Cold

While much of North America basks in unseasonably warm temperatures, Russia is enduring one of the coldest winters on record.

As usual, Russians are doing more than coping. In Moscow, snowmen appeared in the Arbat and thousands protested against nationalism.

Snowmen in the Arbat

Photo by Nicholas Danilov, MosNews.com

Meanwhile, Boris Yeltsin says he has no regrets in naming Vladimir Putin to succeed him. But this little exchange seemed to come from left field:

By the way, what do you think about Lenin’s body remaining in the Mausoleum on Red Square?

I did not have the time to finish the whole story with Lenin’s reburial. We should have buried his body long ago, like good Christians.

In honor of Yeltsin’s 75th birthday (Feb. 1), Московские новости is running excerpts from a new biography by Vitaly Tretyakov.

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Basement

It suddenly dawned on me that WorldWideWeber is not an appropriate name for this blog. After tossing around a few alternatives, I’ve settled on Notes from the Basement.

It should be apparent that this is an homage à Dostoïevski,* a nod to his Записки из подполья, usually rendered in English as Notes from Underground (or even less faithfully as Notes from the Underground). Some commentators have offered alternative renderings of подполье, without going to far as to recommend its use in the translated title. For instance, some have noted that the word literally means “under the floor,” and have suggested that Dostoevsky meant to conjure the image “beneath the floorboards” (especially since his “hero” likens himself to a mouse at one point).

Naturally at moments like this one turns to V.I. Dahl [Даль], the great Russian lexicographer. He defines подполье as “простор или яма под полом; у крест. это род чулана или погребка, либо с западней, либо с ходом через голбец” [a space or hole under the floor; among peasants it is a sort of larder or cellar with either a trapdoor or an entry through a storeroom].

So it seems “cellar” would be the most accurate translation. However, for my purposes it sounds too rustic. (I think of Dorothy struggling to get the door to the cellar open as the tornado bears down on her.) It also makes me think of “notes from the seller.” (Doesn’t everyone think homonymically?)

So “basement” it is, connoting dim light, cobwebs, and perhaps even a mouse or two; a place where a guy can retreat and type a few words into the æther.

This new title should also signal a desire on my part to open a new area of the blog and begin tracking contemporary Russian life.

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*Isn’t that exquisitely pretentious? I couldn’t help myself—I find Dostoevsky’s name such a stitch in French.

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Slippage

Well, another month has all but slipped away. Make that: another year. My year, that is—the reckoning that began when I stuck my head out of my mother’s belly and thought: “Crap, it’s bright out here!” Moments later, a new thought: “Crap, it’s cold, too!”

Actually, the story goes that I had to be dragged out. “Forceps …” (Is that Dr. Kildare? or Dr. Chamberlen?) Grab that greasy little thing!

My siblings all have nice first-day photos from the nursery at Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital in Cleveland: my older brother sleeping soundly, the younger ones just staring vacantly or dozing. My first portrait is a standing joke in the family: eyes glaring at the stupid camera guy, one eyelid puffy like a prizefighter’s, the head slightly lopsided … What a way to start a life!

A product of forceps circa 1954

(Nice pompadour, or whatever it is you call that flip up top.)

Now everything’s just fine—haven’t seen a forceps since.

Corrigendum 2009.10.07: I’ve been meaning to make this correction for some time now. It turns out my older brother and I were born at St. Ann Hospital, not Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital, where the rest of the gang was born.

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Concision

It’s true: I try to be concise. Sometimes this has worked out well. For instance, a favorite professor once wrote on a paper of mine: “Short, sweet, to the point.” On the other hand, my current boss continually presses me to flesh out what he calls my “orphic utterances.”

Well, here’s what Marianne Moore had to say.

To a Snail

If “compression is the first grace of style,”
you have it. Contractility is a virtue
as modesty is a virtue.
It is not the acquisition of any one thing
that is able to adorn,
or the incidental quality that occurs
as a concomitant of something well said,
that we value in style,
but the principle that is hid:
in the absence of feet, “a method of conclusions”;
“a knowledge of principles,”
in the curious phenomenon of your occipital horn.

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Privacy

Leave aside the Bush administration’s abuses that have captured our attention recently. It turns out anyone can get ahold of your phone records—and at a pretty affordable price, too. (Kos has more here).

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Unread

Here’s a sig that resonates:

In the future, everyone will have a blog, and none of them will be read. My unread blog will be Symmachus.

(Found it over at Daily Kos—a phenomenally widely read blog.)

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Emptiness

The home renovation is just about done. It’s incredible how the crumbling plaster and decayed bathroom vanity have disappeared from my memory. Looking at the fresh paint and new fixtures, it’s as if they’ve always been there. I have to work to remember how crappy it all looked.

All that’s left is to remove the incredibly fine dust that has settled on all horizontal surfaces and move everything back in its place.

Everything? Maybe not.

It almost seems a shame to hang the pictures again—the rooms looks so nice with nothing on the walls. Who needs a mirror in the bedroom? Maybe we should get rid of most of these books …

Whoa! Okay, we keep the books (most of them). But this attractive emptiness reminds me of Laura’s dream house. As she describes it, there would be one room with absolutely nothing in it. You’d go in there to empty your head. What a luxury that would be. Some would say it sounds like solitary confinement—the “hole,” as they say. Well, what’s the purpose of the hole if not to focus the prisoner’s thoughts on what’s really important? We should all toss ourselves into the hole from time to time.

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Pissing

Every once in a while someone manages to encapsulate a complex thought in a few pithy words. As we have watched the Plame/Wilson scandal unfold, many have unraveled the threads to expose the flimsy core: reporters granting anonymity to highly placed sources. And the absolute nucleus of the problem is this: our millionaire reporting class cohabits the same lush territory as the muckamucks they pretend to cover. (Actually, cover is the operative word—they cover for them.)

Okay, so this dude Marty Kaplan comes along and says it all in a memorable way: A piss is not a leak. Read the post—it’s not long. As one person commented: “The question I have is this: If I can understand Mr. Kaplan’s point, why can’t the NYT or WP?” Indeed.

Meanwhile, over at the New York Observer, Chris Lehman meditates on the “theology of access” and Bob Woodward.

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Test

Submitting new blog entries by e-mail—what a concept! Now let’s see if it works …

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Silence

When I started this blog, I thought I’d have more to say about current events. But after five years or so of spilling my guts on the family forum, I find that I am depleted. At least for now. Although the governing elites and the mainstream media continue reading their script, it appears the American people have caught on that it was a tragic farce. While Bush and his cohort continue to recite, their audience trickles away, shaking their heads. Although some of us have given in to well-earned Schadenfreude, and some continue to take pleasure in mocking the vest pocket Machiavellis and cheerleaders for empire, others are just tired. I am tired.

As the 2006 elections draw near, I expect to regain my voice. For the time being, there are plenty of people still willing to keep up the steady din of ridicule, to continue debunking the current regime’s shameless, neverending, self-serving bullshit.

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