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Five surprising facts about baseball [map]

ArushiR — Mon, 09 Mar 2026 12:30:00 +0000

Five surprising facts about baseball [map]

As a game, baseball has multiple antecedents and ancestors, most notably an English children’s game called rounders. But as an organized spectator sport, baseball is native to the United States.

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Trailblazing paths: iconic women through time [reading list]

Cassandra Ammerman — Sun, 01 Mar 2026 13:30:00 +0000

Trailblazing paths: iconic women through time [reading list]

In honor of Women’s History Month, we’re celebrating trailblazing paths taken by women whose courage and vision transformed societies. This reading list features five biographies that highlight women who resisted systemic barriers, confronted entrenched hierarchies, and fought for the dignity and safety of others. From activists and reformers to scientists and cultural leaders, these stories reveal how women—often overlooked or silenced—have pushed boundaries, protected the vulnerable, and inspired movements for justice. Together, they remind us that progress toward gender equality has always been driven by those who refused to accept the limits imposed on them.

1. A Slumless America: Mary K. Simkhovitch and the Dream of Affordable Housing by Betty Boyd Caroli

In this biography, Mary K. Simkhovitch emerges as a pioneering force in the settlement house movement and a central architect of American public housing reform. Betty Boyd Caroli traces Simkhovitch’s founding of Greenwich House in 1902 and her influential role in shaping early 20th‑century urban policy, including her leadership in New Deal housing initiatives, the creation of the National Housing Conference, and co‑authoring the landmark 1937 National Housing Act. Balancing an unconventional marriage, family life, and a relentless public mission, Simkhovitch became widely admired—once even depicted as a “Wonder Woman of History”—for her ability to confront urban poverty while advocating fiercely for immigrant communities and affordable housing. This biography, rich with historical insight, positions her as an enduringly relevant figure whose work helped define the federal government’s responsibility to support low‑income families.

2. American Infidelity: The Gilded Age Battle Over Freethought, Free Love, and Feminism by Steven K. Green

American Infidelity traces the dramatic late‑19th‑century clash between a dominant evangelical culture and a rising coalition of freethinkers, feminists, and sexual reformers who sought greater personal liberty and challenged religious authority. Historian Steven K. Green follows this struggle through the activists who fought for birth control, divorce reform, and women’s autonomy, as well as the moral crusaders—including Elizabeth Cady Stanton—who worked to suppress them. Revealing how these “infidels” pushed for a more open, rational, and egalitarian society, Green shows how their movements were ultimately stifled but left a powerful legacy that continues to shape today’s debates over reproductive rights, censorship, and the role of religion in public life.

3. COMBEE: Harriet Tubman, the Combahee River Raid, and Black Freedom During the Civil War by Edda L. Fields-Black

Winner of the 2025 Pulitzer Prize for History

This book recounts the often‑overlooked story of Harriet Tubman’s 1863 Combahee River Raid, a daring Civil War operation in which she led Union spies, scouts, and two Black regiments up South Carolina’s river to destroy major rice plantations and liberate 730 enslaved people. Drawing on newly examined documents—including Tubman’s pension file and plantation records—historian Edda L. Fields‑Black, a descendant of one of the raiders, brings to life the enslaved families and communities who escaped to freedom that night and later helped shape the Gullah Geechee culture. Through this vivid reconstruction, the book reveals one of Tubman’s most extraordinary military achievements and the enduring legacy of those who fought for liberation.

4. The Things She Carried: A Cultural History of the Purse in America by Kathleen B. Casey

The Things She Carried reveals how purses, bags, and sacks have long been critical tools for women asserting privacy, autonomy, and political power in America. Kathleen Casey shows how these objects—from 19th‑century reticules to the handbags carried by immigrant workers, civil rights activists, and Rosa Parks herself—became symbolic extensions of women’s rights struggles, allowing them to navigate male‑dominated spaces, protect personal dignity, and challenge discriminatory systems. Drawing on sources ranging from vintage purses to photographs, advertisements, and legal archives, Casey uncovers how women of all backgrounds used the bags they carried to assert agency, cross restrictive social boundaries, and shape pivotal moments in the fight for gender and racial equality.

5. Frances Oldham Kelsey, the FDA, and the Battle against Thalidomide by Cheryl Krasnick Warsh

This biography tells the remarkable story of Dr. Frances Oldham Kelsey, the FDA medical officer who, in the early 1960s, prevented the dangerous drug thalidomide from being approved in the United States, sparing countless Americans from catastrophic birth defects. A pioneering scientist who earned advanced degrees in an era with few female researchers, Kelsey resisted intense pressure from Merrell Pharmaceutical and spent nineteen months demanding solid evidence of the drug’s safety. Her unwavering stance not only kept thalidomide off the U.S. market but also spurred sweeping reforms in drug regulation through the 1962 Drug Amendment, which established modern clinical trials, informed consent, and stronger FDA oversight. Drawing on archival records and family papers, the book reveals her lifelong commitment to ethical science, her battles against industry hostility and institutional barriers, and her enduring legacy as a vigilant protector of public health.

Explore our extended list of titles on Bookshop (UK | US) and Amazon (UK | US).

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The “Freest Writer” in Stalin’s Russia

Cassandra Ammerman — Thu, 26 Feb 2026 13:30:00 +0000

The “Freest Writer” in Stalin’s Russia

Laurence Sterne, the eighteenth-century author of Tristram Shandy and A Sentimental Journey, might seem an unlikely figure to capture the imagination of early Soviet intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s. The Bolshevik Revolution dismantled the cultural institutions of the old regime, displaced much of the pre-revolutionary intelligentsia, and set out to create a new literary canon for a new Soviet reader. From the outset, literature was subject to political control.By the 1930s, the state increasingly defined a canon of approved literary classics, while the newly-established doctrine of Socialist Realism began to dominate official literary institutions.

What place could there be, in such a system, for an eccentric Yorkshire clergyman whose popularity in Russia had peaked more than a century earlier, at the turn of the nineteenth century? And yet, in the two decades following the 1917 Revolution, Sterne’s name began to appear with notable frequency in lecture halls, private correspondence, diaries, and unpublished manuscripts. Laurence Sterne and His Readers in Early Soviet Russia: The Secret Order of Shandeans traces Sterne’s reappearance in early Soviet culture. Drawing on letters, diaries, translation drafts, marginal notes, illustrations, and editorial correspondences, the book reconstructs how Soviet readers encountered Sterne and what they sought in his writing.

In mid-1920s Leningrad, an undergraduate student Edvarda Kucherova wrote to a friend: “You cannot imagine how much I adore Sterne. In a very personal way and with such gratitude, for he helps me live. Thanks to him, it is so clear that everything that is closest and most desirable is always so far away from us. Sterne taught me to understand and endure this.”

One of Sterne’s most influential early Soviet advocates was Viktor Shklovsky, a literary critic associated with the experimental literary criticism of the 1920s. In a 1921 pamphlet devoted to Tristram Shandy, Shklovsky presented Sterne as a ‘radical revolutionary of form’ whose digressive prose anticipated the poetry of the Russian Futurists and paintings by Picasso. Sterne’s Soviet afterlife, however, was not confined to the avant-garde circles. By the 1930s, as official discourse turned against modernism, Sterne continued to be read, but attention shifted from questions of form to philosophical and psychological concerns. Despite this change, one association remained constant. Sterne was repeatedly linked, whether approvingly or critically, with artistic and inner freedom.

The book takes Sterne as a point of entry into the everyday intellectual life of Soviet translators, critics, and readers. The circulation of works by the ‘freest writer of all times’ (as Friedrich Nietzsche once called Sterne) an author with no obvious utility for the Soviet state, allows the reconstruction of a form of intellectual life that existed alongside, and partly outside, the enforced unanimity of Stalinist culture.

Readers turned to Sterne for many reasons. In 1937, the celebrated Soviet writer Isaac Babel and his wife, Antonina Pirozhkova, consulted A Sentimental Journey while searching for a name for their newborn daughter. Among those drawn to Sterne in the 1930s was Gustav Shpet, one of Russia’s leading philosophers before the Revolution. Excluded from academic philosophy under Soviet rule, Shpet turned to literary translation as a means of both economic and intellectual subsistence. In his notes to an unfinished translation of Tristram Shandy, he read Sterne as a belated Renaissance humanist, an author who sought distance from his own times by immersing himself in older comic traditions. Shpet’s fate, however, underscores the limits of such refuge. Arrested during the Great Terror, he was executed in 1937.

The book follows figures from very different backgrounds. One of them is the Ukrainian critic Stepan Babookh. Before becoming a literary editor, most notably one of the editors of the 1935 Russian edition of A Sentimental Journey, he had been a worker, soldier and Bolshevik activist. Babookh discovered English literature while being held as a POW by the British during the war, first in an internment camp in India and later in a London prison. A self-taught intellectual of the new Soviet generation, he chose to abandon a Party career in order to become a scholar of English literature.

In the late 1930s, Izrail Vertsman, a scholar of Marxist aesthetics, defended the first Soviet doctoral dissertation devoted to Sterne. Vertsman belonged to a group of critics known as “the Current”, led by philosophers Mikhail Lifshitz and Georg Lukács. These intellectuals advocated more sophisticated forms of Marxist criticism, opposing the crude (in their view) sociological approaches of the 1920s. For Vertsman, Sterne embodied the spirit of creative renewal he associated with “the Current”, yet his private letters reveal the difficulty of reconciling his deep admiration of Sterne with the intellectual constraints of the Stalinist 1930s.

Through these intertwined lives, the book reconstructs what it calls the secret order of Shandeans—an imagined community of readers ranging from literary scholars, translators, and high school students to soldiers and Gulag prisoners. For many of them, Sterne’s humour offered an imaginary escape at a time of political uncertainty and mounting restrictions on creative freedom, when public expressions of individuality were becoming increasingly dangerous.

^{Featured image by Alexander Popadin via Pexels.}

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How to write an interdisciplinary abstract

ArushiR — Tue, 09 Dec 2025 15:47:15 +0000

How to write an interdisciplinary abstract

The purpose of any abstract is to summarise your article’s content in a way that will help potential readers decide if they want to read your work. An abstract usually runs between 150 and 300 words and will likely be your readers’ first interaction with your research article, so you must write it with that in mind. It should be intelligible on its own, without someone needing to have read your whole article or have in-depth knowledge of the subject at hand to follow the abstract’s meaning.

Interdisciplinary abstracts are more complex than abstracts aimed at a single discipline, since they must appeal to a wider range of readers with radically varying knowledge bases. What follows is a list of eight key strategies for writing clear, compelling abstracts for interdisciplinary research. It’s not intended to be prescriptive or exhaustive, but I hope it will help if you’re feeling overwhelmed with the amount of ground you’re expected to cover in such a small number of words.

Start with the hook
A stand-up comic once told me that the golden rule of comedy is to always start with your best joke. This advice can be applied to writing abstracts: start with the hook. The ‘hook’ is the most exciting and impactful feature of your work. It answers the perennial questions of ‘So what?’ and ‘Why should anyone care?’ If you can convincingly answer these questions in the first sentence of your abstract, readers are much more likely to want to read the full article.

Often, the hook is placed at the end of the abstract as an enticement to read more, but increasingly I think it can be more effective when placed in the very first sentence of an interdisciplinary abstract. When writing up interdisciplinary research, you are appealing to a wider readership that goes beyond the confines of one discipline, so you must capture their attention right from the off with a statement of impact that makes it abundantly clear why researchers in multiple disciplines need to read your work. Then, you can move onto specifics like background and methods.
State your purpose
Every abstract should state the central research question or aim of the article, in the clearest possible terms, and justify why it must be answered. It is possible for an article to answer more than one research question, but juggling multiple research questions often leads to an unfocused argument and an overly long article. An article of six-to-ten thousand words gives you enough time to answer one central research question very convincingly, and it is better to do this than to answer multiple research questions less convincingly. Before moving on, you must clarify why it is important to answer that research question. Why is this research necessary and how does the article address that need?
Summarise disciplinary contexts
Your interdisciplinary article likely builds upon recent developments in more than one discipline, so you should not assume that readers will be conversant in all the disciplines with which your work engages. Use a couple of sentences to explain key developments in each relevant discipline that directly impact your research. Focus only on what’s essential for understanding your argument. Keep this concise, though, as abstracts should not be overloaded with contextual information.
Explain your methods
Interdisciplinary methods are complex but enriching. They usually pull together and combine research techniques from multiple disciplines. Due to this complexity, interdisciplinary abstracts are sometimes overloaded with technical terminology that seem impenetrable to many readers. Take care to explain your methods or theoretical framework and why they help you answer your research question, keeping jargon to a minimum and defining key technical terms with which readers may not be familiar.
Defend your interdisciplinarity
Interdisciplinary research is often called upon to justify its existence as interdisciplinary research. There are large numbers of scholars who are sceptical about the very idea of interdisciplinarity. If you are to retain these scholars as readers, you must explain in your abstract why an interdisciplinary approach to your research question is not only possible but essential. Some problems demand interdisciplinary approaches, others do not. You need to convince readers that your work fits into the former category and explain why you have assembled your unique interdisciplinary methodology or theoretical framework to respond to this research question.
Forecast your results
Some abstracts won’t do this because the authors prefer to keep the revelation of their findings back for the conclusion of their article. I prefer abstracts to at least forecast the results of the research, simply because this might convince more prospective readers to engage with and cite your article if they know from reading the abstract that its results have direct implications for their own research.
Use an economy of words
All your sentences should have a purpose. Meandering trains of thought that take a while to get to the point do not have a place in an abstract, so remove anything that is even slightly tangential. Bear in mind that an abstract is also a discovery aid, since the text of an abstract is often part of the metadata that is pulled across to bibliographic indexes such as SCOPUS and Google Scholar. Consequently, an abstract should include the kind of words you imagine potential readers might type into a library catalogue or online search tool. You will often be asked to provide a list of keywords alongside your abstract, and it is a good idea to work them into the text of the abstract itself to boost your article’s discoverability further.
Write assertively
Abstracts are not the place to be modest about your achievements. Use assertive verbs and write in the present tense: say ‘this article does X’ rather than ‘this article aims to do X’ or ‘this article will do X’. Avoid hedging your bets, with words like ‘arguably’ and ‘potentially’ or an overly liberal use of the conditional. And above all: back yourself! It is expected for a research article to contain detailed discussion of other researchers’ work. That is not the case for an abstract, which should foreground your own original interpretation.

Further resources:

Download our Interdisciplinary Research Abstract Checklist
Watch the recording of Crafting Strong Abstracts: A Virtual Workshop for Interdisciplinary Researchers

_{Featured image by Thought Catalog via Unsplash.}

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Humour as a higher form of justice

ArushiR — Wed, 26 Nov 2025 13:30:00 +0000

Humour as a higher form of justice

Walter Benjamin, the intellectual hero of the 1968 generation and one of the most influential figures in German cultural and media studies, is still regarded as the quintessential melancholic. Yet his work is interwoven with reflections on humour and the political opportunities it offers.

Despite the evident interest in Benjamin today, his views on humour have received little attention so far. One reason for that may be that, unlike his explorations of melancholy, mourning, and allegory, his thoughts on this matter do not exactly leap out at the reader. In Benjamin’s oeuvre, humour plays a role similar to how he described the relationship between comedy and tragedy. He observed that while comedy is ‘the essential inner side of mourning,’ its presence is subtle—much like ‘the lining of a dress’, which may occasionally flash into view at the hem or lapel. In this manner, humour is neither a counterpart to the much-discussed interweaving of melancholy and the allegorical form of perception in Benjamin’s work, nor an isolated phenomenon. Rather, it is an integral part of a complex, often ambivalent structure of tension, consistently entangled with elements of melancholy, seriousness, and darkness.

The fashion metaphor of inner linings reveals a theoretical contraband that appears from time to time at significant points in Benjamin’s writings, spanning from his early linguistic-philosophical works to his media-aesthetic theses on cinema and his late materialistic concept of history. But rather than being the subject of a comprehensive study, his insights on humour are scattered across a wide range of texts. Most of these are small forms—critiques, fragments, satirical pieces—that engage with contemporary debates and bear witness to striking intellectual constellations. These include the engagement with authors such as Paul Scheerbart, Salomo Friedlaender, Karl Kraus, Jean Paul, Gottfried Keller, Johann Peter Hebel, Sigmund Freud, Charles Fourier, Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, and others. Moreover, laughter plays a crucial role in Benjamin’s writings on childlike modes of perception and expression, the reception of technology via popular culture, and his experimentation with hashish. Benjamin often expresses his ideas on humour only in passing, making it all the more surprising how much importance he attaches to this phenomenon. In this vein, The Author as Producer claims: ‘It may be noted, incidentally, that there is no better trigger for thinking than laughter. In particular, convulsion of the diaphragm usually provides better opportunities for thought than convulsion of the soul.’ If, however, laughter is the best way to stimulate thinking, where does it lead in Benjamin’s thought?

To begin with, Benjamin is not concerned with fundamental anthropological patterns of a universal human condition (unlike his contemporary Helmuth Plessner, for example). Instead, his focus is on concrete historical constellations, which possess specific expressive forms for capturing the experience of contemporary history. Whether looking at the literature of Gottfried Keller or Disney’s Mickey Mouse, the central question is always how humour, cheerfulness, laughter, and wit provide opportunities for dealing with one’s own time in a productive way—both aesthetically and politically; regardless of whether the time is marked by the massive upheavals of bourgeois society in the canton of Zurich around 1848, or by the overwhelming technological advancements of the period between the world wars. Productivity in this context means, first and foremost, critical thinking.

From very early on, Benjamin believed that humour serves as a mode of genuine criticism. In his letters, he compares it to rays of light that illuminate and dissect whatever they touch. At the same time, since laughter testifies to ‘shattered articulation’, humour has a tension-filled connection to language, pointing to a fundamental conflict between what is or can be expressed and what remains inexpressible. This disruption of human words is vital, as it also means the disruption of one of their fundamental operations: the distinction between good and evil, which is a basic condition of human judgment. In a fragment from around 1917 and 1918, now translated in our Forum Special Issue into English for the first time, Benjamin presents humour as an act that can bypass or even subvert judgment, thereby allowing for a different, higher form of justice beyond conventional moral norms. Benjamin greatly admired Johann Peter Hebel’s calendar stories, as he saw ‘applied justice’ in their humour. Rather than relying on judgment and punishment, he perceived this applied justice in Hebel’s stories as emerging from vivid narration, composition, and a scenic dramaturgy, animated by small rogues and swindlers and enriched by an abundance of details and props. What becomes apparent is a penchant for microscopic humour that avoids grand gestures and operates at the level of concretion.

These early thoughts stayed with Benjamin throughout his career, right up to his later work, where he emphasized the utopian qualities of laughter. Humour emerges in Benjamin’s work as a site of thought where his early writings intersect and resonate with his later materialist reflections. Notably, even in the Arcades Project, he draws inspiration from his initial ideas on humour. Of particular note here is the enormous relevance of early science fiction writer Paul Scheerbart. In his astral novels, Benjamin perceived not a description of reality at work, but the radical attempt to change it. In fact, Scheerbart’s visions of glass and lightweight architecture had a decisive role in shaping modern and even post-war architecture in Germany and elsewhere. Benjamin appreciated this offbeat author for two reasons. First, he valued Scheerbart’s understanding of technology as a medium of interacting with nature rather than dominating it. Second, he admired the humour in Scheerbart’s literature, which he felt could facilitate a profound metamorphosis of both human beings and society. It is precisely this metamorphosis that encapsulates the political potential of humor as higher justice. Ultimately, through the lens of laughter, there is still a great deal to discover in Benjamin’s aesthetic and political thought.

_{Feature image: Margot von Brentano, Valentina Kurella, Walter Benjamin, Gustav Glück, Bianca Minotti, Bernard von Brentano, Elisabeth Hauptmann (from left), Berlin (1931) © Akademie der Künste, Berlin, Elisabeth-Hauptmann-Archiv 758. Used with permission.}

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Reintroducing Justice Robert Jackson

ArushiR — Thu, 20 Nov 2025 13:30:00 +0000

Reintroducing Justice Robert Jackson

In 1952, Justice Robert Jackson issued a concurring opinion in the case of Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer, in which a majority of the Supreme Court held that President Harry Truman could not invoke executive power to seize several of the major U.S. steel manufacturing companies in order to prevent a nation-wide steel strike that the Truman administration claimed would disrupt the participation of the United States in the Korean war.

Jackson’s opinion in Youngstown sketched a framework for executive power under the Constitution, identifying three examples of executive decisions against the backdrop of congressional authority. He set forth a continuum of executive power, ranging from instances in which executive decisions were “conclusive and preclusive” of the authority of other branches, to ones in which Congress and the executive shared powers and the branches operated in a “twilight zone” of concurrent authority, to ones in which an executive decision was in contradiction to a congressional effort to restrain it. When Jackson’s opinion appeared it garnered some appreciative commentary in academic circles but did not otherwise attract much attention.

Jackson’s Youngstown concurrence was revived, however, in two memorable opinions in American constitutional law and politics. The first was United States v. Nixon, in which Chief Justice Burger quoted a statement by Jackson that the dispersion of powers among the branches of government by the Constitution was designed to ensure a “workable government.” Burger concluded that allowing President Nixon to assert executive privilege against a subpoena in a criminal proceeding merely on the basis of a “general interest in confidentiality” would gravely interfere with the function of the courts and render the government “unworkable.” The second was Trump v. United States, in which Jackson’s statement in Youngstown that in some instances the president’s power to make executive decisions was “conclusive and preclusive” was used by Chief Justice Roberts to show that granting presidents absolute immunity for their official acts was necessary to enable them to execute their duties fearlessly and fairly.

More than seventy years after Jackson issued it, his Youngstown concurrence remains the most authoritative statement of the scope of executive power under the Constitution. But what of the justice who issued that opinion? Robert Jackson was arguably one of the most influential persons in the mid twentieth-century legal profession and a unique figure in American legal history. Yet today he is not widely known and has in some respects been misunderstood. Despite his having one of the largest collections of private papers in the Library of Congress, there has been comparatively little scholarship or popular writing devoted to Jackson. It is time to reintroduce him.

Jackson was the last Supreme Court justice to have entered the legal profession by “reading for the law,” a process where people apprenticed themselves to law offices prior to taking a bar examination. He would eventually study law for one year at Albany Law School and receive a degree, but he never attended college. His family were dairy farmers in western Pennsylvania and New York, and he was the first in his family to pursue a legal career. By 1934 he had become one of the more successful lawyers and wealthy residents in Jamestown, New York.

That year Jackson was approached by members of the Franklin Roosevelt administration and recruited to join the Bureau of Internal Revenue, even though his practice had not included tax law. From that position he progressed rapidly through New Deal agencies, becoming Solicitor General of the United States in 1938 and Attorney General in 1940. By that year he was on the short list for Supreme Court appointments, and was nominated to the Court by Roosevelt in 1941.

Jackson seemingly had every quality necessary to be an influential Supreme Court justice, possessing exceptional analytical and forensic skills and being a gifted writer. But he ended up somewhat unfulfilled on the Court, chafing about its isolation from foreign affairs during World War II and having fractious relationships with some of his fellow justices, notably Hugo Black and William O. Douglas. In the spring of 1945, he was offered the position of chief counsel at the forthcoming Nuremberg trials and took leave from the Court, uncertain about whether he would return. Jackson was largely responsible for the format of the trials, and although he had numerous difficulties with representatives of the other allied powers prosecuting Nazi war criminals, especially those from the Soviet Union, he said in his memoirs that he regarded his time at Nuremberg as the high point of his experience.

Jackson’s two years at Nuremberg were also a time in which he began an amorous relationship with his secretary, Elsie Douglas, to whom he would eventually leave his extensive private papers in his will. Douglas continued as his secretary when Jackson returned to the Court after Nuremberg, and when Jackson suddenly died of a heart attack in October 1954, it was in Elsie Douglas’ apartment. After Jackson’s return to the Court in 1946 his relations with colleagues improved, and his last major participation in a Court case came with Brown v. Board of Education in the 1952 and 1953 terms, in which Jackson, through writing successive memos to himself, eventually joined the Court’s unanimous opinion invalidating racial segregation in the public schools. Jackson had a heart attack in March 1954 and only returned to the Court on the day the Brown case was handed down. He then sought to recover over the summer of 1954, only to succumb that October.

All in all, a memorable life and career and a fascinating, complicated personality, whose remarkable talents somehow did not quite suit him for the role of a Supreme Court justice.

_{Featured image by Abdullah Guc via Unsplash.}

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The sound of suspense: Hitchcock and Herrmann [playlist]

Cassandra Ammerman — Tue, 14 Oct 2025 12:30:00 +0000

The sound of suspense: Hitchcock and Herrmann [playlist]

Listen to Bernard Herrmann’s eight scores for the films of Alfred Hitchcock. You’ll hear, in music, a mirror of how the duo’s personal relationship evolved, from its joyous start in late 1954 to its bitter end in 1966.

At the recording session for their first collaboration, The Trouble with Harry (1955), Hitchcock chuckled with delight. Herrmann had translated Harry’s darkly comic tone into music. His new friend “Benny” also captured in the score the director himself—his anxieties, his wit, his romantic fantasies. So much so that in 1968, when Herrmann crafted a concert suite from Harry, he titled it “A Portrait of Hitch.”

Their second pairing shows how quickly Herrmann joined Hitchcock’s inner circle. In 1956’s The Man Who Knew Too Much, Benny didn’t just write the score. He appears onscreen as himself, conducting the London Symphony in the film’s most famous set-piece: an attempted assassination in the Albert Hall. Herrmann’s main title “Prelude” is barely two minutes long; but it contains the seeds of all the main themes he’ll develop in the score. The “Prelude” also foreshadows the Albert Hall sequence with its concert-hall grandeur.

The Wrong Man (1956) may be their most surprising collaboration. To tell the true story of a jazz musician’s wrongful arrest, and the tragic impact it has on his family, Hitchcock used a more realistic visual style, and filmed in the story’s actual locations. For its “Prelude,” Herrmann delivers a surprise of his own: a lively samba tune that seems far removed from his usual style. But its sunny first measures are repeatedly answered—arrested?—by an ominous phrase for woodwinds that hints at the darkness to come.

Director and composer were at their best when depicting romantic obsession, and 1958’s Vertigo may be the summit of both artists’ careers. The psychological disorientation felt by James Stewart’s protagonist is conveyed by Herrmann’s famous “Prelude,” with its relentlessly repeating figures and orchestral swells. Hitchcock tailored the movie’s edit and its sound design to accommodate the music, most famously in Vertigo’s emotional climax. As Robert Burks’s camera glides 360 degrees around Scottie Ferguson (Stewart) and Judy Barton (Kim Novak), there is no dialogue—only Herrmann’s passionate “Scene d’amour.” As Hitchcock told his composer, “We’ll just have the camera and you.”

1959’s North by Northwest gave Herrmann his best opportunity to blend thrills with humor (he regretted that he was never asked to score comedies). Like Vertigo, the main titles of North by Northwest are a miniature movie in themselves, as designer Saul Bass’ perpendicular lines streak across Manhattan skyscrapers and bustling commuters.

Someone at MGM suggested that since the movie begins in New York City, the main title music should be “Gershwinesque.” What Herrmann did instead reflects his lifelong gift for thinking outside the box. His “Prelude” is based on the rhythm of a Spanish fandango—because, as the composer observed, the movie isn’t about New York: it’s about the “crazy dance that was going to happen now between Cary Grant and the world.”

When Grant’s man-on-the run meets a sexy blonde (Eva Marie Saint) on a train, the actors have just a few minutes to establish that this relationship is more than a casual one-night stand. Herrmann’s shimmering “Conversation Piece” is among his finest love themes, and convinces us in seconds that this couple is destined to share train berths for years to come.

If not for Herrmann, Psycho might survive today only in massively shortened form. After viewing a rough cut without music, Hitchcock decided that he had failed in his biggest gamble: a self-financed, low-budget shocker, targeted at young moviegoers hungry for edgy content. Hitch mused about cutting it down and putting it on his TV series. Herrmann watched the cut and saw what the director didn’t. He transformed the film with his all-strings score, “a black-and-white sound” to complement the black-and-white photography. His nerve-shredding “Prelude” was composed with one goal in mind—to tell moviegoers that, despite Psycho’s leisurely first scenes, “something terrible is going to happen.”

Hitchcock made only one request of his composer: no music for the murder scenes. Herrmann felt differently, leading to the ultimate validation of his film career. When Hitchcock heard the shrieking strings his composer unleashed for Marion and Arbogast’s killings, he admitted he had been wrong.

By the time Herrmann completed Marnie (1964), the onscreen tension was matched by a growing division between director and composer. Herrmann’s abrasiveness, and movie studios’ appetite for pop/rock soundtracks, were two of the factors that drove a wedge in what had been the closest of partnerships. Finally, on Torn Curtain (1966), Herrmann dared to write what he thought was best for the film—a brutal, dissonant score—even though it was the opposite of what Hitchcock had asked for. (Hitch wanted music that was “light” and with a “beat.”) Minutes after hearing Herrmann’s “Prelude,” their partnership and friendship came to an ugly end. The composer was fired, his score rejected.

Some of that music reached movie screens in 2019, when Quentin Tarantino featured two Torn Curtain cues in Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood. Nearly all of the scores represented here have surfaced in other media, re-used in Best Picture winners (The Artist), music videos (Lady Gaga’s Born This Way), TV (The Simpsons, Wednesday), plus commercials, pop songs and ringtones.

It’s easy to understand why. Herrmann remains unmatched in writing music that evokes timeless emotions—fear, love, hate, dread. And just as the gorgeous nightmares of Hitchcock’s cinema remain universal, the music of Bernard Herrmann is the fitting soundtrack of our own, anxious times.

^{Photo by Gary Meulemans on Unsplash.}

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Turn off AI. Pick up a crayon.

Cassandra Ammerman — Fri, 10 Oct 2025 12:30:00 +0000

Turn off AI. Pick up a crayon.

Google Gemini offers “a new way to bring your imagination to life.” Adobe Firefly promises “The ultimate creative AI solution.” And Craiyon invites you to “Create AI Art.”

Don’t believe the tech hype. Close the generative AI window. And turn to the book that has sparked creativity for decades: Crockett Johnson’s Harold and the Purple Crayon. Published 70 years ago this fall, it is a manifesto for human creativity disguised as a children’s picture book—a message that’s even more relevant today than it was in 1955.

The opening pages of Harold and the Purple Crayon illustrate why throwing prompts into AI does not create art. Art begins by facing an empty canvas. Maybe you scribble a bit—as Harold does. Only after four pages of zig-zagging experiments does Harold pause and decide to take his line for a walk in the moonlight. Traveling along the line of your imagination requires your full attention. Resist the algorithm’s allure and become an active dreamer.

For Harold, as for most artists, drawing is a form of thinking. After drawing the moon for his walk in the moonlight, Harold makes “a long straight path so he wouldn’t get lost,” but he doesn’t “seem to be getting anywhere on the long straight path.” So, he leaves the path. But he had to create the straight path in order to realize that straight paths lead nowhere interesting. Making art is a process of discovery. Getting lost and making mistakes are part of the process.

A mistake might inspire a new direction or generate the art itself. Harold’s mistakes do both. Frightened by the dragon he has drawn to guard the apple tree, “His hand holding the purple crayon shook.” At this moment, the shaky crayon’s line oscillates between these different possibilities: a wavy scribble, or a series of conjoined cursive w’s, or the surface of an ocean in the visual language of the cartoon. So, as artists do, Harold grapples with uncertainty, and then has a realization: this line must be an ocean. When he recognizes that, the story can continue; Harold draws a boat and launches a several-page nautical voyage.

But AI’s risk-free, frictionless “creativity” launches nothing because friction generates the surprises that create art—the unpredictable results of an imagination in conversation with itself. For young people who may be dazzled by or even encouraged to use AI, let them also be encouraged to take the long road of doing things the “old fashioned” way because in doing these things ourselves, we learn, we grow, and we find our own voice.

It’s true that AI images can surprise us: that sixth finger or phantom arm in a photorealistic portrait of smiling people does make us look again. But art’s surprises emerge from a larger vision. Harold’s triangle-fingered, goggle-eyed policeman is Crockett Johnson gesturing towards the untutored abstractions of children’s art. It’s an intentional shift in the visual style. In contrast, AI’s extra fingers or limbs steer us into the uncanny valley—apt if the image illustrates horror fiction, but not if it’s supposed to represent, say, cheerful coworkers.

Drawing on decades of experience in the visual arts, Johnson’s aesthetic choices suit the story he is telling. Drawing from millions of works that feed its algorithm, AI can only imitate aesthetic choices. It cannot make them. And a statistically probable sentence or image can only gesture broadly towards the subtleties of human perception.

Because AI doesn’t understand why humans make art. Nor do the high-tech hucksters who are promising art without effort.

If you want to resist AI’s lure of frictionless creativity (and trust me, you do), open Harold and the Purple Crayon to experience the excitement of the creative mind at work. Johnson’s tale positions us as witnesses to the moment of artistic creation, watching Harold invent the story that we are reading while we are reading it. Although that’s not literally true, it feels true because the crayon—the embodiment of Harold’s apparent improvisation—is the engine of narrative. The story emerges from the path of a crayon which simultaneously generates and is inspired by the unfolding story.

The book’s ability to dramatize what creativity feels like is one reason it has inspired so many artists. Prince’s favorite childhood book, Harold is why Prince played purple guitars, favored purple fashion, and strongly identified with the color purple. Harold inspired Pulitzer-Prize-winning author Richard Powers to become a writer, and the name of Yale’s improvisational theatre group the Purple Crayon. Upon receiving the Caldecott Medal for Jumanji (1981), the classic picture book that would launch a film franchise, Chris Van Allsburg thanked “Jan Vermeer, for the way he used light; …Federico Fellini, for making films that look the way they do; …and Harold, for his purple crayon.”

Harold and the Purple Crayon has inspired so many because Harold’s journey is a story about what it means to be human—facing our challenges by thinking creatively, transforming problems into solutions, drawing new paths forward. When the scribble becomes an ocean, draw a boat. When it gets dark, draw a moon. To live is to improvise, and artists are our most gifted improvisers.

But developing our creative muscles requires the friction of crayon against paper, of imagination against impediment. If we delegate our dreaming to subcommittees of robots, humans’ unique strength—our capacity to imagine—will wither. If we outsource our creativity, we outsource our humanity.

And that is dangerous. Harold is in greatest peril when he slips from his unfinished mountaintop, stops drawing, and begins falling through space. These three pages mark the longest time that his crayon leaves the page. Put another way: he comes closest to his demise when, mid-adventure, he relinquishes the symbol of his creative mind. He stops thinking.

Then: “But luckily, he kept his wits and his purple crayon.” Harold presses crayon to page, draws a circle, which becomes a hot-air balloon that carries him to safety.

Johnson wrote the book while his own safety was at risk—under FBI surveillance and at risk of losing his livelihood due to McCarthyism. In daring to dream, he temporarily escaped surveillance and created a template for resilient, liberatory imaginations.

In these dangerous times, we might look to Harold’s crayon—or whatever that represents for each of us—and recognize the power of our imaginations. Rather than outsourcing our dreaming to machines, we can instead cultivate our capacity to imagine better futures.

And, come what may, remember what Harold would do: Always keep your wits and your purple crayon.

^{Photo by Dragos Gontariu on Unsplash.}

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What’s your literary classic Halloween costume? [quiz]

Cassandra Ammerman — Tue, 07 Oct 2025 12:30:00 +0000

What’s your literary classic Halloween costume? [quiz]

This Halloween, why not let literature dress you?

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Quatremère de Quincy: the founding father of museophobia?

Cassandra Ammerman — Thu, 02 Oct 2025 12:30:00 +0000

Quatremère de Quincy: the founding father of museophobia?

Antoine-Chrysostôme Quatremère de Quincy (1755-1849) was celebrated during his lifetime as the greatest European writer on the arts. The architect Sir John Soane admired his essay on Egyptian architecture while Hegel considered his research on ancient Greek polychromatic sculpture a masterpiece.

Despite the breadth of Quatremère’s writings, today he is famous for inventing an idea that he never embraced: namely, that art should remain in its original context because displacing it in museums changed its meaning and neutered its power.

While researching my biography of Quatremère, I discovered that his attitude towards museums was surprisingly positive.

The years that he spent in Italy during his twenties shaped his outlook. The sight of antiquities excavated from Herculaneum in the nearby royal palace at Portici led him to propose site museums ‘like those in Italy’ once he returned home. Why not reuse the ancient baths in Paris and the amphitheatre in Nîmes as museums of Gallo-Roman antiquities, he asked?

In Italy, Quatremère also studied in large museums. He found that the papacy’s ‘sumptuous galleries’ in Rome revalorized pagan artefacts as objects of beauty and knowledge. Indeed, the city itself, he later remarked, was a museal microcosm of world geography and history. Far from opposing the displacement of artworks from their original contexts, he remarked how artefacts imported from afar during antiquity had been resurrected in Rome when they took on new meanings and roles. For instance, he found that the Egyptian figures (now believed to be Roman telamons) greeting visitors to the Museo Pio-Clementino had a purpose no less authentic than their original one: ‘by making them support the corniche that decorated the magnificent entrance’, Pius VI had ‘returned them to their first destination’.

Quatremère returned from Italy convinced that it was necessary to centralize artworks in capital museums. He therefore joined the chorus of support for a national museum in the Louvre. Despite his antipathy towards the Revolution, in 1791 he proposed transforming the palace into a ‘temple of knowledge’. After the museum finally opened in August 1793, its administrators relied upon his expertise. For instance, in 1797, he examined thousands of paintings to determine what to share with the Special Museum of the French School in Versailles. Despite previously opposing the spoliation of Italy to enrich the Louvre, in 1807 he applauded Napoleon for amassing ‘treasures of genius from all centuries’.

During the Bourbon Restoration, he defended the Louvre with greater zeal because its fortunes aligned with his royalist politics. He criticized but failed to prevent ‘dishonourable’ demands to return seized artworks to their original countries. He penned a memorandum about rehanging what remained and recommended acquiring replacement antiquities such as a Parthenon metope from Choiseul-Gouffier’s collection. In 1821, he boasted that the newly imported Venus de Milo was ‘the rarest and most valuable item in our Museum’.

Quatremère’s pride in the Louvre did not prevent him supporting capital museums elsewhere. He was delighted, for example, to inspect the Parthenon sculptures in the British Museum. Lord Elgin saved these antiquities from the ‘barbarian’ Ottomans, he opined, and their ‘handsome arrangement’ in London was ‘even better than on the Parthenon itself’.

During his youthful Italian travels, Quatremère also admired energetic and enlightened private collectors such as Stefano Borgia and Ignazio Biscari. Their example taught him that private collecting benefited everyone, even if some avaricious collectors ‘amassed for the sake of amassing’. In France, he therefore praised Grivaud de la Vincelle, whose ‘patriotic’ efforts helped mitigate the absence of a national museum of antiquities, and Léon Dufourny, whose well-ordered and accessible collection served ‘public utility’. During the second half of Quatremère’s life, he created a sizable collection of his own in his mansion on the Rue de Condé, Paris: at his death, he owned around 3,000 printed volumes, numerous modern artworks, ancient Greek vases, Egyptian figurines, ex-votos seized from the temples of Asclepius and Hygeia, and small figures excavated in Italy.

Far from being a museophobe, then, Quatremère enthused about site museums, capital museums, and private collections alike. His published writings provide direct and indirect explanations for why he considered museums indispensable.

For Quatremère, the future of art depended upon museums because artists must study the ‘corpus of lessons and models’ from antiquity and the modern revival. If ancient Greek artists had perfected art without collections, he theorized that the moderns could never recover the causes of ancient greatness and must therefore turn to museums: ‘In the current state of things, God forbid that artists should be deprived of their assistance!’ Artists could only improve, moreover, if their judges understood beauty, which required a mental ‘ladder of comparison’ that one must calibrate carefully through studying many artworks.

Museums were also integral to the advancement of knowledge. During the eighteenth century, he reflected, the enrichment of museums enabled the ‘spirit of observation’ to triumph over the ‘spirit of system’. Since the consolidation of scattered artefacts into major collections finally enabled objects to ‘illuminate and explain one another’, he predicted that future scholars would discern new connections, decode patterns, improve taxonomies, and identify fakes.

In Quatremère’s mind,good museums therefore facilitated scholarly efforts to preserve and interpret authentic vestiges of the past whereas bad museums undermined this endeavour. He railed at the Museum of French Monuments precisely because he believed that its director, Alexandre Lenoir, presided over a ‘workshop of demolition’ that creatively restored medieval sculptures to illustrate period rooms. Lenoir’s superficial decorative needs and anachronistic assumptions discoloured the past and offended Quatremère’s sense of art and politics. For Quatremère, respect for past mentalities via authentic reminders of the past was the ultimate antidote to presentist dogmatism: ‘only the history of peoples, monuments, and the arts of antiquity’, he observed, ‘can expand the philosopher’s horizon and transform into a complete theory the fleeting observations that the brevity of human life otherwise condemns us to make.’

^{Featured image by Edoardo Bortoli on Unsplash.}

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How I used the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography as a student

Cassandra Ammerman — Mon, 29 Sep 2025 09:30:00 +0000

How I used the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography as a student

‘They court the notice of a future age/ Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land’.

Today’s users of the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography are members of the ‘future age’ that William Cowper talks of in his poem ‘On Observing Some Names Of Little Note Recorded In The Biographia Britannica’. For students, this makes the ODNB a treasure trove. On any given topic, movement or episode of history—be it the Crusades, the first women lawyers, or the Romantic poets—we can find in the ODNB elegant and informative entries about the people behind it. These people might be kings and queens, but they are often ‘tiny lustres’: individuals who lived in quieter ways, but who nonetheless shaped the course of British history.

I started using the ODNB when I was a student of English Literature in 2018-2022. Undergraduate and postgraduate student life is, as many will attest, busy, and this made the ODNB an invaluable resource: a long-form biography might take too much time to read during term, but an ODNB entry is both detailed and short. I used the dictionary to locate in-depth research in an accessible, engaging, concise format, but also as a reading list of sorts: it pointed me towards further material about people I was researching (in my case, these were mostly authors). A given entry might contain both primary sources (diaries, manuscripts, books by the subject, podcasts and film) and further secondary material (full-length biographies, books of criticism) that can form a starting point when researching biographical information about a given person.

But what did this look like in practice? Here’s one example. In my second year, one of our set texts was Daniel Defoe’s Moll Flanders. I didn’t know much about Defoe’s background when I began this module, so I went to the ODNB for a concise overview of his life. I was also able to do a keyword search within the entry to immediately identify specific information about Moll Flanders, which came in handy when writing my tutorial essay. The entry contained quotations from seminal works of criticism (such as Ian Watt’s The Rise of the Novel) as well as responses to the work from other authors, both in Defoe’s lifetime and later (like James Joyce, who called Defoe the ‘father of the English novel’). What’s more, the list of sources at the end of the entry provided an accessible and manageable means of navigating criticism around Defoe when I returned to the topic when revising for Finals.

From then on, the ODNB became an essential tool in my undergraduate and postgraduate research. I used it as a starting point to devise my own reading list in preparation for my BA dissertation on Virginia Woolf: indeed, reading the entry on her convinced me to choose this subject for my thesis. The ODNB helped me to discover Woolf’s circle, too: it contains entries about other members of the Bloomsbury group, from her sister Vanessa Bell to the painter and curator Roger Fry.

The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography allows each user to embark on their own path of discovery. A friend, when writing her history dissertation about Members of Parliament in the eighteenth-century, used the dictionary’s ‘group entries’ to gather sources and discover additional figures related to her project. The ODNB’s coverage stretches all the way back to Roman officers and their wives stationed at the fort of Vindolanda on Hadrian’s wall in first century AD, and to the associates of William the Conqueror, who planned the invasion of England in 1066. History is made by ‘tiny lustres’, and this resource equips us to roam across the vast range of individual contributions to national life. Next time you come across a name you don’t recognize in your research, I encourage you to try looking them up in the ODNB: it might just spark a new idea.

^{Featured image by Zoshua Colah via Unsplash.}

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Nine reasons I love John Williams [playlist]

Cassandra Ammerman — Sat, 20 Sep 2025 12:30:00 +0000

Nine reasons I love John Williams [playlist]

I wrote a biography of John Williams, essentially, because I have loved his music since I was nine years old. A lot of children fall in love with Williams’ music, because it’s an irresistible and very tuneful pillar of the movies we all grew up with, whether it was the original Star Wars or Indiana Jones trilogy, E.T., Jurassic Park, or Harry Potter. His scores sang these stories in perfect harmony with the visuals and often provided their deepest emotions, and his themes were as integral to the characters as the actors who portrayed them. But Williams’ music is not childish or simple, and I loved it more powerfully as I got older and learned to appreciate the stunning level of craft and art in his popular family movie music and expanding my tastes to his darker, more complex scores for grown-up films. His music continues to break my heart, and I love that feeling.

My book is, in part, a covert love letter to Williams and a sermon to the unconverted or the half-aware about why you, too, should love his music. I’ve created this playlist as a companion, a bit of church music to go along with my 640-page homily. Here are nine (among hundreds) musical reasons why I love John Williams.

1. “Summon the Heroes”

We’ll start with a non-film piece. Among his many staggering cultural contributions, Williams has composed themes for four separate Olympic Games, beginning with his all-timer “Olympic Fanfare and Theme” for the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. “Summon the Heroes” was commissioned for the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, and it’s a fabulous demonstration of how Williams can write catchy, punchy music for a celebration or pageant like no one else. He is an heir to the likes of John Philip Sousa, and between his Olympics music and his perch at the Boston Pops for many years, he justly earned the appraisal of director Oliver Stone as having come “to stand for the American culture.”

2. **“The Asteroid Field” (from The Empire Strikes Back)**

One of the reasons I fell for Williams’ music as a kid was because his scores were a perfect marriage of classical music—all the grandeur and scale and tradition of the classical orchestra—and pop music, with their catchy earworm themes and often a verse-chorus-verse structure. This action cue from The Empire Strikes Back—a score that many consider his very best—is a perfect example of this hybrid quality. It’s also a miraculous example of how Williams could accompany an action scene, hitting lots of visual cues in perfect synchronization, while simultaneously composing a piece of tuneful music that makes perfect sense as pure music. In that skill, to my mind, he has no equals.

3. Theme from Born on the Fourth of July

Williams is definitely most famous for scoring Star Wars and the films of Steven Spielberg, but in the late 1980s and early ’90s he scored an informal trilogy of movies for director Oliver Stone that interrogated and lamented the years of the John F. Kennedy assassination, the Vietnam War, and the Richard Nixon presidency. All of these films are worth watching (Nixon is my personal favorite), and the scores are an exquisite tapestry of Americana tinged with melancholy and tragedy. The first was Born on the Fourth of July, the 1989 drama starring Tom Cruise as a real-life figure whose body and patriotism were shattered in Vietnam. Williams wrote an anguished string elegy as well as a solo trumpet theme that together tell the story of a profound, romantic love of country that is severely wounded, but not killed.

4. **“Mom Returns and Finale” (from Home Alone)**

One of Williams’ great gifts is ennobling even the lowest and silliest of material, and maybe the greatest example of this is Home Alone. On its face it is a juvenile, slapstick, live-action cartoon about a little boy torturing two idiot adults. But when Williams screened it, he saw the potential for a great Dickensian Christmas story, and he not only composed two indelible new Christmas carols, but also enhanced (and perhaps supplied) the emotional depth of its character relationships. The apotheosis of the film, and score, is the scene where Kevin McCallister’s mom finally comes home, they hug, and Kevin sees old man Marley embracing his own family in the falling snow. There’s a reason this movie has become a yuletide staple, and most of that reason is because John Williams treated it with literary respect and gave it an enormous heart.

5. **“Remembering Emilie, and Finale” (War Horse)**

Steven Spielberg’s unfairly overlooked movie about a horse in World War I—which is really about the tragedies as well as the humanity that war brings about—inspired Williams to write a romantic and very English pastoral score. There’s an homage to Old Hollywood in several scenes and images in the film, most of all in its emotionally cathartic finale, staged against a Technicolor MGM sunset. Williams reprises several of his intimate character themes, then strips away the whole orchestra for a solo piano rendition of an elegiac melody brimming with sadness and weary relief—and then concludes the whole thing with English nobility and heaving sentiment. This, for me, is ambrosia.

6. **“Among the Clouds” (from Always)**

Another overlooked and (in my opinion) unjustly dismissed Spielberg film, Always was his only “romantic comedy,” but really it’s a story about death and letting go of the person you love. It’s also a film with a lot of flight, a Williams specialty, and he wrote this cue for a scene where Dorinda (Holly Hunter) is flying her plane and the ghost of her paramour (Richard Dreyfuss) is saying goodbye. There’s a shimmering, levitational quality to this tone poem, a complicated mixture of quiet heartbreak and amorous love—with some gorgeous solo French horn playing by studio musician James Thatcher—that I find irresistible.

7. **“E.T. is Alive” (from E.T. The Extra Terrestrial)**

Most people know the famous “Flying Theme” from E.T., a score that, for my money, is probably Williams’ magnum opus. But most of my favorite moments in his scores (as evidenced throughout this playlist) are the sadder and more intimate ones—and the scene after E.T. dies and Elliott talks quietly to his alien friend, crying, is just so beautiful. Williams scored it with a tender reprise of his friendship theme for E.T. and Elliott on a celeste, an instrument with childlike sparkle that Williams loves, and then on a keening clarinet with empathetic string accompaniment. The cue rallies when E.T.’s heart begins to glow again, and the flying theme blooms like the flowers psychically linked to the character’s health. Williams has such a gift for taking potentially silly scenes and turning them into earnest holy moments.

8. **“Cadillac of the Skies” (from Empire of the Sun)**

Another “holy moment,” this is one of the all-time greatest standalone pieces of Williams music, for another overlooked Spielberg masterpiece. A young boy named Jim (played by Christian Bale) has been living in a Japanese internment camp for years; he has always been obsessed with airplanes, and when American bombers fly through to liberate the camp, he runs up to a rooftop in a state of euphoria. Williams scored this with choir, turning it into a quasi-liturgical drama; he has strings and brass join in, rising and rising, and then the music suddenly turns queasy and quiet as Jim collapses into his physician friend’s arms and says, “I can’t remember what my parents look like.” The score’s heart breaks from ecstasy to anguish in an instant, with the choir continuing hauntingly as the doctor carries Jim down from the roof like a toddler, the camp exploding behind them. This is definitely one of my “desert island” Williams tracks.

9. **“The Search for the Blue Fairy” (from A.I. Artificial Intelligence)**

In the summer of 2001, I saw A.I. three times in the theater. I was 16. After the first screening I was confused; by the third watch, I decided it was my favorite movie of all time, and it has remained so. It’s also my personal favorite John Williams score—full of gorgeous character melodies and emotional orchestral passion, but also layers of complex darkness and minimalism. David, an extremely lifelike android programmed to love his “parents,” has spent most of the film searching for the Blue Fairy from Pinocchio in the belief that she can turn him into a real boy and his mother will finally love him back. Williams scored the scene where he finally does find her (or at least a statue of her, in a drowned Coney Island) with his Blue Fairy theme sung by solo soprano. David pleads over and over—almost as if he is praying to the Virgin Mary—and Williams’ music is itself a prayer. A.I. is as beautiful and sad and sacred as any score he ever composed, and this track encapsulates everything that I love about his music.

_{Featured image by Jake Hills on Unsplash.}

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Prague: a playlist from the heart of Europe

Cassandra Ammerman — Tue, 09 Sep 2025 12:30:00 +0000

Prague: a playlist from the heart of Europe

Prague is a city steeped in history, where music has long been intertwined with its cultural identity. This playlist captures that spirit, featuring compositions that reflect the grandeur of its imperial courts, the struggles of its people, and the resilience of its artists. From Mozart’s Don Giovanni, composed specifically for Prague, to Smetana’s Má vlast, evoking the flowing Vltava, these works embody the city’s layered character. Jazz and rock music, too, played a key role in its modern history, fueling movements of resistance and unity.

Beyond its stunning architecture and historic squares, Prague’s music tells a deeper story of triumph and tragedy. This collection of ten pieces allows listeners to experience the essence of the city—not just as a visual marvel but as a place where melodies carry the weight of centuries. Whether through medieval chants, romantic symphonies, or revolutionary anthems, Prague’s soundscape is as enchanting as the city itself, ensuring that, as Franz Kafka wrote, “Prague does not let go; this little mother has claws.”

1. “Overture” from Don Giovanni, W. A. Mozart

Mozart’s librettist Lorenzo da Ponte wrote, “It is not easy to convey…the enthusiasm of the Bohemians for [Mozart’s] music.” Indeed, Mozart achieved some of his greatest successes in Prague, including the premieres of his Symphony no. 38 in D (Prague Symphony), the Clarinet Concerto in A, and the opera La Clemenza di Tito. The pinnacle of Mozart’s career, though, was the world premiere of Don Giovanni at Nostitz’s National Theater in the Old Town. On October 29, 1787, Mozart conducted the opera in front of a cross section of Prague society. Aristocrats sat sipping lemonade in the lower galleries, while the lower classes stood while downing sausages and beers. The singer Joseph Meissner wrote that when Mozart stepped onto the stage, a hush descended, and “one thousand hands lifted up to greet him.” At the end of the opera, the audience burst into “boundless applause,” and Mozart supposedly uttered the now-famous phrase, “My Praguers understand me.”

2. “Vltava” from Má Vlast,Bedřich Smetana

Bedřich Smetana wrote his magnum opus Má vlast (My Country) between 1874 and 1880. The piece comprised six symphonic poems, each celebrating a historical or natural site in Bohemia. The stirring second movement, “The Vltava” (Der Moldau), conveys the river’s journey through Bohemia. The composer explained that his most famous melody mimicked the region’s geography: “The Vltava swirls into the St. John’s Rapids; then it widens and flows toward Prague, past the Vyšehrad, and then majestically vanishes into the distance, ending at the Elbe River.” Smetana wrote Má vlast while becoming deaf and ill from the effects of syphilis. He remarked that only his fervent patriotism enabled him to complete the work. The man known as the “Father of Czech Music” died in 1884.

3. “Song to the Moon” from Rusalka, Antonín Dvořák

Antonín Dvořák’s popular opera Rusalka premiered in 1901 at the Czech National Theater in Prague. In this era of national rivalry, the city’s Czech and German speakers maintained their own theaters. Rusalka’s librettist Jaroslav Kvapil based Rusalka on fairy tales gathered by Czech ethnographers Karel Jaromír Erben and Božena Němcová. While Rusalka has similarities to Hans Christian Anderson’s The Little Mermaid, this opera has decidedly Czech elements, including Bohemian folk melodies and characters like Vodník (water goblin) and the witch Ježí Baba. In this beloved aria, the water sprite Rusalka asks the moon to reveal her love to a human prince.

4. “Ranní mlha” (Morning Fog), Jaroslav Ježek

During the 1920s, Prague became a center of avant-garde culture. Prague’s Liberated Theater was made famous by the comic duo Jiří Voskovec and Jan Werich, as well as Jaroslav Ježek, who composed music for the duo and conducted the theater’s orchestra. Ježek combined contemporary genres, including classical, jazz, dada, and incidental film music. He died in 1942, an exile in New York, having escaped the Nazi occupation of Prague. This moody orchestral piece was recorded sometime between 1929 and 1938 at the Liberated Theater.

5. “Motliba pro Marta” (Prayer for Marta), Marta Kubišová

In 1968, the Communist Party secretary Alexander Dubček implemented “Socialism with a Human Face,” restoring the freedoms of expression and movement. In August 1968, Warsaw Pact troops, led by the Soviet Union, crushed the reform movement known as the Prague Spring. Marta Kubišová’s heartfelt balladbecame an anthem during the invasion. The lyrics are by Jan Comenius, the exiled seventeenth-century Protestant theologian: “Let peace still remain with this country! Let hatred, envy, spite, fear, and strife cease!” Kubišová’s music was censored, and in 1977, she became a spokesperson for the Charter 77 movement.

6. “Magické Noci” (Magical Nights), Plastic People of the Universe

Influenced by the Prog Rock movement, this Prague rock band was not overtly political. Yet, artistic director Ivan Jirous and several band members were arrested in 1976 for “hooliganism” and performing illegally. The “Trial of the Plastic People,” inspired dissidents to issue Charter 77, calling for the end of censorship. This song was first recorded at Václav Havel’s country home in the early 1980s. Its lyrics capture the mystical associations many have with Prague:

The time of magic
Night has come…
Delirium
We live in Prague
That’s where the spirit itself will
One day appear
We live in Prague
That is where.

7. “Start Me Up,” The Rolling Stones

In 1990, signs throughout Prague announced: “The tanks are rolling out. The Stones are rolling in.” That August, the Rolling Stones played to an audience of over 100,000 fans in Strahov Stadium, which, only months earlier, had been the site of the largest demonstration against Communist rule. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were so impressed with the enthusiasm of their Czech fans, many of whom had grown up listening to illegal bootleg versions of Stones hits, that they decided to waive their fees and donate all proceedings to a charity for disabled Czechoslovak children. Their choice to open the concert with “Start Me Up” signified to the crowd that a new era had indeed begun.

8. “Paš o Paňori,” Věra Bílá and Kale

The Romani singer from Rokyčany, a town an hour southwest from Prague, became a phenomenon of World Music in the 1990s. Her rich alto voice and charisma led critics to dub her the “Ella Fitzgerald of Romani Music.” Bílá, who performed and recorded with the Roma band Kale, hailed from the Giňa family of Romani musicians. Their songs mixed pop harmonies with traditional Romani instrumentation.

9. “Nad Vltavou,” Lucie Vondráčková

Lucie Vondráčková is a popular stage, television, and film actress and singer. Her aunt Helena was a pop phenomenon who got her start singing with Marta Kubišová in the 1960s. In this wistful song from 2018, Lucie Vondráčková recalls her favorite places in Prague: whispering cathedral arcades, small theaters, and lofty halls. The nostalgic refrain recalls the rhythm of the Vltava River that Smetana captured in his masterpiece: “Over the Vltava River, Prague dances with a swaying gait. No matter where the clouds go, my dreams will remain with her forever.”

10. “Perfect Day,” Lou Reed

In 1990, Rolling Stone magazine asked President Václav Havel for an interview, and he replied that he would do it only if Lou Reed asked the questions. Havel first heard Reed’s music in 1968, while in New York, and he smuggled the Velvet Underground album White Light/White Heat into Czechoslovakia. Havel frequently cited Perfect Day as his favorite song. In 2009, in a concert marking the twentieth anniversary of the Velvet Revolution, Reed performed the hit in an unlikely duet with opera star Renée Fleming accompanied by the Czech Philharmonic.

There are also a number of additional songs after these ten in the playlist for your enjoyment!

_{Featured image by William Zhang via Unsplash.}

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John Williams and the two notes that changed cinema

Cassandra Ammerman — Tue, 26 Aug 2025 12:30:00 +0000

John Williams and the two notes that changed cinema

Two notes. Probably the most famous two-note unit of music in modern history.

When a composer has a hit song or an instantly iconic tune, it can be a blessing and a curse. That tune becomes eternally attached to you—and sometimes it can eclipse the rest of your work.

John Williams is no one-hit wonder, and he is culturally affiliated with more than a dozen melodies—the many themes in the Star Wars series, the “Raiders March” from the Indiana Jones movies, the flying theme from E.T., the anthem from Jurassic Park, “Hedwig’s Theme” from the Harry Potter films, and so many more. An embarrassment of earworms.

And it all started with his theme from Jaws, his first “hit” and arguably the two notes of his that almost everybody around the world recognizes, even fifty years later. Jaws itself was a phenomenon: society, en masse, was scared out of its wits and out of the water—and so much of their terror was owed to Williams’ obsessive, predatory score. That film and its score took Williams, who had been toiling as a mostly anonymous film and TV composer for nearly twenty years, into the stratosphere of success and pop culture omnipresence. It cemented his partnership with Steven Spielberg and led directly to Williams scoring Star Wars.

The long, fruitful phenomenon of his career—more Oscar nominations than any individual in history, acclaim from world leaders and cultural icons and audiences around the globe—can be traced back to those ominous, oscillating E and F bass notes that signaled the first appearance of the famous great white shark.

But the Jaws score is so much more than the famous “two-note” signature; it’s an entire symphony of primal tension, tender character notes, and adventurous sea shanties. Those “two notes”—the motif actually includes a third note, D—are undeniably the score’s almost literal heartbeat, its unforgettable signature. This thematic motor is not only memorable, it’s also a powerful and clever narrative device; Williams’ concept was to have the theme stand in for the shark, which is often unseen, to speed it up and slow it down as a way of conveying its proximity to the human protagonists. Without ever feeling cartoonish, it is scoring as storytelling, music as both narrative and mind control—a gift at which Williams would prove to be a wizard.

However, to only remember the two notes is to reduce a masterpiece—a veritable symphony—to its simplest denominator. We do something similar with the opening notes in Beethoven’s fifth symphony, but both compositions are large-scale works that develop a central, hummable theme into an epic musical drama. Williams would never claim that his film scores are symphonies. Technically they are not: they don’t follow strict sonata form, and they are necessarily constructed around the architecture of movie scenes, their durations and interruptions and moods at the mercy of the filmmaker’s blueprint.

But Williams, for several years leading up to 1975, had been on an unspoken stealth mission to elevate his film scores above the perfunctory gebrauchsmusik that Hollywood film music so often was, and to approach each scoring assignment like a symphonist. He adopted the leitmotif tradition from opera—assigning a melody or motif to individual characters and story elements—and he honed a way of serving a film’s needs and all its synchronizations while simultaneously developing themes across the length of an entire score, giving each score its own compositional arc and having individual cues inherently connected to one another. Where movie music had so often been disjointed and reactionary, he labored at giving his scores internal logic and developmental integrity.

The turning point for Williams was a 1968 TV movie, Heidi, and he matured this art even further in two films for director Mark Rydell: The Reivers (1969) and The Cowboys (1972). These were the same two scores that alerted a young, soundtrack-collecting Spielberg to Williams, and that made him want to hire Williams the moment he started directing features. (Their first collaboration was The Sugarland Express, in 1974.)

It was an incredible lightning strike. Spielberg, 29, going against the grain of his peers, wanted old-fashioned, symphonic, explicitly narrative scoring in his big throwback movies—which were already like visual music and primed for big, romantic accompaniment. Williams, 43, was a veteran, trained in the old ways of orchestral scoring, and chomping at the bit to run free with his newfound self-directive. It was a match made in cinematic heaven, and Jaws was the moment when these two artists alchemized and became luminous.

Listen again to the Jaws score—the whole score. It begins with fear and, yes, those two notes—aptly swimming, churning with a brainless, relentless appetite for flesh. The theme proper, which expands from that seesaw motor into a rising-falling melody on solo tuba, a ghostly string line, watery harp arpeggios, and a lot of orchestral angst, evokes the paganistic dance of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, and Williams goes primal with it in the many scenes of violent dismemberment.

He also introduces, in just one scene, a short passage of humanistic poetry. When Chief Brody (Roy Scheider) is sitting at his dinner table one evening, gloomy after being slapped in the face by a mother who blames him for the grisly death of her child, Brody’s own son lifts his spirits when he begins to imitate his father’s hand gestures and facial expressions. Williams scored this poignant grace note with a low pedal tone on double bass and halting, gossamer figures played by piano, harp, and vibraphone. It’s one of the earliest examples of Spielberg and Williams creating a sacred moment in the midst of popcorn action and adventure, and it’s one of the elements that makes Jaws so much more than just a “scary shark movie.”

When Brody, Quint (Robert Shaw), and Hooper (Richard Dreyfuss) go out to sea for the film’s second half, Williams scored their adventure like a swashbuckling, seafaring ballet—using the language of singalong sea shanties and Old Hollywood pirate movies. All the while the main Jaws theme remains an active participant, and none of this feels incongruous or out of place. Williams deftly mapped a musical story to the needs of the film’s narrative, but one that listeners can also follow as its own exquisitely satisfying journey.

It wasn’t the first time he had done this, but Jaws was by far the best film he had ever scored—and it signaled a new era not just in his career, but in film music as an art form. Working with two young directors with old-school tastes (Spielberg, and soon George Lucas), Williams revived an ancient way of composing and perfected the art of film scoring. His music ennobled and transcended the films themselves, and with Jaws he began his reign as arguably the finest composer for cinema who has ever lived.

And it all started with two notes—but really, it was a whole damn symphony.

^{Feature image: Photo by Noah Negishi on Unsplash.}

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Sabotage of the Normandie? [excerpt]

Cassandra Ammerman — Wed, 13 Aug 2025 12:30:00 +0000

Sabotage of the Normandie? [excerpt]

In the 1940s, the Normandie was the epitome of elegance and engineering—a French ocean liner renowned for its Art Deco splendor and unmatched luxury. When war loomed over Europe, the ship sought refuge in New York Harbor. In this excerpt from Gotham At War, Mike Wallace shows how its transformation from glamourous ocean liner to utilitarian troopship mirrored the world’s descent into conflict.

On February 9, 1942, the Normandie—the world’s most glamorous ocean liner—had been the site of feverish activity, as 1,750 workers from the Robins Dry Dock & Repair Company, and 675 other laborers from sixty assorted subcontractors, worked to convert the rakish, Art Deco, red-and-black vessel—whose elegant staterooms had hosted the likes of Marlene Dietrich, Cole Porter, and Ernest Hemingway—into a drabbed-down, bunk-laden troopship.

The Normandie had been tied up at Pier 88 (at the foot of West 48th Street) since arriving from Le Havre on August 28, 1939, four days before Germany invaded Poland. Rather than have its crown jewel brave torpedoes at sea, or bombs back in France, the French Line, Compagnie Générale Transatlantique (CGT), laid up its vessel indefinitely on September 6, leaving on board only a skeleton crew of 113 (out of 1,227) to keep it shipshape. There it stayed, through the fall of France, while other sea queens came and went (at one point, in March 1940, the gray-camouflaged sisters Elizabeth and Mary were berthed in adjacent piers).

On May 15, 1941, the US government took the Normandie into protective custody, leaving French ownership intact but housing a contingent of armed Coast Guardsmen on board to forestall possible sabotage by crew members loyal to the Vichy government. (The Pétain regime was getting increasingly cozy with Germany: Vice Premier Admiral François Darlan had just visited Hitler on May 11.) American thoughts turned to possible uses of the giant ship, in the event of an actual confiscation, and proposals were floated to use it as a dockside super- barracks, or to move it to Brooklyn, where it could serve as a backup power supply for the entire city, capable as it was of generating 150,000 kilowatts. When the Normandie was seized, on December 12, the day after war with Germany broke out, the troopship option won out. The vessel was transferred to the Navy, renamed the USS Lafayette, and turned over to contractors who began carting off the legendary artwork and sumptuous furniture to the Chelsea Warehouse and converting the staterooms, which had housed 1,972 First, Tourist, and Third-Class passengers, into bunkrooms that would carry 14,800 soldiers to war.

With nearly 2,500 workmen (plus Coast Guardsmen and crew) constantly coming and going, the noise, confusion and disorder on the ship attracted the attention of Ralph Ingersoll, editor of PM. Security seemed dangerously casual to him, so Ingersoll assigned reporter Edmund Scott to find out how easily a potential saboteur might penetrate the Normandie’s defenses. It proved to be a snap. Scott joined Local 284 of the International Longshoremen’s Association (ILA) and got a job lugging furniture aboard. Once on deck, it proved easy to wander about as he pleased, and he was struck by how simple it would be to set a fire. On January 3, 1942, he filed his story, which Ingersoll decided not to run—it being, in effect, a blueprint for sabotage—and instead got in touch with the authorities, who seemed uninterested.

When a fire broke out at 2:34 on the afternoon of February 9, crewmen discovered to their horror that the fire hoses could not connect to the standpipes, as the latter had been converted to American fittings, while the former still spoke French. Efforts to sound the fire alarm also failed—it had been disconnected a few days earlier, along with the ship’s link to the city’s fire department, by a subcontractor who had forgotten to tell anyone. In the meantime—it was a blustery winter day—the wind whipped through the corridors, spreading the blaze until it was beyond control, with great sheets of flame leaping skyward. Most of the nearly 3,000 on board dashed down the gangplanks and joined the thirty thousand New Yorkers who choked Twelfth Avenue. Fire trucks now combined forces with fire boats to inundate the upper decks: over the next four hours, they poured on 3,000 tons of water. The ship began to list. The French officers who had rushed to the pier realized the danger; their calls to refill the ballast tanks to ground the ship on the slip bottom were rejected, as were their urgings to close the portholes.

The inundation continued, as La Guardia, who had rushed to the pier, said it was out of the question to let a fire rage unchecked in midtown Manhattan. Even after the inferno seemed contained, around 8:00 p.m., the fireboats—ordered by Commissioner Walsh to stop pumping—didn’t get his radioed message; and having gotten dark, his semaphore signals went similarly unheeded. By the time a cutoff was accomplished, the Normandie had taken on 16,000 tons of water, most trapped on the port side, a burden no ship could have borne. At 12:30 a.m., Admiral Andrews gave the order to evacuate. At 2:32 a.m., it rolled over in the gray Hudson ice and came to rest, its funnels just barely above the waterline, slumped ignominiously in the mud.

The U.S. Coast Guard flies over the wreckage of the USS Lafayette (previously known as the SS Normandie) at Pier 88, 12 August 1943. US Navy Photograph.

Rumors of sabotage flew, starting at the top. FDR asked Navy Secretary Knox the next morning if any enemy aliens had been permitted to work at the site. The truth flew almost as quickly yet had difficulty catching up. The first press reports carried District Attorney Frank Hogan’s statement—“There is no evidence of sabotage”—and Admiral Andrews’s concurrence, along with the facts they had ferreted out. The fire, they said, had been an accident, caused by carelessness. One worker had been using an acetylene torch to cut down a metal stanchion in the Grand Salon, the resulting sparks contained by an asbestos board held up by another laborer. When the second man put down his board for a minute to help a colleague, a spark leapt toward a pile of 1,140 life jackets, each filled with flammable kapok, each wrapped in even more flammable burlap. Up they went, in turn igniting a nearby mass of bunk-bound mattresses. On February 12, the FBI staged a re- creation at the Brooklyn Navy Yard; followed up with a full-dress investigation in which they interviewed 760 people, and came to the same conclusion. So did two congressional committees. No sabotage.

Nonetheless, doubts continued. Many refused to buy the verdict, especially after PM published Scott’s original story. The notion that Nazi saboteurs had done the deed was further nurtured by Alfred Hitchcock, then shooting and editing Saboteur (1942). The director inserted a sequence that showed his weaselly Nazi villain (played by Norman Lloyd) being taxied down the West Side past the capsized Normandie (shown in actual newsreel footage). As he surveyed the wreckage, Lloyd gave a perfectly calibrated, wickedly knowing half smile, as if to say: “Ah, our handiwork.” The Navy tried hard to muscle Hitchcock into excising the bit; it failed, and the ranks of doubters grew.

There was one person who did more than doubt—he was utterly certain the Normandie was the victim of foul play, because he himself had ordered the hit. No Nazi, he was the nation’s most celebrated jailbird, languishing up in Dannemora Prison (known as “New York’s Siberia”), doing a thirty-to-fifty-year stretch.

_{Featured image: SS Normandie at sea, colorized by Vick the Viking. Derivative work of Altair78. CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.}

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The bordered logic behind the headlines

Cassandra Ammerman — Tue, 12 Aug 2025 12:30:00 +0000

The bordered logic behind the headlines

‘Where do you want to go today?’ served as the tagline for software giant Microsoft’s global marketing campaign running through the mid-1990s. The accompanying advertisements were replete with flashy images of people around the world of all ages, ethnicities, and backgrounds engaging in a diverse range of activities, including business, education, video games, artistic expression, socializing, and research, to name some of the most prominent examples. The slogan ‘Where do you want to go today?’ implied that people were largely free to travel where they wished, but, of course, Microsoft was selling the power of its software to facilitate the free flow of information and communication, and by extension greater connectivity and collaboration, among people around the world, rather than the actual movement of people.

Yet combined with rapid advances in hardware and software, the tagline captured something of a popular mood of the time. Within many Western societies, the end of the Cold War, the continued liberalization of international trade and travel through a variety of supranational institutions and international agreements, and the growing clout of transnational corporations and nongovernment organizations heralded the coming of a borderless world. The prospect of unprecedented, unfettered mobility and connectivity for an ever-growing number of people seemed imminent.

Looking back thirty years later, those expectations were overly optimistic. It is impossible to deny the truly remarkable technological advances—personal computers, the internet, mobile phones, and wireless communications—that compress space and bridge territories. Yet far from a borderless world, the first decades of the twenty-first century have witnessed a resurgence of borders with impacts on a variety of political, socioeconomic, environmental, technological, and human rights issues.

In fact, borders have been central to two of the most significant events of the 2020s, namely the COVID-19 pandemic and Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022. The COVID-19 pandemic saw governments, with varying degrees of severity and effectiveness, impose border controls, restrict domestic and international travel, and implement systems of confinement and quarantine. These measures disrupted global supply chains and confined millions of people to their homes as their freedom to attend school, go to work, gather for worship, or even simply shop for daily essentials was restricted. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has also disrupted global trade networks, while ravaging large swathes of Ukrainian territory, displacing millions of civilians, and prompting massive increases in defense spending far beyond the direct combatants.

Unfortunately, there is no shortage of international and civil conflicts roiling the international scene. The attacks by Hamas militants from the Gaza Strip into Israel in 2023 prompted Israeli retaliatory attacks and eventually a full-scale invasion into Gaza. This, in turn, gave rise to a series of broader, overlapping regional conflicts involving dozens of state and non-state combatants, including Hezbollah and Houthi militants in Lebanon and Yemen respectively and Iranian and Israeli attacks and counterattacks. That turmoil provided at least proximate triggers for the rapid collapse of the Assad regime in Syria in 2024, leaving that country divided among a mixture of forces representing a provisional government, various sectarian militias with unclear allegiances, and remnants of Islamic State forces. Syrian territory also hosts American, Russian, and Turkish armed forces, in some ways resembling the proxy conflicts of the Cold War.

While the war in Ukraine and tensions in the Middle East have dominated headlines, other armed struggles have flared and persisted across the North African, Sahel, South Asian, and Central Asian regions. Afghanistan, Congo, India, Myanmar, Pakistan, Somalia, Sudan, South Sudan, and Yemen remain gripped, at least in part, by civil strife and border disputes stretching back years, if not decades. Beyond the battlefield death and destruction, these conflicts have broader consequences, including refugee flows, economic dislocation and poverty, and malnutrition and hunger, among other problems.

Looming menacingly in the background is the specter of renewed great power competition, primarily between the United States with its global alliance system and the burgeoning partnerships between China, Iran, North Korea, and Russia, as well as other like-minded authoritarian regimes. After years of forging economic interdependencies, China has been increasingly assertive in projecting power across the Indo-Pacific realm, especially regarding its claims over Taiwan, the South China Sea, and the Himalayas. The United States has responded with calls to ‘pivot to Asia’ based on targeted sanctions and a general decoupling from China’s economy, strengthening alliances stretching from East Asia through Southeast Asia and Oceania into the Indian basin, and more robust and forward military deployments across the region. Ramifications of great power conflict across the Indo-Pacific realm would greatly exceed the calamities of other ongoing wars.

This blog has summarized, admittedly in broad strokes, the shift from relative optimism in the 1990s—characterized by aspirations for a more collaborative and interconnected global community—to a world confronted by profound challenges in which borders will play central roles through the coming decades. Beyond this focus on larger-scale geopolitics and hard international power, borders are central to a variety of other issues across multiple scales, including debates about trade and tariffs, citizenship and immigration, crime, surveillance and privacy, and cultural change and human rights, to name a few. Headlines on any day offer striking examples of issues and events involving borders.

Given the salience of borders to such an array of pressing issues, Oxford University Press has launched Oxford Intersections: Borders to provide the latest border research, highlighting this field’s broad relevance. Borders are shown to be simultaneously positive and negative, often in the same place and at the same time to different people. Borders remain a prime modality of defining and enacting power across multiple scales. This collection seeks to reveal how, where, why, by whom, and to what effect that power and aspiration of territorial control is exercised. We hope readers will engage Oxford Intersections: Borders to encounter new perspectives on a topic that is elemental to human experience and foundational to the form and function of power.

^{Feature image by Greg Bulla on Unsplash.}

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A cultural history of the purse [timeline]

Cassandra Ammerman — Thu, 07 Aug 2025 12:30:00 +0000

A cultural history of the purse [timeline]

In conducting research for The Things She Carried: A Cultural History of the Purse in America, Kathleen B. Casey discovered how one everyday object—the purse—could function as a portal to the past.

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Journey into Darkness: The 2025 Eurovision Song Contest Basel, Switzerland

Cassandra Ammerman — Wed, 09 Jul 2025 15:30:09 +0000

Journey into Darkness: The 2025 Eurovision Song Contest Basel, Switzerland

When you let me go
I barely stayed afloat
I’m floating all alone
Still holding on to hope

—JJ, Austria, “Wasted Love”
Winning song of the Eurovision Song Contest 2025

Many waters
Cannot quench love
Neither can the floods
Drown it

—Yuval Raphael, Israel, “New Day Will Rise” (from the original Hebrew)
Second place, Eurovision Song Contest 2025

How very different the bridges of the first- and second-place songs, JJ’s “Wasted Love” for Austria and Yuval Raphael’s “New Day Will Rise” for Israel, were at Eurovision 2025. And how uncannily the same. Does love survive when tested by the seas and floods threatening to inundate it? The survival of love is both denied and affirmed, threatened but still buoyed by the precarity of hope. Darkness haunts both songs, filling the stage with the stark play of light against the ominous backdrop of black. If the two songs and their metaphors are consonant at many levels, they were also portentous of the larger dissonance of the largest song contest in the world and its turn toward the darkness that envelops Europe in 2025.

JJ, “Wasted Love,” Official Eurovision video

The signs of Eurovision’s turn in 2025 took many and varied forms, but it is the abundance and commonness that pose questions about Europe itself. In significantly larger numbers than previously, the lyrics of the competing Eurosongs were in languages other than English. Each of the Baltic states, for example, sang in languages other than English—Latvian and Lithuanian, and Estonia’s Tommy Cash sang “Espresso Macchiato” primarily in Italian and Spanish. Larger and smaller nations alike chose to sing in national languages. Germany and Iceland, for example, both with long histories of Eurosongs in English, sang in their native languages.

The lyrics of the 2025 Eurosongs tended in greater numbers toward serious subjects, further reflecting the darkening moment. Songs with the comical lyrics that often distinguish Eurosongs did not entirely disappear, but they did not place as well as they frequently do. Sweden’s “Bara bada bastu” (Just Take a Sauna), sung by the Finnish group KAJ and wackily staged in a sauna, was favored to win prior to the Grand Finale, but it placed a fairly distant fourth.

KAJ, “Bara bada bastu,” Official Eurovision video

The field of competitors in 2025 was noticeably smaller: thirty-seven as opposed to as many as forty-three in previous years. Above all, the nations choosing not to compete were in Eastern Europe—Hungary, Romania, Moldova, Slovakia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, and North Macedonia—while Russia and Belarus are banned from competing due to the ongoing war with Ukraine. Despite the financial reasons for not competing, the result has been a realignment of European nations with political stakes that resemble an earlier division of Europe into East and West. Just as the first Eurovision Song Contest was a response to the Cold War in 1956, so too do recent Eurovisions reflect the East-West divide in the Europe of a New Cold War.

The European Broadcasting Union (EBU), which is responsible for organizing the participation of nations in its European media empire has long established rules meant to distance the Eurovision from politics. Over the contest’s historical longue durée these rules have been effective to varying degrees, often by requiring that Eurosongs with politically specific lyrics make changes that depoliticize them. Those changes are usually accommodated (e.g., in 2024 when Israel was required to change some lyrics and the title of its entry, from “October Rain” to “Hurricane”), but occasional rejections are not unknown (e.g., Georgia with its 2009 entry, “We Don’t Wanna Put In”).

In 2025, the dividing line between the political and apolitical collapsed, thereby releasing the flood waters of the political. The rules designed to prevent the political could no longer withstand the Realpolitik of a Europe in conflict with itself. At the center of the storm was Israel and the contradictions unleashed by its continued participation while at war in Gaza. Calls for banning Israel because of its conflicts with Palestinians, especially in Gaza, have been growing for years. Palestine has itself launched tentative efforts to participate in the Eurovision, but without luck because of the absence of a national broadcasting network. Protests of Israeli Eurovision participation coalesced in 2019, when the Eurovision took place in Tel Aviv. Palestinian musicians even went so far as to organize an alternative Gazavision in 2019.

In 2025, all forms of pro-Palestinian protest were banned in Basel. Palestinian flags were not allowed, and the negative response of audiences to Yuval Raphael’s performances (booing) were scrubbed from EBU broadcasts. When Raphael placed in the middle of the field after the professional-juries voted, she catapulted to first place after the Israeli government organized a massive popular-vote surge on social media. She led the field until the final announcement of popular voting nudged JJ ahead into first place. In the week following the Grand Finale in Basel, the critical response to the flood of politicking in the Eurovision had swollen to the point that many recognize it as an existential crisis for the Eurovision Song Contest. It either will or will not be a response to the political forces dividing Europe.

Yuval Raphael, “New Day Will Come,” Official Eurovision video

It is my custom each year to end this blog post by giving final voice to a song that has special meaning for me, often because it offers an alternative vision for what the Eurovision Song Contest has been and what it might become. I discover the meaning I seek in these final sonic epilogues through acts of return and remembrance, return to powerful and intimate Eurovision moments of the past, return also to the exquisite beauty afforded by song itself. Accordingly, I remind myself that it is song that lies at the heart of the Eurovision Song Contest. It is song, so the first great theorist of song, Johann Gottfried Herder, reminds us, that “loves the masses” and their humanity. In search of song, I return to Latvia, where the young Herder, living in Riga, may have experienced his first folk songs, and I look to this year’s Latvian Eurovision entry, Tautumeitas’s “Bur man laimi” (Chant of Happiness). To complete the rhetorical framing of this blogpost, I close with the bridge of a song from Latvian folk song tradition. I return to “Bur man laimi” to remember—and to remind us—that the journey into darkness can pave the way to new light.

I didn’t know my own happiness
I didn’t know my own happiness
Until I met my misery

Tautumeitas, “Bur man laimi,” Official Eurovision video

_{Featured image: the stage of the Eurovision Song Contest 2025 by MrSilesian. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.}

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Ten American road trips

Cassandra Ammerman — Tue, 01 Jul 2025 12:30:00 +0000

Ten American road trips

In the spring of 1791, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, accompanied by Jefferson’s enslaved chef James Hemings, took a road trip. In six weeks, they covered more than 900 miles, travelling through New York, Vermont, Massachusetts, and Connecticut before returning across Long Island. Suffering from various physical ailments and exhausted by the political travails of the day, they sought “health, recreation, and curiosity.” Madison said as long as they were together they could “never be out of their way.” Decades later, he recalled that the trip made them “immediate companions.”

Few rites of passage are as venerated in American culture as the road trip, the journey of discovery to places unfamiliar or unknown. Here are ten noteworthy ones in literature and film in chronological order:

1. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884)

Mark Twain knew about travel! In his famous novel, we follow Huck and Jim as they stream down the Mississippi in a biracial journey of discovery and escape. The trip gets a bit complicated in the novel’s third act, but, on the journey, they prove their manhood and confess their feelings for one another. Jim discovers he is free and Huck realizes the road is the only place for him. At the end, Huck continues his travels as he lights out for the Territory.

2. It Happened One Night (1934)

In this classic screwball comedy, Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert find themselves together on a bus heading to New York from Florida. They hitchhike and encounter all kinds of difficulties as they fall in love, even though Colbert is married to a charlatan. Of course, they end up together. The film swept the key Academy Awards categories̶—and it did something else. In one scene, Clark Gable takes off his shirt to reveal he is wearing nothing beneath it. As a result, T-shirt sales in America plummeted.

3. The Grapes of Wrath (book 1939; film 1940)

In John Steinbeck’s stirring novel, the Joad family, victims of the dust bowl and ruthless bankers, are forced to flee their Oklahoma home and head to California. They travel along the legendary Route 66, where they experience cruelty and kindness as they make their way to what they think will be the promised land. Unfortunately, it isn’t paradise, and at the end Tom Joad commits himself to forever travelling the country and serving as an agent of justice. “I’ll be everywhere,” he states.

4. On The Road (1957)

Jack Kerouac’s novel is the one everyone thinks of when it comes to road trips. Much of the book focuses on the travels of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. It is a tale of friendship and discovery, written in a stream of consciousness that matches the improvisational genius of jazz, which is a current that runs through the book. The novel has influenced generations of creative artists. Paradise says it best: “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

5. Travels with Charley: In Search of America (1962)

John Steinbeck makes this list twice. In 1960, aging and feeling that he had lost the feel for America, he embarked on a 10,000-mile journey across the nation, accompanied by his French poodle Charley. Part travelogue, part fiction, he wrote about the people he met. He gloried in the gifts of nature at Yellowstone and agonized over scenes of racial violence in New Orleans. In the end, he was uncertain what he found, and he lamented the loss of an older America. “The more I inspected this American image, the less sure I became of what it is.”

6. Easy Rider (1969)

The film follows Captain America (Peter Fonda) and Billy (Dennis Hopper) as they travel by motorcycle from Los Angeles to New Orleans. The pair sold cocaine to finance their trip, and drugs, from marijuana to LSD, are part of their journey. In their travels, they experience life in a commune and befriend a lawyer (Jack Nicholson). But they face hostility (the lawyer is murdered) and, in the end, they are also killed. The movie defined an era where the rebellion of youth came to the forefront and the soundtrack forever linked rock ‘n’ roll to the journey on the road.

7. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (1974)

Robert Pirsig’s book became a surprise bestseller, despite being rejected initially by dozens of publishers. It tells the fictionalized autobiographical story of a motorcycle trip he took with his son from Minnesota to California. Along the way, the narrative contemplates various philosophical and psychological issues. What the travelers found was inward, not outward. “Sometimes,” Pirsig writes, “it’s a little better to travel than arrive.”

8. Rain Man (1988)

Awkward pairings are elemental in road narratives. Few are as different as the brothers Charlie and Ray, portrayed by Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman. One is an upscale collectibles dealer and the other is an institutionalized autistic savant. On their car journey from Cincinnati to Los Angeles, Charlie copes with the regimented habits of his brother and comes to appreciate and understand him. In Las Vegas, Ray uses his mathematical abilities to count cards and win big at blackjack. In the end, Ray returns to the institution where he lives, and Charlie promises to see him again, having come to appreciate his brother and realize he wants him in his life.

9. Thelma and Louise (1991)

What starts as a girls’ weekend away becomes a one-way road trip to eternity. Geena Davis (Thelma) and Susan Sarandon (Louise), looking to escape from a domineering husband and deadening job, plan a weekend at a cabin. But after a stop at a roadhouse where Thelma is nearly raped and Louise kills her attacker, the women go on the lam. Along the way, their friendship and confidence grow, but they reach a point of no return as authorities bear down on them. They gas the engine and head toward a gorge. The film leaves the two of them in still frame, forever suspended in mid-air, pointed upward, out and away.

10. The Road (2006)

In this famous post-apocalyptic work, Cormac McCarthy tells the story of a loving father and his young son journeying across a forbidding landscape. There is danger and horror everywhere and the pair struggle to survive. They strive to reach water, and do. But the father dies and the son is left to carry on with another family, who discover him. Father and son had “set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other’s world entire.” If each is the other’s world entire, it matters not where you are on the road.

^{Feature image: Photo by Jaro Bielik on Unsplash.}

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How to speak truth (or a reasonable facsimile) to power

Cassandra Ammerman — Tue, 17 Jun 2025 09:30:00 +0000

How to speak truth (or a reasonable facsimile) to power

One of the earliest depictions of the human form, painted on the wall of a cave in the Iberian Peninsula, seems to show a man with his middle finger extended. The gesture is probably not in this instance the near-universal sign of contempt it has become, but it may nevertheless serve as a reminder that the urge to make our feelings known has a long history. Today, that urge expresses itself most fully in our need to tell our leaders when we think they are wrong, a practice commonly known as “speaking truth to power.”

But getting up the courage to do so is only half the battle. As our recent election cycle has shown, getting power to listen is a whole other matter. Leaders across the political spectrum tend to surround themselves with people who share their views, and the resulting echo chamber simply drowns out other voices.

So how does one do it? The Bible has a couple of examples.

In Genesis, the patriarch Abraham gets God to think twice before wiping out Sodom, the original Sin City. He does it by haggling. “Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked? Peradventure there be fifty righteous within the city,” he asks. When God agrees to spare the city if fifty righteous individuals can be found, Abraham cautiously but firmly starts bringing the number down. What about only 45, he asks. Or 30? How about 20? 10? Each time, God agrees to the new number, and we are left to believe not a single righteous person could be found in that moral cesspool.

A more earthly example comes from the Second book of Samuel, where the prophet Nathan publicly shamed King David for wrongfully arranging the death of Uriah the Hittite so that he could take the voluptuous Bathsheba as his wife. Ostensibly seeking the king’s justice, Nathan shared a story about a rich landowner who nevertheless seized his neighbor’s only ewe for a feast. When David predictably exploded over this rampant injustice, Nathan sprang his trap, telling the king that this was what he had done when he lusted for Bathsheba. Even though Nathan had tricked and humiliated David, the king responded, “I have sinned against the Lord.”

Abraham and Nathan were special cases. As patriarch and prophet, respectively, they had acquired the right to exercise what Greek and Roman scholars called parrhesia, literally, “frankness,” or “freedom of speech.”

More ordinary folks had a problem, as the Greek philosopher Plato discovered when he travelled all the way from Athens to teach the ruler of Syracuse in Sicily how to become a philosopher-king. When Plato said that being a king or slave made no difference to a true philosopher, that ruler decided to try out the idea by selling Plato into slavery. (Legend has it that Plato used the money raised to pay his ransom to found the Academy.)

Under the Romans, public speaking became a primary skill, especially when it came to getting a favorable response from the emperor. As a result, a fairly large number of speeches, and handbooks on how to deliver a successful one, survive. Here are some simple rules that can be distilled from these works.

Rule one: know thyself

This maxim, carved into the walls of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, serves as a reminder that demeanor is important. As Plato learned, speakers who talk down to their listeners are likely to be dismissed as holier-than-thou prigs. So, it’s more effective to offer one’s advice, like Abraham, with a dose of modesty.

Rule two: know thy audience

Better even then know thyself is know thy audience. If a given leader has a history of saber-rattling and plans to start a new arms race, this is probably not the best time to propose a National Endowment for the Arts.

In a democracy, We the People are the ultimate court of public opinion, and in this instance, emotion is often more effective than reason. Greed was all it took to get the ancient Athenians to launch their disastrous expedition against Syracuse, while Mark Antony, in his Funeral Oration for Julius Caesar, used anger to “let slip the dogs of war.” Fear works, too. Just ask the hordes of murderers, rapists, and pedophiles waiting to unleash Armageddon on our borders. Catchy, imperative phrases can be highly effective if they encapsulate a strong emotion. “Build the wall!” and “drain the swamp!” are good examples. “Build Back Better,” not so much.

Rule three: make it win-win

Terrible things happened to David after he was rebuked by Nathan, but in a strictly political sense his willingness to accept the charge (rather than, say, putting Nathan on an enemies list) established David as a legitimate ruler, and not a tyrant. Similarly, that saber-rattling ruler who would never hear of an endowment for the arts might actually listen to someone who pointed out that the pen can be mightier than the sword.

Rule four: flattery is good, finesse is better

In the fourth century, Bishop Eusebius of Caesarea, author of an influential life of Constantine the Great, was present when a speaker dubbed the first Christian emperor a saint and told him he would surely continue to rule in the afterlife. Constantine, who cultivated a public image of prayer and humility, exploded, and that speaker was never heard from again. A speech of Eusebius’s own survives, and a modern reader might be forgiven for thinking the bishop was being just as flattering, but in fact he chose his words much more carefully. Taking note of Constantine’s well-known penchant for public applause, for instance, Eusebius claims, “The cheers of the crowds and the voices of flatterers he holds more a nuisance than a pleasure, because of his stern character and the upright rearing of his soul.”

Eusebius shows he had mastered the trick that the conspirator Decius centuries later would explain in Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar” as the ability to deliver such praise while seeming not to: “But when I tell him he hates flatterers, / He says he does, being most flatterèd.”

Do such rules matter in our postmodern age, when truth itself seems to be up for grabs? We are not as unique as we like to think. Two millennia ago, Pontius Pilate asked, “What is truth?” If a skilled speaker had been on hand, the subsequent course of history might have been very different indeed.

^{Featured image: ‘The School of Athens’ by Raffaello Sanzio, c.1509-1511, via Wikimedia Commons.}

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Pride isn’t arrogance; it’s love

Cassandra Ammerman — Mon, 16 Jun 2025 12:30:00 +0000

Pride isn’t arrogance; it’s love

Shae Washington, a Black queer Christian woman, struggled to reconcile her sexuality and her spirituality. Her church had always taught that you cannot be both Christian and queer. After years of praying about her struggle, one day she heard God say, “I have already set you free on the cross. Why are you still in the closet? Come out, be who I created you to be.” That day, when Shae chose to trust God’s authority over her own certainty, she said she felt a tremendous peace from God. That peace kept her grounded as former friends now demanded she show them where in the Bible it said this was okay and as church members charged her with arrogance for elevating her own experience over years of tradition.

Shae was among those living on the frontlines of the so-called culture wars—conservative Christians who are also LGBTQ+. Some of the things that make a lot of their lives hell make a lot of other people’s lives hell, too, in less direct ways. We all gain by understanding their situations. As we think about pride this month, the lives of LGBTQ+ conservative Christians can help us to see the link between pride and humility, and how both are necessary for love and justice. Knowing that you are a human being, worthy of love, is the kind of pride that a lot of straight, cisgender people take for granted. It is often denied to LGBTQ+ people. That is the pride we celebrate during Pride Month. As Shae’s story illustrates, many LGBTQ+ Christians find it is their humility that helps them recover or develop a healthy sense of pride: the belief in their fundamental worthiness of love and belonging.

Many LGBTQ+ conservative Christians have had loved ones cut them off from all connection out of fear that they are not just sinful, but dangerous to those they love. They are accused of “turning their backs on God,” even though many have begged and pleaded with God to take away the feelings that they thought made them unworthy of love. Still, many LGBTQ+ Christians stay connected to their faith communities, and more and more are being honest about who they are and engaging with their churches. LGBTQ+ Christians who are also people of color may need church as the one place where they find the support they need to survive living in a racist world from week to week. But unlike straight, cisgender people who may have church support groups to help with their marriages or families, LGBTQ+ people may not feel welcome to talk about their intimate relationships or find support for how to navigate them. And in predominantly white LGBTQ+ spaces, they may be free to express their sexual and gender identities, but might endure racism. Their stories make clear that it’s hard to flourish when you have to hide parts of yourself, and that we thrive when we are unconditionally loved and accepted as whole people. But getting there can be a tough road.

Looking at life from LGBTQ+ conservative Christians’ perspective, we see how actions that look like love might not actually be loving. In our research, we heard about a dynamic we call sacramental shame, where churches required LGBTQ+ members continually to feel and display shame—an emotion that signals they know they are unworthy of love—as a sign that they have not rejected God. This requirement was often shrouded in the language of love, “we love you, but we hate your sin,” and in expressions of affection and care. Being gay, bi, or trans was compared to being a murderer, or cheating on a spouse, or embezzling funds—all things that violate other people’s trust and break relationships. Yet the same people who taught that God could forgive people for these things also taught that being LGBTQ+—which is generally involuntary and doesn’t actually hurt anyone—makes a person uniquely unworthy of God’s love. When you treat being LGBTQ+ itself as a sin—the worst sin—you treat your own understanding of gender and sexuality as greater than God’s love, as a commandment more important than the Ten Commandments (which, Jesus said, all boil down to loving God and neighbor).

There is a particular harm that is caused by treating someone like their capacity to love is dangerous. It can make people feel like monsters. We heard from people for whom life had become completely unlivable because they felt unworthy of human connection and God’s love. They kept friends at arm’s length out of fear that getting too close would condemn them both to hell.

When someone has been treated this way, and comes out of it recognizing that they are not monsters but human beings, they feel alive again. That is pride: knowing that they are worthy of love and belonging, with their gifts and flaws, simply because they are human. In contrast to arrogance or hubris, we call this “relational pride.” Relational pride is taken for granted by many cisgender and heterosexual Christians, because no one ever questions that they deserve love. Knowing they are worthy of love only seems like arrogance to those who think LGBTQ+ people are uniquely unworthy. And yet they accuse LGBTQ+ people of being the arrogant ones.

Relational pride is not the opposite of humility, but its counterpart. Humility is a realistic knowledge of your gifts as well as your limitations. Humility enables us to admit that we might be wrong even when we feel pretty certain; it keeps us honest about our humanity, that none of us is all-knowing and that we need to learn from each other. Shae’s humility allowed her to be open to the possibility that she might be wrong about what she had always thought about gender and sexuality. It allowed her to trust God’s message that she is worthy of love, just as she is. What looked like arrogance to fellow church members was an act of submission to God, taking the harder path of being who God was telling her she was made to be. Shea’s humility led her to a healthy sense of pride—the joy of knowing she is worthy to give and receive love.

Humility also helps those who have devalued LGBTQ+ Christians to reconsider. Conservative Christian parents, pastors, and friends tell stories of the moment they realized that maybe they didn’t know everything about human sexuality and gender. That maybe they didn’t fully understand what the Bible was really saying. They showed humility, which led them to prioritize love over certainty.

Conservative Christians often say their job is to love others, not try to bring about social justice. But there is no love without justice. When we love other people, we are humbly open to learning from them and growing through our connection. We listen to them when they tell us we’ve been hurting them, and because we love them, we work to stop hurting them. Love also means listening when people tell you that your organization’s—or country’s—policies are hurting them, because of their sexual orientation, or gender, or race, ability, or because the policies themselves deprive them of things they need to live. Helping them to thrive might mean working to change those policies—out of love.

We on the left can also be arrogant, dismissing those we disagree with as backwards or even evil. To be sure, there are some pretty evil things happening in the world right now. It can be harmful to try to empathize with someone who treats you as if you shouldn’t exist. But trying to understand the fears behind their actions—when we can do so without personal harm—can help us all to find a way forward, to a society in which people are all treated as worthy of love and care not just from their friends and family, but by institutions and policies. Humility and pride foster solidarity—a relationship of love that works for justice.

^{Featured image by Jason Leung via Unsplash.}

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The young Athenians: America in the age of Trump

Cassandra Ammerman — Tue, 10 Jun 2025 09:30:00 +0000

The young Athenians: America in the age of Trump

“You’re not in a good position. You don’t have the cards right now. With us, you start having cards,” snapped President Trump at Volodymyr Zelenskyy, the president of Ukraine, in a so-called negotiation at the Oval Office, broadcast globally on Friday, February 28, 2025. Vice-President JD Vance went on to demand that Zelenskyy say thank you and “offer some words of appreciation for the United States of America and [Trump] who is trying to save … [Ukraine].” Before the dialogue ended with President Trump asserting “This is going to be great television,” he turned to Zelenskyy and summed it all up: “…You are either going to make a deal or we’re out. And if we’re out, you’ll fight it out… But you don’t have the cards…Once we sign that deal [a ceasefire without any guarantees], you’re in a much better position, but you are not acting at all thankful. And that’s not a nice thing. I’ll be honest. That’s not a nice thing.”

Behind all these assertions by the U.S. president and vice president that Ukraine must follow directives—indeed, that Ukraine has no choice but to comply with whatever the U.S. dictates—lies the belief that might makes right. The ancient Athenians made similar arguments in a remarkably analogous dialogue recorded in Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War, specifically during the conflict between Athens, a state at the height of its power, and the small, weak island of Melos.

In 416 BCE, during a truce between Sparta, Athens, the two states embroiled in the Peloponnesian War (431–405 BCE), Athens, without any clear motive or moral justification, sent a large army to Melos, a neutral state during the war, demanding that Melos join the Athenian alliance. “Right,” they claimed, “is only in question between equals in power, while the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must” (Thuc. 5.89).

The Melians were fully aware that by deciding whether to join the Athenians, they were facing a choice between war (against Athens), should they choose to maintain their neutrality, and slavery (to Athens), if they did not. They contended that they ought to be permitted to remain neutral, but Athens responded to each of their arguments with refusal and points that highlighted their superior power. At the conclusion of this disheartening dialogue, the Athenians told the Melians:

“Your strongest arguments depend upon hope and the future, and your actual resources are too scanty, as compared with those arrayed against you, for you to come out victorious. You will therefore show great blindness of judgment, unless, after allowing us to retire, you can find some counsel more prudent than this … And it is certain that those who do not yield to their equals, who keep terms with their superiors, and are moderate towards their inferiors, on the whole succeed best. Think over the matter, therefore, after our withdrawal, and reflect once and again that it is for your country that you are consulting, that you have not more than one, and that upon this one deliberation depends its prosperity or ruin.” (Thuc. 5.111)

With us, they said, you will have cards. But you are not acting at all thankful to us, who can guarantee your security.

This notion that might is right is foundational for the realist school of International Relations, which argues that power, often enforced through violence or war, structures the relationships among sovereign nations. However, the apparent rationality of Trump and Vance’s arguments, as well as those of the ancient Athenians, is misleading.

Thucydides’ presentation of the Athenians in this dialogue is not positive. At the end of it, the Athenians besieged the Melians, who surrendered a few months later and faced the harsh penalty of having all the male citizens executed and all the women and children sold to slavery. These were reprehensible acts to Thucydides, most of the ancient Greeks, and probably many of the Athenians. A few months later, the Athenians made an arrogant and disastrous decision to invade the island of Sicily, where they suffered an utter defeat that marked the beginning of their loss to the Spartans in the Peloponnesian War. Thucydides, who was writing his history after Athens had been defeated in Sicily, offers the Melian dialogue as an example of how states should not behave toward one another. The events on Melos mark a turning point in Athens’ history, when its excessive use of force and abuse of power eventually came back to bite and destroy the Athenians. In 411 BCE, after the disaster on Sicily, Athens briefly abolished its democracy and instituted an oligarchy, followed just 7 years later by another oligarchic regime that ruled violently, disenfranchised most Athenian citizens, and killed foreigners and citizens alike to get rid of enemies. It took a civil war in Athens to restore democracy and return to a healthy civic community.

Athens’ behavior toward the Melians and the belief that power equates to justice led the Athenians directly into a civil war. As a professional historian, I do not think that history repeats itself. Instead, I believe not knowing history is like driving without rear-view mirrors. The televised negotiations in the Oval Office should make us all cautious about the future for the U.S. and the world. As we rush headlong into the future, we should slow down and consider whether there are alternative ways to structure international relations based not on fear and strength, but on positive values like community and peace. We must reflect on whether our states’ actions, or even our own, align with a good moral code and whether war is genuinely inevitable.

_{Featured image by Constantinos Kollias via Unsplash.}

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The Naval Academy Class of 1940 [slideshow]

Cassandra Ammerman — Wed, 04 Jun 2025 12:30:00 +0000

The Naval Academy Class of 1940 [slideshow]

As shocking as the Pearl Harbor attack had been for the Naval Academy Class of 1940, the sudden arrival of peace was nearly as disorienting. Most of the Forties, as they were known, were still only 27 years old, and the great adventure of their lives was now behind them. The war had dominated virtually all of their adult lives, from Hitler’s reoccupation of the Rhineland in 1936 to Japan’s surrender in 1945. For nine years, they had been directed by circumstance, authority, and a shared feeling of responsibility. They had served in different theaters, in different jobs, on different ships—or planes, or battalions. Yet all of them had been forged, tempered, and tested. Every man in the class knew someone who had been killed in the war, and the sacrifice of their classmates was etched into their hearts.

They had learned to live in the moment; now they had to think of the future. For the next two decades and longer, they served in a wide variety of assignments throughout the world. For some of them, there was another war, in Korea. For a few, there was even a third war, in Vietnam. Throughout it all, they stayed in touch with one another, attended class reunions when they could, and caught the occasional Navy football game. Eventually, they retired. Some took up a new profession; several became teachers. But none of them ever forgot their trial by fire in the Second World War, nor did they forget one another. They were always Forties.

[See image gallery at blog.oup.com]

_{Feature image credit: Graduation day at Annapolis, Class of 1940. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, photograph by Harris & Ewing, [reproduction number, e.g., LC-USZ62-12345]. Public domain.}

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10 books to read this Pride Month [reading list]

Cassandra Ammerman — Mon, 02 Jun 2025 09:30:00 +0000

10 books to read this Pride Month [reading list]

Dive into ten remarkable books that illuminate the diverse and vibrant experiences of the LGBTQ+ community. From historical explorations that uncover the rich tapestry of LGBTQ+ history to biographies of influential musical figures who have shaped the cultural landscape, these books offer invaluable perspectives. Whether you’re looking to educate yourself, find inspiration, or simply enjoy compelling stories, these books are essential reads that honor and uplift LGBTQ+ voices.

Choosing Love: What LGBTQ+ Christians Can Teach Us All About Relationships, Inclusion, and Justice

What does the battle between conservative Christians and LGBTQ+ people look like from the vantage point of those who are both? Choosing Love brings together LGBTQ+ conservative Christian experiences with insights from civil rights thinkers, Black feminism, and queer thinkers of color.

Learn more about Choosing Love by Dawne Moon and Theresa W. Tobin

On Elton John: An Opinionated Guide

A lively and imaginative exploration of the career and music of the Rocket Man. Elton John is not only “still standing,” he is a living superlative, the ultimate record-breaking, award-winning survivor of the great era of pop and rock music that he helped to shape during his six decades in the music industry.

Learn more about On EltonJohn by Matthew Restall

The Dandy: A People’s History of Sartorial Splendour

The Dandy: A People’s History of Sartorial Splendour constitutes the first ever history of those dandies who emanated from the less privileged layers of the populace—the lowly clerks, shop assistants, domestic servants, and labourers who increasingly emerged as style-conscious men about town during the modern age. Discover the hidden history of the transgender dandy in interwar Paris and Berlin, the zoot suiter, the teddy boy, the New Romantic, and the many colourful dandies from the past that continue to influence us today.

Learn more about The Dandy by Peter K. Andersson

The New Negro: The Life of Alain Locke

In the prize-winning The New Negro: The Life of Alain Locke, Jeffrey C. Stewart offers the definitive biography of the father of the Harlem Renaissance, based on the extant primary sources of his life and on interviews with those who knew him personally. This year marks the 100th anniversary of The New Negro. What better way to celebrate than by learning more about the life of Alain Locke, the man who popularized the term.

Learn more about The New Negro by Jeffrey C. Stewart

The Things She Carried: A Cultural History of the Purse in America

The Things She Carried explores how purses have served as more than fashion accessories—they’ve been symbols of privacy, pride, and activism. Kathleen B. Casey examines their role in breaking social barriers, from Black women in the civil rights movement to LGBTQ+ individuals using bags to defend their bodies and as declarations of identity. This powerful history highlights how everyday objects can become tools for resistance and self-expression, making it a compelling read for Pride Month and beyond.

Learn more about The Things She Carried by Kathleen B. Casey

Colette: My Literary Mother

Colette was a pioneering, ground-breaking modernist writer, but has not always had her originality and worth recognized in Britain. Her work provocatively uses unstable narratives, gaps, silences, fairytale, mythical tropes, and sensual evocations of childhood, sex, and landscapes. Michèle Roberts examines how Colette expresses her unsettling content on desire, perversion, ageing, and different forms of love.

Learn more about Colette by Michèle Roberts

James Baldwin’s “Sonny’s Blues”

James Baldwin’s work remains profoundly relevant, offering a lens into the intersections of race, sexuality, and identity. His fiction explores personal dilemmas amid complex social pressures, as seen in Giovanni’s Room, which centers gay and bisexual experiences, and Sonny’s Blues, where music becomes a metaphor for resilience. Tom Jenks’s analysis of Sonny’s Blues highlights Baldwin’s meticulous storytelling, showing how the narrative stays with readers. Baldwin’s exploration of masculinity, race, and class challenged norms and shaped conversations around LGBTQ+ rights, making his work essential reading.

Learn more about James Baldwin’s “Sonny’s Blues” by Tom Jenks

Forbidden Desire in Early Modern Europe: Male-Male Sexual Relations, 1400-1750

Until quite recently, the history of male-male sexual relations was a taboo topic. But when historians eventually explored the archives of Florence, Venice and elsewhere in Europe, they brought to light an extraordinary world of early modern sexual activity, extending from city streets and gardens to taverns, monasteries and Mediterranean galleys.

Learn more about Forbidden Desire in Early Modern Europe by Sir Noel Malcolm

The Well of Loneliness

The Well of Loneliness is among the most famous banned books in history. A pioneering work of literature, Radclyffe Hall’s novel charts the development of a ‘female sexual invert’, Stephen Gordon, who from childhood feels an innate sense of masculinity and desire for women.

Learn more about The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall

Leaves of Grass

Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass stands as one of the most influential and innovative literary works of the last two hundred years. Widely credited as the originator of free verse in English, Whitman put forward a radical new language of the body, the nation, and same-sex love.

Learn more about Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman

Check out these books and more on Bookshop US and Bookshop UK.

_{Feature image by Steve Johnson via Unsplash.}

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Spain 50 years after General Franco

Cassandra Ammerman — Thu, 22 May 2025 12:30:00 +0000

Spain 50 years after General Franco

Few countries in the world have changed as dramatically as Spain has since the death of General Franco 50 years ago. Following his victory in a three-year civil war, Franco ruled as dictator for nearly four decades. His successor, King Juan Carlos, whose appointment by Franco in 1969 restored the Bourbon monarchy, abolished in 1931when the Second Republic was declared, used the dictator’s immense powers to transition Spain to democracy, for which there was a crying need among the population.

Today the country is one of only 25 nations out of 167 ranked as a “full democracy” by the Economist Intelligence Unit. The economy has moved from being very protectionist to a high level of openness, as measured by foreign trade and direct foreign investment. Spain was a founding member of the eurozone. Socially it is one of the most progressive countries; same-sex marriage was legalized in 2005, euthanasia and assisted suicide in 2021, and paid menstrual leave in 2023.

Franco and Juan Carlos.
^{Photo via Anefo. Public domain, Wikimedia Commons.}

But in 2025 the country faces a host of challenges, some of them not new but becoming ever more urgent. The unemployment rate has come down from a peak of 27% in 2013, following the 2008 global financial crisis and the bursting of Spain’s immense property bubble, but at 11% it is still double the EU average. The economy is heavily reliant on tourism (94 million international visitors in 2024, the second largest number after France), a seasonal industry; R&D spending, central for technological change and innovation is low (1.2% of GDP), and the state pension system in a country with a fast-ageing population and one of the world’s highest average life expectancies is coming under increasing pressure.

There is also an acute housing crisis, which is deepening the divide between the relatively poor living standards of young adults, unable to get on the property ladder, and the more comfortable life of the elderly. This crisis is aggravated by the influx of immigrants in recent years, who are needed to work in sectors, such as agriculture, construction, and to care for the elderly, and to keep the population growing. Spain’s fertility rate of 1.2 children is far below the replacement rate of 2.1 needed to maintain a stable population. Most of the 8 million increase in the population between 2000 and 2024 was due to immigration.

Other problems include the colonization by politicians of state institutions and companies; the government’s overuse of decree laws that obviate the need for parliamentary debate; corruption that is perceived to be relatively high; political pressure on the judiciary, and the closed party system list to elect MPs. Under this system, candidates are elected in the order in which they appear on the voting list. Since that order is decided by the party’s leadership, MPs are then beholden to the leadership–a system that fosters unquestioning obedience and stifles debate. A Pew survey showed close to 70% of respondents in Spain dissatisfied with the functioning of its democracy, the second highest level among the EU countries included in the survey.

As if these problems are not enough, resolving them is in the hands of a highly polarized and fragmented political class that is identified by the state pollster CIS as one of the country’s biggest problems. Tackling the problems and structural challenges for the greater good requires broad consensus across the political divide. More than 80% of Spaniards, according to the private pollster Metroscopia, would like to return to the spirit of compromise of the 1975-1978 transition to democracy.

That spirit saw broad consensus between the Socialists and the conservative Popular Party (PP), the two main parties, to resolve issues for the good of the country as a whole. Since 2015, however, hard-right and hard-left parties have entered parliament, making consensus much more difficult. The combined share of the Socialists’ and the PP’s vote dropped from 73.4% in 2011 to 50.7% in 2015, and recovered to 65% in 2023.

Spain had five general elections between 2015 and 2023, but only 10 in the preceding 36 years.

The unwieldy Socialist-led minority coalition government of Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez that emerged from the November 2019 and July 2023 elections, with a hard-left alliance as the junior partner, depends for its survival on parliamentary support from Basque nationalist and separatist parties and two Catalan separatist parties.

The movement for an independent Catalonia, which came to a head with an illegal referendum on secession in 2017, has ebbed but not lost its hold over national political life. The maximalist Together for Catalonia’s support for the current government came at the price of a broad and deeply controversial amnesty for some 400 people who faced charges for offences related to the referendum and the secession push.

Meanwhile, Spain’s public administration is still needlessly opaque. Franco’s archaic Official Secrets Law of 1968, which allows classified information to be kept secret forever, remains in force. It is very much out of line with other developed countries. In the 50^th anniversary year of the dictator’s death, now would be a good time to scrap it and agree to a new one. Spain has come a long way but, in some areas, needs to go further.

_{Header image: Photo by Sam Williams on Unsplash.}

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8. Rain Man (1988)

9. Thelma and Louise (1991)

10. The Road (2006)

How to speak truth (or a reasonable facsimile) to power

Rule one: know thyself

Rule two: know thy audience

Rule three: make it win-win

Rule four: flattery is good, finesse is better

Pride isn’t arrogance; it’s love

The young Athenians: America in the age of Trump

The Naval Academy Class of 1940 [slideshow]

10 books to read this Pride Month [reading list]

Choosing Love: What LGBTQ+ Christians Can Teach Us All About Relationships, Inclusion, and Justice

On Elton John: An Opinionated Guide

The Dandy: A People’s History of Sartorial Splendour

The New Negro: The Life of Alain Locke

The Things She Carried: A Cultural History of the Purse in America

Colette: My Literary Mother

James Baldwin’s “Sonny’s Blues”

Forbidden Desire in Early Modern Europe: Male-Male Sexual Relations, 1400-1750

The Well of Loneliness

Leaves of Grass

Spain 50 years after General Franco

2. **“The Asteroid Field” (from The Empire Strikes Back)**

4. **“Mom Returns and Finale” (from Home Alone)**

5. **“Remembering Emilie, and Finale” (War Horse)**

6. **“Among the Clouds” (from Always)**

7. **“E.T. is Alive” (from E.T. The Extra Terrestrial)**

8. **“Cadillac of the Skies” (from Empire of the Sun)**

9. **“The Search for the Blue Fairy” (from A.I. Artificial Intelligence)**