see the solidity of the country, its infrastructure, factories, warehouses, everything working remarkably well.

And now I return to business, which is to move from a big house to a small apartment. I have a habit of taking off my glasses and setting them down and wandering away and forgetting where I set them, which means spending time roaming around searching for them, so we’re moving to a modest apartment to reduce the search area.

The house is in St. Paul, built in 1919  by a prosperous lumbering family (by which I mean a family that was in the lumber business, not a family of heavyset persons who clomp around awkwardly). We bought it because it was sunny and looked out at the Mississippi and now, ten years later, too busy to throw the big raucous parties that the house deserves, a band playing on the terrace, people doing the Lindy Hop and jumping into the fountain, the gin flowing, we’re looking for a buyer. Our friends don’t jump into fountains; they sit around and discuss the crisis in public education.

Meanwhile, I look back at hundreds of hours wasted looking for glasses: a crisis for a man of 76, though, being a writer, I am no stranger to wasted time: wastage comes with the territory. You sit down with a brilliant idea and a few weeks later you have fifty-five pages of mishmash and goulash. It happens to every writer. If physicians worked as effectively as we, their waiting rooms would be littered with dead bodies.

My one success last week was a sonnet, written at 5 a.m. on the day I realized was our wedding anniversary, an original sonnet written out in a clear cursive hand and set on the breakfast table for my wife to find. I heard her sigh with pleasure and she came into my workroom and threw her arms around me. One poem, one reader, one tight protracted embrace: success. The New York Review of Each Other’s Books will not give it a grudging review (“Marriage Sonnet somehow lacks the dark edge of Mr. Keillor’s work at its best”). It represents an hour of work well spent.

This is why a man takes up writing as a profession rather than plumbing or serving in Congress. What can a Congressperson offer his or her lover? A souvenir calendar? Your name on a rest stop on an interstate?

A writer’s situation is so ordinary — it’s like going to a big family dinner and you are seated next to an in-law you’ve never met and you must somehow make conversation. Where to start? She is nicely dressed, fiftyish, glasses, and you want to ask, “What do you do?” but it’s too blunt. So you say, “This morning I spent half an hour looking for my glasses. I need to get a chain to hold them but I hate how they look.”

Either we’ll have a conversation or she will find an excuse to go in the kitchen and pretend to be helpful. Either one is preferable to silence.

It was easy, talking to my daughter on the train. I talked about her childhood to see how far her memory stretches back. She was a joyful child. She was slow to talk, still monosyllabic when other children were speaking in sentences and using the subjunctive mood, but she got vast pleasure from the company of others. She was a hugger and snuggler. She still is.

Writers don’t hug. We try to get close to people by writing to them. Or we get on a train at night and we talk as the lights of cities flash past. Fort Wayne, Cleveland, Toledo. “I love you, Dad,” she says, apropos of nothing and everything. I love you, too, sweetheart.

A Prairie Home Companion An Evening of Story and Song Love & Comedy Tour Solo The Gratitude Tour
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December 16, 2018

Sunday

5:00 p.m. & 8:00 p.m.

Minneapolis, MN

Minneapolis, MN

December 16, 2018

Garrison Keillor returns to Crooner’s with singer Christine DiGiallonardo & pianist Richard Dworsky. Shows at 5:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m.

Radio

The Writer’s Almanac for December 9, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 9, 2018

Today is the birthday of John Milton (1608), who coined over 600 words including ethereal, sublime, impassive, terrific, dismissive, anarchy, and fragrance.

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The Writer’s Almanac for December 8, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 8, 2018

It’s the birthday of humorist and cartoonist James Thurber (1894), who said, “Humor is emotional chaos remembered in tranquility.”

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The Writer’s Almanac for December 7, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 7, 2018

“We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it — for a little while.”
–Willa Cather, born this day in 1873

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The Writer’s Almanac for December 6, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 6, 2018

Today is St. Nicholas Day; tomorrow, good children around the world will wake up with gifts of sweets, oranges, and nuts in their shoes.

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The Writer’s Almanac for December 5, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 5, 2018

It’s the birthday of the essayist and novelist Joan Didion, who opined, “writers are always selling someone out.”

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The Writer’s Almanac for December 4, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 4, 2018

Today is the birthday of Rainer Maria Rilke (1875), who financed his career as a poet by seducing a series of rich noblewomen who would support him while he wrote his books.

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A Prairie Home Companion: December 8, 2007

A Prairie Home Companion: December 8, 2007

Enjoy a special Christmas script, an SFX script about New York living, and the musical stylings of Geoff Muldaur, Ann Hampton Callaway, Howard Levy, and Odetta.

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The Writer’s Almanac for December 3, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 3, 2018

It was on this day in 1839 that 30-year-old Illinois state assemblyman Abraham Lincoln was admitted to practice law in the United States Circuit Court. 

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The Writer’s Almanac for December 2, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 2, 2018

It’s the birthday of novelist Ann Patchett (Los Angeles, 1963), author of Bel Canto and other books, who co-owns Parnassus Books in Nashville, TN.

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The Writer’s Almanac for December 1, 2018

The Writer’s Almanac for December 1, 2018

On this date in 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery, Alabama, bus. She’d complied in the past, but this day, she was tired.

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Writing

Having reached the end, he continues

The real news these days is about science, and last week the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that life expectancy is dropping in the U.S., and the American male’s average life expectancy is 76.1 years, a figure I reached in October. My expiration date has passed. This comes as a shock, to think that I’m expected to die now, in a state of ignorance, still trying to figure out the basics (What am I here for? Why do rainy days make me happy? Where are my glasses?).

Read More

One more week, its little successes, etc.

It’s a father’s duty to take at least one long trip with each of his children, the two of you, nobody else along, and now that my daughter and I have traveled by rail, the old 20th Century Limited route from Chicago to New York, the trip Cary Grant took with Eva Marie Saint in North By Northwest, we are ready to take another. Nineteen hours from Chicago’s magnificent Union Station to Manhattan’s wretched Penn Station, including a fast run along the Mohawk and Hudson rivers, and the bond between young woman and her old man is sealed solid.

Highly recommended, especially for us newspaper readers constantly fussed-up over national crises — from a train, you see the solidity of the country, its infrastructure, factories, warehouses, everything working remarkably well.

Read More

A great task lies before us, but first we sleep

Small sorrows speak; great sorrows are silent. My current small sorrow is a daily flood of junk e-mail — cheap insurance, health nostrums, hernia repair, free loans, travel discounts, an app to find out if your spouse is unfaithful — a stream of crap generated in Orlando. In tiny print at the bottom is “If you wish to unsubscribe, click here,” and I click there and the stuff keeps coming, an infestation of electronic cockroaches.

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What happened Sunday, in case you missed it

Church was practically full last Sunday, with a few slight gaps for skinny fashion models but otherwise S.R.O., and everyone was in an amiable mood what with several babies present for baptism, and then the organ rang out the opening hymn, the one with “teach me some melodious sonnet sung by flaming tongues above” in it, an exciting line for us Episcopalians who rarely get into flaming stuff, and I sang out from the fifth pew near some babies and their handlers, some of whom weren’t familiar with this famous hymn of Christendom, though later, around the baptismal font, they would pledge to renounce the evil powers of this world and bring up the child in the Christian faith, but their ignorance of “Come thou fount of every blessing” suggested that they might bring up the child to play video games on Sunday morning, but what the hey, God accepts them as they be and though with some reluctance so must we, and I’m sorry this sentence got so long.

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The old man repents of his materialism

Standard Time returned in a cold rain on Sunday but no matter. I’m an old man and every day is beautiful. My past is gone, my future is shrinking, and so when I open my eyes in the morning and don’t see angels bending over me, I’m grateful for another day on Earth. There will be no cold rain in Heaven and I will miss that and the chance to complain about it. I went in the bathroom when I awoke and closed the door so that if I fell down with a massive heart attack, I wouldn’t wake my wife, and I put my pants on, left leg first, then the right, not leaning against the wall, for the sheer excitement of it. Some mornings it’s like mounting a bucking horse. And then downstairs to the coffeepot and back to work on my memoir.

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The old man is learning to dance

I went to a fundraiser for my daughter’s school Saturday and wandered out in search of relief and found myself trapped on the dance floor among demented teens writhing and jerking to the throb of a DJ’s explosive sound unit and there was my girl, in a circle of girls holding hands, bouncing around in a tribal ceremony unknown to me, an old man from the Era of Dance Partners. One more reminder, as if I needed it, that soon I must take the Long Walk out onto the ice pack and not return.

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One more beautiful wasted day

Last Wednesday I was walking briskly toward Penn Station in New York and I tripped and took a nosedive, made a three-point landing, rolled onto my side, and within three seconds, three passersby stopped and asked, “Are you okay?” I said, “Just embarrassed,” and when I started to get up and fell again, a fourth joined them. An old lady my age, a young black guy, a construction worker in an orange helmet, and a teenage girl. I limped east on 34th Street, and turned, and the guy in the helmet was watching me. I waved. He waved back.

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It is a good and pleasant thing not to rant

It’s the details of a story that give it life, not the high moral outlook of the thing, but many people find details confusing: it’s righteousness they crave, righteousness as a rationale for anger, and so you have the current surge in harangues and fulminations and the rarity of true storytelling. It’s just human nature. But it’s sad to see.

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Standing around, watching people suffer

The annual marathon ran by our house in St. Paul Sunday morning, a phalanx of flashing lights of police motorcycles, followed by Elisha Barno of Kenya and other African runners, and later the women’s winner, Sinke Biyadgilgn, and a stream of thousands of others, runners, joggers, walkers, limpers. For the sedentary writer standing on the curb, it’s a vision of hard work I am very grateful not to have undertaken. In the time I’d spend training to run 26 miles and 385 yards, I could write a book. When you finish a marathon, all you have to show for it is a pile of damp smelly clothes.

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Columnist salutes a brother columnist, a red one

George Will is a great American conservative essayist and I am an aging liberal doing the best I can, but even in divisive times I am capable of appreciating him, and his recent column for the Washington Post is so excellent, a new prize is needed, the Pulitzer isn’t good enough, we need a Seltzer or a Wurlitzer. You can Google this at your leisure; “Abolish the death penalty” is the title.

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