the french love Donald Trump (okay, just this one guy)

I. Freedom Fries or Die
French novelist Michel Houellebecq - controversial in his own right - insists that from the point of view of the rest of the world, Trump's doing plenty of good. I think Trump's a dangerous clown at best, and that Mr. Houellebecq ignores more evidence than he lists (remember the Mother of All Bombs?). Still, surprised Harper's had the moxie to publish his piece, which is worth reading if only to sharpen your own political spurs:

Trump is pursuing and amplifying the policy of disengagement initiated by Obama; this is very good news for the rest of the world.

The Americans are getting off our backs.

The Americans are letting us exist.

The Americans have stopped trying to spread democracy to the four corners of the globe. Besides, what democracy? Voting every four years to elect a head of state—is that democracy? In my view, there’s one country in the world (one country, not two) that enjoys partially democratic institutions, and that country isn’t the United States of America; it’s Switzerland. A country otherwise notable for its laudable policy of neutrality.

II. In Which I am a Hypocrite
One of the great literary put-downs of the last thirty years is David Foster Wallace's summation of John Updike as a "penis with a thesaurus." The line appears in a review of Updike's Toward the End of Time. I've had the line in my head for years but never actually read the essay. I tried to pick up Rabbit, Run in college, having been inspired and awed by Updike's oft-anthologized "A&P" in high school. The former repelled me, probably for boring and puritanical reasons, and I didn't make it past the first couple of pages (maybe the first chapter?).

When I read about DFW's one-liner sometime later, I felt justified by good company. Not, to be clear, because I'd read almost anything by David Foster Wallace - and except for some short stories and essays, that's still true - but because one of the luminaries of early-2000s literature gave authority to my gut reaction. "Updike? Overrated. Take it from me and that authorial bandana over there."

Well, I've finally read the damn essay in which Updike is referred to as a "penis with a thesaurus" (still an amazing line), and DFW is quoting someone else. Foster Wallace actually refers to himself as an Updike fan even as he pans Updike's most recent book and compellingly outlines the self-defeating solipsism of what he calls the Great Male Narcissists (Norman Mailer, Philip Roth, and Updike). If there's any irony to this beyond my stupidity, it's that David Foster Wallace now shares a legacy not unlike Updike's. We can all agree that Infinite Jest sounds insufferable, or that an author's repertoire often features trends from book to book that any single text might not make plain, but I can only imagine most people who dismiss DFW do so for social reasons.

There are enough essays out in the world about this phenomenon, at least one I remember from Electric Literature in which a young woman recounts how men recommending DFW has killed any interest she has in the author. I haven't read a ton of the guy myself, so this isn't some line in the sand. What I have read has been good and often funny, if not always brilliant, and Foster Wallace's recommendation of three Updike titles means I might give John another chance, too. At the very least, I don't see why I shouldn't benefit from a pretender's best work, or why the one classic someone wrote might not be as much evidence for reading them as the twenty that are unbearable. Books aren't sports. Consistency is interesting, but greatness can be a single achievement in art, even if that greatness comes from a sour place that only sours more with each new book. Maybe. I'm still working this idea out.

Either way, I find the pettiness of human life stubbornly profound. A friend once related how she was inspired to become vegan at least partly because she met Jonathan Safran Foer (famous for his book Eating Animals) and he admitted that being vegan was too hard for him. "Too hard for you? Ha! I bet I could do it."

III. Opinion
Sleep is good, but going to sleep is awful and bad (for me), and the latter probably gives you some insight into how often you think about death. My wife sleeps like an Ambien advertisement, usually, and I have yet to decide whether this means she's more at ease with dying than I am, or if death's necessarily marginal appearance in her life is properly relegated to a marginal appearance in her consciousness. Memento mori, but also death is simply the last thing you have to do and will take care of itself.  

Anyway. Enjoy winter!