(for those who require one)
And, of course, that is what all of this is -- all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs -- that song, endlesly reincarnated -- born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 -- same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather
"My master heard me with great appearances of uneasiness in his countenance; because doubting, or not believing, are so little known in this country, that the inhabitants cannot tell how to behave themselves under such circumstances. And I remember, in frequent discourses with my master concerning the nature of manhood in other parts of the world, having occasion to talk of lying and false representation, it was with much difficulty that he comprehended what I meant, although he had otherwise a most acute judgment. For he argued thus: 'that the use of speech was to make us understand one another, and to receive information of facts; now, if any one said the thing which was not, these ends were defeated, because I cannot properly be said to understand him; and I am so far from receiving information, that he leaves me worse than in ignorance; for I am led to believe a thing black, when it is white, and short, when it is long.' And these were all the notions he had concerning that faculty of lying, so perfectly well understood, and so universally practised, among human creatures."
-- Jonathan Swift
For those among us who despair at the dwlindling number of writers who can truly wield a sentence, some extremely sad news crosses the wires this evening: David Halberstam was killed earlier today in an automobile accident in Menlo Park, CA.
He was, as the obituaries would say, 73.
Of course, he was more than just another New Journalist (though he was among the finest of that species), and more than just a best-selling author with a Pulitzer all his own. Covering the earliest stages of the United States' invasion of South Vietnam for The New York Times, Halberstam's dispatches were so blunt in their portrait of the rapidly deteriorating Diem regime, and so at variance with Washington's own version of events, that then-President John F. Kennedy had the Times' publisher, Arthur Ochs 'Punch' Sulzberger, reassign his ass to the Paris desk (and that's where he went). But he went on. With 1965's The Making of a Quagmire and the majestic The Best and the Brightest (1972), Halberstam established himself as the only journalist in America who could grasp the full spectrum of that blood-soaked folly in Southeast Asia; seeing it as no less than the demonic spawn of third-rate academics fashioning themselves into an intellectual/managerial elite.
True, he wasn't the only journalist in Vietnam to openly challenge the official line in his reporting (in fact, the above photo, from 1963, shows Halberstam, on the left, with two of the others: Malcolm Browne of the Associated Press and fellow Times maverick Neil Sheehan), and you could never call him a radical with a straight face. But he always devoted himself, even when his work reached a nadir of relevance (his books on Baseball are . . . problematic), to getting the story in all its protean detail.
I think you would agree that the contrast to our present-day reportorial class . . . those J-school grads who content themselves with the magic tricks of CentCom handouts and Pentagon briefings . . . is incalculable.
(No. 12 in a series of 50 from Player's Navy Cut Cigarettes)
Claudette Colbert was born in Paris on September 13th, 1905, and christened Claudette Cauchoin. In 1913 she moved with her family to America, and finished off her education in New York by attending an art school, where a chance meeting with a playwright resulted in a small part in a new production. This was in 1924 and she quickly won fame on Broadway. Her first film, a silent, was made between stage productions in New York, and after two talkies she was given a Hollywood contract. Among her latest successes are It Happened One Night, Cleopatra and Imitation of Life.