Boris Johnson, via
Recent links of note:
Why Bloomberg Won't Run for President
When Political Punditry Was Born
Boris in the wilderness
First hearings held in the Hague over alleged cultural heritage war crimes
From our pages:
Coates Contra Mundum
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by James Bowman
Professor John McWhorter, via
He’s at it again. The Wall Street Journal at the weekend ran another piece by Professor John McWhorter of Columbia heralding the increasingly common theatrical practice of translating the plays of Shakespeare into simpler, more contemporary language in order to facilitate comprehension. Or at least what audiences wishing to be spared the trouble of understanding what Shakespeare actually wrote believe is comprehension. It is Dr. McWhorter’s purpose to flatter that belief and to reassure those who want Shakespeare without difficulty, Shakespeare pre-digested for easy swallowing, that they are quite right to do so.
But Shakespeare is difficult, and if he is not difficult he is not Shakespeare anymore. Any translation is not the genuine article but something adapted to the audience’s own presumptively limited capacity to understand him. In the name of “accessibility” it is not to be allowed to make up its own mind about his meaning but rather to be left undisturbed in the naïve assumption that he thought and spoke and wrote very much as we do about the world. Those who have taught Shakespeare to young people know the result. They do not actually learn anything about him or the times in which he wrote or the people he wrote about or for, but instead are merely confirmed in their own prejudices and encouraged to congratulate themselves for being so by their association with the Shakespearean “brand.”
“Shakespeare’s English is so far removed from the English of 2015 that it often interferes with our own comprehension,” writes Professor McWhorter. But isn’t this a bit like saying that the differential calculus is so far removed from simple arithmetic that it interferes with our comprehension? Well, yes. But it is our comprehension of it, not of arithmetic, which is in question. You do not facilitate the comprehension of something by translating it into something else, you only confuse it further, for in the new struggle to comprehend whatever the something else is, you have simply abandoned your attempt to comprehend the thing that has been translated.
Here is a professor, which once implied a person with something to profess, a body of knowledge which it was his job to impart to others, telling us that Shakespeare qua Shakespeare must simply be given up. “We cannot reach up to a meaning that is no longer available to us,” he claims in The Wall Street Journal. No longer available to us? He himself has just explained the meaning to us—in this case by noting that “generous” in Shakespeare often meant “noble.” It’s certainly available to him then. What kind of patronizing nonsense is it for a professor to tell us that we cannot hope to match his own scholarly attainments and had better turn instead to Shakespeare for dummies?
But Dr. McWhorter professes not Shakespeare nor even English but something called “linguistics,” a relatively new academic discipline founded on the assumption that linguistic reality lies not in the words and larger linguistic structures of any actually existing language but at the level of certain hypothetical “deep structures” of the human brain which transcend linguistic particularity and thus constitute a kind of already existing, in-born universal language of which the language that we actually speak—or our ancestors spoke—can only ever be an translation itself.
Since, therefore, Shakespeare himself is only a translation of something else, we may be supposed to do him and his meanings no violence by translating them into the words which we must suppose he would write today, if he were writing in today’s English. Doubtless it is his pride in his own knowledge of linguistics which makes Professor McWhorter, or any of Professor McWhorter’s students, so confident of reproducing exactly what Shakespeare meant to write. Those of us with more experience of traditional literary translation or criticism will remain much less confident that what Shakespeare meant is so easily recoverable, or recoverable at all.
The professor’s most recent book is called The Language Hoax: Why the World Looks the Same in Any Language. It is intended to disprove what he regards as the naive perception of past scholars—known as the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis—that language colors thought and so to demonstrate, in the words of his publisher’s summary, “that all humans process life the same way, regardless of their language.” I find the proposition, besides betraying the book’s (and linguistics’) utopian-universalist assumptions, self-refuting, since the words “process life” are not translatable into any other existing language but the academic idiolect—and certainly not into Shakespearean English.
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Criterion Books, an imprint of The New Criterion, is excited to introduce to you Peter Pettus’s fascinating The March In Memory: From Selma to Montgomery. The photographs collected in this volume were taken during the 1965 Civil Rights March from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama. Never before published, this is the work of an artist photographer who wanted to tell the story directly and simply, not as a photojournalist, but as a participant in this national and political demonstration. The camera looks deep into the faces of those who were there—black, white, old, young, Northern, and Southern—at the time when America approached one of its greatest times of crisis.
Our own James Panero also interviewed Peter on this historic event and the genesis of his book, which can be listened to below.
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Yundi is the pianist who used to be known as Yundi Li. Lately, he has made a bid to become the best-known one-named pianist since Solomon (the great British pianist, born Solomon Cutner, who lived from 1902 to 1988). Or maybe I should say Liberace?
Yundi was born in China in 1982. Eighteen years later, he won the Chopin competition in Warsaw, becoming the youngest person ever to do so. Since then, he has been known particularly for his playing of Chopin.
He has now recorded the Preludes, which is to say, the twenty-four preludes classified as Op. 28. Chopin completed two others. Yundi appends those as bonuses.
Chopin wrote his famous twenty-four in the late 1830s. There is one prelude in each of the twenty-four keys (twelve major and twelve minor). Unlike Bach, Chopin did not write fugues—just the preludes. More than a century later, Shostakovich, following Bach, would write both preludes and fugues.
Chopin’s preludes are, among other things, brief. Putting it differently, they are marvels of brevity. Almost all of them last under two minutes. Many last under a minute. There is one long one—or “long” one—lasting almost five minutes. This is the beauty in D-flat major, nicknamed the “Raindrop.”
As longtime readers know, I’m forever complaining about the completeness craze (as I call it). People think, mistakenly, that they have to play all of a category. There is no reason—none—to play all four of Chopin’s Scherzos in a row. And there is good reason not to. There is no reason—none—to play all four of Chopin’s Ballades.
But how about the Preludes? Are they a set? Frankly, they work both as individual pieces, or pieces to be played in clusters, and as a complete set. But people are afraid to play just a few of something now. They fear that musicologists or critics will jump down their throats.
Chopin’s first prelude, the one in C major, is both a wonderful piece on its own and a wonderful opener. This composer knew what he was doing. The C-major is a piece for which the word “gladsome” was invented. How does Yundi play it? Pretty well, though there is a certain tension, a certain over-muscularity.
Let me assure you that I will not critique all twenty-four tracks (or twenty-six, counting the bonuses). But I will make some generalities (and add some more specifics to boot).
Yundi is most successful, I think, when the preludes are fast, rippling, and virtuosic. He is less successful when they are slow and songful. Now and then, I can virtually see the hammers go up and down. That is, Yundi could use greater legato, a better sense of cantabile. There is a certain tightness in his playing, which does Chopin no favors.
Take the Prelude in B minor. It should really melt—but does not quite do so in these hands.
Tempo is important in these pieces, and Yundi has an admirable sense of it. The Prelude in E minor, for example, is thankfully not too slow. It is marked Largo, but it must move. And it still has its poignancy at a moving tempo.
What about the Prelude in C minor, that fat, stout, chordy thing? Yundi plays it with due fatness and stoutness. But he pounds just a little. How about the “Raindrop”? It’s not simple enough for me; it is a little on the fussy side. Also, it’s not glassy enough for me; it’s a little on the choppy side. This prelude should entrance, and it does not, or at least it didn’t for me on first hearing.
We are in the realm of the subjective. And let me say that Yundi always plays creditably, and you will want to judge for yourself (although you are kind to take my word for it).
This is a short album, at just under thirty-nine minutes. I used to think of CDs as lasting about an hour and twenty minutes. Is this new CD a rip-off? I honestly don’t know. I don’t know whether many people buy CDs anymore. We live in a world of downloads and whatnot. To people under thirty, is a CD like an LP?
One thing this new CD did was make me appreciate the Chopin Preludes anew. They are ingenious pieces. When I was a kid, I loved Chopin. Then I went through a period of snobby anti-Romanticism. These days, I appreciate Chopin’s genius more than ever.
I looked up what Wikipedia has to say about the twenty-four Preludes, and read a quotation by Henry Finck, an American music critic who lived from 1854 to 1926. “If all piano music in the world were to be destroyed, excepting one collection, my vote should be cast for Chopin’s Preludes.”
Wow. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but I understand.
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Tony Curanaj, The Gumball Incident, 2015, oil on canvas, 28x15.5 in/ Courtesy: Eleventh Street Arts
Sign up to receive “Critic's Notebook” in your inbox every week—it only takes a few seconds and it's completely free! “Critic's Notebook” is a weekly preview of the best to read, see, and hear in New York and beyond, compiled by the editors of The New Criterion.
This week: Bores, Bluets, and Anne Boleyn.
Fiction: London Lit Weekend (October 3–4): There is, in theory, little more tedious than the literary festival. The very phrase conjures up images of two types of bores, each insidious on its own but even more tiresome in concert. The first is the specialist, that narrowly focused academe who manages to turn all conversations into a distressing enumeration of the topic at hand’s relation to his own work. The other is— for lack of a better term—the “lit groupie,” that enthusiastic reader of all the newest fiction, who just can’t wait to tell you about his pet theory on the way that, “when you really think about it, it all comes back to Virginia Woolf, doesn’t it?” So why am I recommending a literature festival this week? Because when something like this is directed by the TLS and sponsored by Hatchard’s, the experience has a real chance to transcend the usual boilerplate programming. With a series of talks addressing questions such as “How did writers respond to Thatcher?” and “Why do the French delude themselves about their past?,” the weekend promises to be a serious but not entirely humorless exercise in the intellectual arts, much like the TLS itself. Readers with the good fortune to be in London would be well advised to find themselves at Kings Place this upcoming weekend. —BR
Nonfiction: Jack Kemp: The Bleeding-Heart Conservative Who Changed America, by Morton Kondracke and Fred Barnes (Sentinel): Anyone who's watched an entire football game will have realized that football announcers (and fans) love to reminisce about some of the game’s more influential players. One such player—Jack Kemp—certainly left his mark on football history, though his legacy now primarily rests in a different arena. Morton Kondracke and Fred Barnes give us the first extensive biography of the star quarterback/Congressman/“bleeding heart conservative” whose economic policies changed the Republican party. Many of Kemp’s ideas are still being debated, some are now irrelevant, but his controversial claim in 2006 that soccer is “still boring” is still true. —RH
Poetry: Bluets, by Maggie Nelson (Wave Books): As summer dilutes into autumn, which will unwillingly wade into winter, some of us are unable to refrain from feeling blue. Maggie Nelson’s Bluets confronts us with a similar blue, one that does not have any identifiable pigmentation or specific emotional connotation. It is just blue. And it is this blue that she writes about for nearly 90 pages, ruminating on divisions and divinities of color with statements such as, "I must admit that not all blues thrill me. I am not overly interested in the matte stone of turquoise, for example, and a tepid, faded indigo usually leaves me cold.” In plain moments like these, sadly, we’re not so thrilled either.
But Bluets is also filled with plenty of perplexed promiscuity and cross-genre flip-flopping, a delicacy for any contemporary poet’s palate attracted to wandering ideas grounded only slightly in one faint connection: you guessed it, blue. Is it a sense? A smell? An allusion to idyllic grandeur? Not even Maggie Nelson knows. The poems, paragraphs, diary entries, whatever they may be, are so conscious of their consciousness that readers are unsure if they are lost in lucid dreaminess or nettled in a maze of Nelson’s personal torture, the chambers of which are her self-appointed shortcomings. When Nelson restrains the Freudian readings of herself and rather just says the damn thing, blue becomes less deluging and more delicate. This is where the piece prospers most, when it is most poetic. As she veers away from garbled prose, she succeeds with lines such as, "Sometimes I worry that if I am not moved by a blue thing, I may be completely despaired, or dead. At times I fake my enthusiasm. At others, I fear I am incapable of communicating the depth of it." If only she would worry less about communicating depth and just bring us in deeper, perhaps she would have a better chance at redeeming the overly narrative story from itself. But not all is lost. When Nelson does approach the color with subtlety rather than racing to retrieve it, the boring moments of blue are stifled and we finally find something worthy of reading—big, blue diamonds buried in the rough. —ID
Art: “The Still Life Show” (Through October 16, 2015): Just a block away from PS1 in Long Island City, the Grand Central Atelier continues to stake its claim as the anti-MOMA. In a former warehouse, the classical revivalist teacher Jacob Collins continues to run his ever-expanding, off-the-grid school for painters who want to study traditional technique. Like last year, the school has organized a fall “Still Life Show” of teachers and students in a space they call Eleventh Street Arts, carved out of the front rooms of the school. This year the standouts are examples of trompe l'oeil, where hyper-realistic objects appear to float above the surface of the canvas in the once-popular style of painters such as Victor Dubreuil, John Haberle, and William Harnett. Like those earlier examples, the results at Eleventh Street Arts are fun to see. Samuel Hung offers examples of toys, cards, and candy apparently tacked to a cracking plaster wall in high relief. Tony Curanaj, meanwhile, is showing a breathtaking tour-de-force of table cloth and beadboard with a gumball machine so irresistible, it tempts the eye of the viewer just as it does the bees and birds seeming to fly around it. Read more about this show and others in my Gallery Chronicle in our forthcoming October issue. —JP
Music: Anna Bolena, by Donizetti, at the Metropolitan Opera (September 26, 2015–January 9, 2016): Last week, I plugged an upcoming performance of a star soprano in an uncommon opera. After seeing the performance on Saturday, I'm afraid I'm going to have to plug it again: Sondra Radvanovsky's turn in the title role of Donizetti's Anna Bolena was one of the most thrilling performances I have had the pleasure to witness, and I cannot urge readers strongly enough to go see her in person. She is a superb soprano at her vocal peak, and in Anne Boleyn has found a role with plenty of room to explore and leave a lasting personal stamp. Read more here, and hurry to the box office. —ECS
From the archive: A see of troubles, by Marc M. Arkin: Speaking of Anne Boleyn, here is Marc M. Arkin on the life and death of Thomas Cranmer, from January 1997.
From our latest issue: Historical Acts, by Kyle Smith: In our forthcoming October issue, Kyle Smith will review Broadway’s breakout hit Hamilton. In the meantime, here is his review of plays from the September issue.
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Philip Levine, via
If anyone ever wanted to acquaint himself with the gritty, mechanical kingdom of 1950s depressive Detroit, he should simply pick up any collection of Philip Levine’s (1928–2015) work and feel the exhaust from flames or beaded sweat dripping from some laborer’s brow almost instantaneously. Or one could have attended the memorial service held by Levine's peers this past week at the Cooper Union where Levine’s sacred, suburban space was recreated and memorialized through a reading of his work. The memory of our 2011 Poet Laureate, who passed in February 2015, was cradled fondly in The Great Hall by poets, peers, and strangers alike, all somehow influenced by Levine's expansive writing career. The lineup of friends who presented included Juan Felipe Herrera, Toi Derricotte, Dorianne Laux, Sharon Olds, Tom Sleigh, and others, and the night ended with a sentimental showing of Levine reading his piece "Burial Rites," his wife, Fran, watching delicately from the front row. The lines, "Think of it/ my name, no longer a portion of me . . . the roots of the eucalyptus/ I planted in '73/ a tiny me taking nothing/ giving nothing, free at last" managed to stir something in all of us as Levine's voice hovered from the speakers and hung in the high ceilings. Perhaps it was a shared, sad gratitude for the late poet, or maybe it was the visceral, introspective response his work often conjures, a consideration of what we too will leave behind.
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This year marks the release, and revisiting, of what many consider to be a seminal moment in television history: ABC's debates between William F. Buckley, Jr and Gore Vidal. In their film, Best of Enemies, Robert Gordon and Morgan Neville bring the famous debates to a contemporary audience that may only know them through dinner party whispers; 1968 seems a long time ago, indeed. Much has been said about the debates: how Buckley lost his cool, how Vidal "played dirty," but the only way to assess these conjectures is to actually see the film.
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Eustache Le Sueur, Caligula Depositing the Ashes of his Mother and Brother in the Tomb of his Ancestors, 1647/ Royal Collection Trust/© Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2015
Recent links of note:
Beneath Chicago’s Gloss
Monuments to Liberty
Jeremy Corbyn isn’t like Caligula’s horse—he’s like Caligula
In Belgium, Mayonnaise Makers Want a New Recipe
From our pages:
The untold story of Reconstruction
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The composer, Witold Lutoslawski, via
Witold Lutoslawski, the Polish composer, lived from 1913 to 1994. In other words, he was born just before World War I and died three years after the collapse of the Soviet empire. Comes now a CD comprising two of his works: the Piano Concerto and the Symphony No. 2.
The concerto is one of the more popular piano concertos in the modern repertory. You may say that this is not a large claim. You would be right. In any event, Leif Ove Andsnes played this work with the New York Philharmonic in the 2001–02 season. In my “New York Chronicle” for the magazine, I said, “The Lutoslawski is a clever and exciting work,” which may well be “here to stay.”
Lutoslawski wrote it, or completed it, in 1988. It is dedicated to the pianist Krystian Zimerman, the composer’s fellow Pole, who premiered it at the Salzburg Festival. Later, he recorded it, with the composer on the podium. Zimerman has been the work’s champion—and it’s he who is the soloist on the new CD.
This CD, from Deutsche Grammophon, comes from a live performance, or performances, in September 2013. The orchestra is the Berlin Philharmonic, and the conductor is its music director, Sir Simon Rattle.
The concerto is in four movements, and requires virtuosity on the part of both soloist and orchestra. Nimbleness is the order of the day. As in Tchaikovsky, the woodwinds have a particular chance to show off. Sometimes the music is shimmering and French. Sometimes it is aggressive, quasi-violent. The concerto is crafted with care and skill.
In my above-mentioned chronicle, I called the work “clever and exciting,” and it is. But I sometimes wonder whether Lutoslawski is playing around with composition rather than really composing. To me, the concerto gets a little busy. The motto of contemporary music could be “Busy busy busy.” On some pages, the Lutoslawski concerto strikes me as an exercise by a very smart man, who, in fact, started out in math.
But I will stick with “clever and exciting,” and also “precise and refined.” And “impassioned and beautiful.” The forces on this CD do the concerto full justice. They have all the virtuosity, understanding, and commitment required.
Lutoslawski’s Symphony No. 2 predates the concerto by twenty years. He completed it in 1967. It is in just two movements, but fairly long movements. And those movements bear interesting, even charming, markings: “Hésitant” and “Direct.” Lutoslawski employs a method that he dubbed “limited aleatoricism,” that second word meaning “the incorporation of chance into the process of creation.” (I have quoted trusty Wikipedia.)
I will be brief. The first movement, “Hésitant,” is to my ears something of a math test. I do not doubt its brilliance. I have some doubts about its musical worth. “Direct” brings more math, but also much excitement, or certainly noise—rhythmically arresting noise. “Noise,” I hasten to say, is not (necessarily) a putdown. It’s sometimes hard to have music without it.
Obviously, I’m not quite committed to the Symphony No. 2. But Sir Simon and the Berliners are. And you may be too, on hearing it. The new CD can serve as an introduction to Lutoslawski, presented by people who love and appreciate him.
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Professor Snyder's latest book, via
It’s de rigueur on college campuses to pledge allegiance to the climate agenda, denouncing Luddites who impede progress on the climate policies that all right-thinking people support. Those of us who work in academia are used to this ritual, but every once in a while an academic decides to distinguish himself by making his denunciation louder and more strident than the rest of the crowd. A good example is the Yale Professor Timothy Snyder’s op-ed “The Next Genocide” in the September 13th edition of The New York Times. Prof. Snyder compares those who disagree with him on climate change to a Nazi Einsatzgruppe commander slaughtering a Jewish baby. The appropriate reaction to this metaphor is an eye roll, but Professor Snyder’s vicious diatribe has some utility, since it incorporates all the basic climate change fallacies in one neat, nasty package. A refutation is in order.
Professor Snyder’s analysis of World War II is quite misleading. In his view, Hitler invaded the Soviet Union to secure food. Germany’s problem was not feeding its people, which they had done quite nicely before World War I. Food was readily available on the world market at distressed prices during the 1930s, and many countries, including Britain, relied on imports to meet their food needs. The problem was that, during World War I, the British had blockaded Germany, leading to widespread misery and even starvation. Hitler had no trouble feeding his people during peacetime, but needed to secure food supplies for his genocidal war for the supremacy of the Master Race. The war was not needed for food. The food was needed for the war.
Professor Snyder claims that “Climate change threatens to provoke a new ecological panic,” and proceeds to offer the Rwandan and Sudanese civil wars as examples of fighting over scarce food resources, a circumstance he attributes to man-made climate change. He goes on to claim, “Climate change has also brought uncertainties about food supply back to the center of great power politics.” In reality, the modest increase in atmospheric carbon dioxide experienced in recent decades has been a major factor in the growth of food supplies. Carbon dioxide is, after all, plant food. According to the World Bank, over the past 50 years, world population has doubled, but food production has increased by a factor of 3½, allowing a substantial share of the world’s poor to achieve food security. In Rwanda, food production more than doubled between 1965 and the onset of the civil war in the early 1990s. After falling precipitously during the fighting, Rwandan crop output recovered dramatically after the war, more than doubling since 1995. It seems more reasonable to conclude that the Rwandan Civil War caused the food shortage, not the other way around. China’s food production, which causes Professor Snyder so much worry, has grown by a factor of nearly 6 in the last 50 years, while its population has doubled. Chinese food output is still outpacing its population.
Like many climate activists, Professor Snyder sees climate change as an argument between scientists and “certain political and business elites.” In his view, “These deniers tend to present the empirical findings of scientists as a conspiracy and question the validity of science—an intellectual stance that is uncomfortably close to Hitler’s.” Catastrophic anthropogenic climate change is not a fact, but rather a hypothesis to be tested against observations. In reality, the catastrophic climate hypothesis is based on a series of assumptions about the way the climate system works and is supported neither by theory nor by empirical evidence. Climate activists have predicted for years that increased atmospheric carbon dioxide would cause an alarming rise in temperature, reaching levels later this century that would bring widespread global disruption and misery. Atmospheric temperatures, however, have remained flat for the last 15 years or so. Since the predicted catastrophe has not actually occurred, activists have worked hard to substitute the notion of consensus for that of science. The catastrophic climate hypothesis must be true, they argue, since so many prominent people, both scientists and others, support it. Many scientists with opposing views have been unable to get funding or have simply been intimidated into silence. It’s the climate activists’ view that represents the true denial of science, harking back to the Middle Ages when the Church insisted that all questions be resolved not by empirical evidence but by committees of experts reading scripture, with dissenters burned at the stake. I agree with Professor Snyder that denying science is dangerous for modern societies, but climate activists are on the wrong side of this issue.
Professor Snyder makes the odd claim that “So far, poor people in Africa and the Middle East have borne the brunt of the suffering [caused by climate change].” Everyone agrees that global temperatures have increased a little bit over the last century, but the essence of the climate hypothesis is not the modest warming of the past but the predicted accelerated warming in the future with it catastrophic effects. How exactly are these effects already manifest when the temperature acceleration has not yet occurred? In our universe, effect cannot precede cause. Climate activists offer Hurricane Sandy, the California drought and wildfires, the severe winter in the Northeast, melting glaciers, the drought in Sudan, and every other weather variation as support for the climate hypothesis. In reality, we have no reason to believe that these events are outside the normal range of climate variability. These occurrences may be beyond our personal experience, but climate varies not just over decades but over centuries and millennia. In one particularly strange assertion, Prof. Snyder worries about extremism in the “parched Middle East.” I may be wrong, but I don’t believe the desertification of the Middle East and North Africa is a twentieth-century phenomenon. Recent satellite observations show that many areas of the Earth are actually greening up, partly as a result of the fertilization effect of atmospheric carbon dioxide.
We can all agree that the plight of world’s poor should be of concern to everyone. The climate policies currently under debate in the United States and Europe, however, have virtually no impact on atmospheric greenhouse gas concentrations and thus no climate impact. The United Nations’ Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), the font of all wisdom for the Climate Community, calls for a reduction in global greenhouse gas emissions of 30–60% by the year 2050. President Obama’s pledge to reduce US greenhouse gas emissions by 26–28% by 2025 would contribute only a 3–4% reduction, no more than a rounding error. Climate policies do, however, raise energy prices, which disproportionately hurts the poor. Professor Snyder’s misunderstanding of the climate issue leads him to call for actions that would reduce the access of the world’s poor to fossil fuels, which are a primary source of mobility, productivity, and growth. Caring is no substitute for understanding.
Yale University policy states, “It is the hope of the University that all members of the community act with civility and respect.” Professor Snyder shows an extraordinary lack of understanding of the climate issue, yet calls those who disagree with him genocidal Nazi baby killers. Is that what Yale means by “civil”?
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In the Aeneid, the Roman poet Virgil sang of "arms and a man" (Arma virumque cano). Month in and month out, The New Criterion expounds with great clarity and wit on the art, culture, and political controversies of our times. With postings of reviews, essays, links, recs, and news, Armavirumque seeks to continue this mission in accordance with the timetable of the digital age.
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