I saw a white angel passing over my head;Its dazzling flight pacified the stormAnd lulled from a distance the noisy sea."What have you come to do, angel, in this night?"I asked. It answered, "I come to take your soul."And I was afraid, because I saw it was a woman;And I said, trembling and holding out my arms,"What will be left of me? Because you will fly away."The angel did not respond. The shadow-besieged skyWas turning dark. "If you take my soul," I cried,"Where will you take it? Show me in what place."Still there was silence. "O traveler of the blue sky,Are you death?" I said.
Liberal Fascism: The Secret History of the American Left from Mussolini to the Politics of Meaning By Jonah Goldberg (Doubleday, 496 pp., $27.95) In graduate school I had a professor, a famous Marxist, who devoted a significant portion of a lecture to the subject of artifacts.
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (DreamWorks) Foreigners By Caryl Phillips (Knopf, 235 pp., $24.95)Records of Shelley, Byron, and the Author By Edward John Trelawny (New York Review Books, 308 pp., $12.95) I. As Sweeney Todd croons to his razor, "My friend, my faithful friend," more in love with its sharp blade than with Mrs. Lovett, his partner in crime, you may find yourself wondering what it is about opera and its ubiquitous vengeful barbers.
They Knew They Were Right: The Rise of the Neocons By Jacob Heilbrunn (Doubleday, 320 pp., $26) Can I get a show of hands?
Ortega y Gasset makes much fuss somewhere speculating that Goethe, glorious Goethe, mismanaged the project of realizing his selfhood, that he was one of those "I"'s who aren't truly at one with themselves, who in construing themselves betray the "I" they could/should have been. This is as I recall it, though possibly I, who for the greater part of my life have been involved in an adversarial relation with myself, berating, accusing, demanding I be someone I'm not, shouldn't be wholly trusted in this: Ortega may well have meant something entirely else (what, though?). Anyway, put things
Lectures on the History of Political Philosophy By John Rawls Edited by Samuel Freeman (Harvard University Press, 476 pp., $35) Ever since ancient times, philosophers have sought to define the proper goals of political life. Yet in the age of modern democracy, when citizens themselves are held to decide through the various institutions of government the laws and the norms under which they will live together, political philosophy can look profoundly undemocratic.
The Loss of Sadness: How Psychiatry Transformed Normal Sorrow into Depressive Disorder By Allan V. Horwitz and Jerome C. Wakefield (Oxford University Press, 287 pp., $29.95) I. In the early 1970s, annual meetings of the American Psychiatric Association (APA) were home to angry showdowns between the gay rights lobby and organized psychiatry. Activists picketed convention sites, shouted down speakers, and waged ad hominem attacks on psychiatrists who sincerely believed that homosexuality was a sickness.
The Origins of Reasonable Doubt: Theological Roots of the Criminal Trial By James Q. Whitman (Yale University Press, 276 pp., $40) I. To be convicted of a crime in our courts, a defendant must be proved guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. This rule is both fundamental to the criminal justice system of the United States and uncontroversial.
The Letters of A.E. Housman Edited by Archie Burnett (Oxford University Press, 2 volumes, 643 pp. and 585 pp., $330) I. FOR MORE YEARS than I care to think about, I have been haunted in a variety of ways by the acerbic and enigmatic ghost of A.E. Housman. It began with A Shropshire Lad, which I discovered (when else?) early in adolescence.
The small crowd by the American consulate ripples like a jellyfish in water. A young Dominican strides down the sidewalk and passersby yield piously. I'm at home again, silent as a Buddhist. I count the days of happiness and fretting, days spent seeking you frantically, finding just a metaphor, an image, days of Ecclesiastes and the Psalmist. I remember the heatstruck scent of heather, the smell of sap in the forest by the sea, the dark of a white chapel in Provence, where only a candle's sun glowed. I remember Greece's small olives, Westphalia's gleaming railroads and the long trip to bid m