About Me

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New Orleans, Louisiana, United States
Admire John McPhee, Bill Bryson, David Remnick, Thomas Merton, Richard Rohr and James Martin (and most open and curious minds)


New York

 A mere seven decades after the United States gained independence, New York City had already ascended to become the marvel of the world. But half of its children never reached the age of six:

"By ... 1853, English visitors marveled that Broad­way's stores and hotels were 'more like the palaces of kings than places for the transaction of business.' Scarlet and yellow omnibuses thundered up and down Broadway, the biggest fish in a river pulsing with private car­riages, hotel stagecoaches, two-horse hackneys, and carts and wagons piled high with merchandise. ...

"There were hundreds of oyster cellars, coffee houses, ice cream saloons, and restaurants on Broadway, but 'the most superb of these,' ... many ... believed, was on the corner of Broadway and Franklin Street. At a time when most eateries were reserved for men, Taylor's Saloon was known as a mecca for lady shoppers, who made the rounds of Broadway's fashion­able stores wearing costly silks and rich brocades that swept the sidewalks like so many dustmen. ...

Thomas Horner, "Broadway, New York" 1836. 
"Clustered around Mercer Street, just west of Broadway, were gambling houses and brothels so 'open, free, and undisguised,' the Tribune noted sar­castically, that surely they could not be what they seemed. They had to be respectable, the paper declared, because 'they are frequently visited by gen­tlemen of the best standing ... such as aldermen, judges, lawyers, assem­blymen, state officers, country merchants and others.' ...

"And yet there was another side of New York, one that could be glimpsed by peering down Broadway's side streets, where pigs picked over rotten veg­etables and the detritus of modern life -- old hats without crowns, worn-out shoes, lidless flour barrels, and toppled earthenware jars full of coal ashes­ made it difficult for pedestrians to pass. On those streets, ragged women carried bundles of broken boards and old timbers from demolished build­ings, trailed by children loaded down with only slightly lighter burdens. Hobbled old men and shoeless scrawny girls in filthy cotton frocks carried cedar pails filled with ears of corn, crying to tempt well-dressed New Yorkers with their plaintive cries of 'Hot corn! Here's your nice hot corn -- smoking hot, smoking hot, just from the pot!' 

Tenement life in New York -- sketches in "Bottle Alley" (1879)
"Many of the vagrant children who wandered lower Manhattan -- an estimated three thousand of them in 1850 -- survived by scavenging or selling fruits, nuts, or petty merchandise. Others stole from stores or the docks, or became pickpockets or junior mem­bers of adult gangs. In 1851, a fourth of the 16,000 criminals sent to City Prison were younger than 21 -- eight hundred were younger than 15 and 175 were younger than 10. To many New Yorkers, the specter of young girls living on the streets was especially horrifying. 'No one can walk the length of Broadway,' George Templeton Strong wrote in 1851, 'without meeting some hideous troop of ragged girls, from 12 years old down, brutalized be­yond redemption by premature vice, clad in the filthy refuse of the rag pick­er's collections, obscene of speech, the stamp of childhood gone from their faces, hurrying along with harsh laughter and foulness on their lips ... with thief written in their cunning eyes and whore on their depraved faces.'

"Many of the poorest New Yorkers were recent immigrants -- by 1850, nearly half of the city's residents had been born overseas. The newcomers, most of them Irish and German, were packed into squalid, suffocating tene­ments in slums such as Five Points, where cholera, typhus, and tuberculosis were rampant and the murder rate was the highest in the Western world. ... 

"Then there was the smell. The horses of New York -- some 22,500 pulled the city's omnibuses and streetcars, and individual households owned many more -- left steaming tons of manure in the streets. ... Poor sanitation contributed to periodic cholera outbreaks; during an epidemic in 1849, one out of every hundred New Yorkers perished. But even in years without cholera, the mor­tality rate was extraordinarily high: fewer than half of the children born in the city in the 1850s survived to the age of six."

To subscribe, please click here or text "nonfiction" to 22828.
Author: Scott S. Greenberger
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Copyright 2017 by Scott S. Greenberger
Pages: 18-21


Why We Need Art - Natalie Angier

The American Scholar: Why We Need Art - Natalie Angier

Why We Need Art


Can evolutionary biology explain the human impulse to create?
Edward O. Wilson in the Gorongosa National Park in Mozambique. He has spent much of his career trying to unify the sciences and the humanities. (Bob Poole)

By Natalie Angier

DECEMBER 4, 2017

The Origins of Creativity by Edward O. Wilson; Liveright, 256 pp., $24.95
If you’re sketching out an abstract pattern to enliven, say, a corporate webpage or a team flag, here’s a simple rule to keep in mind: repeat about 20 percent of the elements in your design. Too much redundancy of parts and the image will risk looking dull; too much complexity and it can seem busy or crowded. But a mild salting of repetition, research has shown, will hit the brain’s Goldilocks spot and make the beholder feel good. In fact, much of the abstract and primitive art we find most appealing follows the 20 percent rule.
We don’t know why our aesthetics are tuned this way, but Edward O. Wilson suggests that the “optimum complexity principle” reflects a kind of compromise between the brain’s greed and its limitations. We crave sensory input, but we can process only so much of it at any given moment. Hence, a novel image that can be grasped whole, with a single glance, feels oddly satisfying, a prize for sore eyes.  The same reasoning may explain why the number seven is often considered lucky. A grouping of seven objects looks big enough to be worth our while but manageable enough to be quantified at first sight.
The optimum complexity principle is just one of many examples that Wilson rallies in The Origins of Creativity, his latest plea for the grand unification of the sciences and the humanities. The two camps are often viewed as enemy combatants, or at least paisley and plaid—best kept apart—but Wilson is deeply impatient with academic partitioning. Artists, he argues, should have a grasp of basic neuroscience and how the brain evolved. Scientists must appreciate the humanities for infusing human life with meaning. Only by joining cognitive forces, Wilson argues, can we hope to tackle the evergreen mysteries of existence and dodge the traps of our own making. Why are we so smart and so stupid, so violent and so generous, so besotted with nature yet seemingly intent on destroying it?
Science has granted us the power to “dominate Earth and everything on it,” Wilson writes, all the while remaining “blind to the common good” of ourselves and the planet we have no choice but to call home. “The humanities alone can correct this imperfection” and “swerve the moral trajectory into a new mode of reasoning,” he says. The humanities must blend with objective scientific research to divulge “a full and honest picture of what we truly are and what we can become.”
Wilson has sought to emulsify the disciplines for decades now, most obviously and authoritatively in his 1998 book, Consilience. Since then, he has continued the quest in a series of shorter and more essayish works, some aimed at scientists, others addressing the canonical liberal arts major, and all of them cleanly, cogently, unapologetically ambitious. The titles alone are spinal chutzpah: today it’s The Origins of Creativity; in 2014 it was The Meaning of Human Existence.
Wilson is a beautiful writer of astounding productivity. Now 88, he has published 30 books and shows no sign of quitting. He has won two Pulitzer prizes. The scope of his learning is immense. He is the bona fide Renaissance scholar he wants us all to be, but we rarely are and that disappoints him. You’ll learn a lot by reading his books. What you won’t learn is the definitive answer to the origins of creativity or the meaning of your existence. Instead, you’ll find the threads for a plausible first pass of an origins story, as well as advice on how we might break out of our intellectual ruts. You’ll also pick up a lot of asides and opinions, including Wilson’s preference for Nabokov’s Lolita (“the presence of greatness”) over Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections (“a painfully ostentatious display of learning”) and his belief that of the many people he has seen or heard perform Stephen Sondheim’s ballad “Send In the Clowns”—Judy Collins, Judi Dench, Barbra Streisand, Sarah Vaughan, Carol Burnett—only Glenn Close gets it right. “She is, in my admittedly personal judgment, perfect,” Wilson writes. Close’s rendition captures what Wilson considers one of the most revealing and deeply human of cognitive-emotional states: irony. The small, sad smile, the proud posture, the exquisite mix of cynicism and hope. Anger and jealousy are “animal emotions,” Wilson says, and shared in some form by many other species. Irony is different. “It is ours alone, cerebral, pacific, and shaped substantially by cultural evolution.” To explain animal emotions, you start with biology and then stir in the humanities. “To explain irony,” he says, “requires the reverse.”
Where does our sense of irony come from, and why were so many people willing to pay hundreds of dollars to see Close in the Broadway musical Sunset Boulevard  ? The creative impulse is a human universal. Every known culture artifies, to use a term coined by the independent scholar Ellen Dissanayake. People make music, dance, paint, tell stories, adorn objects and self, and by all indication we’ve artified from our earliest beginnings. Archaeologists have found evidence from more than 100,000 years ago that early humans in southern Africa brightened up their cave walls with a few splashes of red ocher paint. Pretty soon our ancestors were stringing seashells into jewelry and fashioning bones into flutes. But why?
One reason we invented art, Wilson suggests, might have been to help us cope with the terrible gifts of consciousness and self-awareness that our bulging, deeply furrowed brains bestowed on us. We know that we and our loved ones are going to die. We know we’re miserable, flawed creatures who may not be as bad as our neighbors, but still. We need distraction. We need explication. We need a good excuse. It’s time for some irony belted out in a song.
The question then becomes, Why the big brain? What good is it, really, and why did it evolve? The human brain is indeed massive, a three-pound pudding of some 100 billion neurons and 100 trillion connections between neurons, packed into a volume of about 1,500 cubic centimeters—roughly the size of a cauliflower. That’s three to four times the brain volume of our nearest living relative, the chimpanzee, from whom we diverged about six million years ago. Chimpanzees, Wilson observes, are pretty smart, able to learn a number sequence like 64136 faster than we can, and retain it longer, too. But chimpanzees lack crucial skills that we can claim. They don’t have a real language, and they don’t work cooperatively to accomplish a goal. As the evolutionary anthropologist Michael Tomasello has observed, you don’t see two chimpanzees walking through the forest carrying a log together.
Our language and cooperative spirit likely had a synergistic effect, with advances in one spurring leaps in the other and the two driving “the most rapid evolutionary growth of a complex organ of all time,” Wilson writes. Today, we speak about 6,900 languages, as well as any number of regional dialects, patois, jargonese, emoticons, Klingon, and the paralingual abomination of all-caps acronyms like STEM. “Language is not just a creation of humanity,” Wilson writes. “It is humanity.”
We have also perfected the art of cooperation without self-abnegation, the flexible ability, as Brian Hare and Jingzhi Tan of Duke University have said, “to avoid high-cost helping … while recognizing the benefit of mutualistic endeavors.” You pay for the gas, I’ll give you a lift home, but the password to my bank account is my own.
Our brains might have continued to expand indefinitely, Wilson suggests, were it not for an odd anatomical limitation: a more massive head would bobble around too much on our slender necks, potentially damaging the delicate gray matter within. Thus the body “halted the advance of human genius,” Wilson says, and the flesh clipped the wings of the mind.
So, how did humans learn to talk and horse-trade when other primates did not? Wilson argues that Homo sapiens is among the rare category of animal that ranks as eusocial, or truly social: the primate equivalent of bees, wasps, ants, termites, and a handful of other organisms like aphids, thrips, and social marine shrimp. Many animals, including chimpanzees, are quite gregarious: they live in groups, know each other thoroughly, prefer this nitpicking friend over that sullen frenemy, and so forth. But eusocial animals go further. They practice a division of labor and display unmistakable signs of group loyalty, to the point where the group essentially operates as a unit of evolutionary selection. In the perpetual skirmish for resources, a socially cohesive and organized tribe will have distinct advantages over a ragtag band of less disciplined self-servers, but it’s extremely difficult to overcome innate animal suspiciousness long enough to get the team ethos started, which is why eusociality in nature is so rare.
Wilson argues that the key to eusociality is the nest—the place where the young are raised and the adults return each day. Bees have their hives, termites their spectacular Le Corbusier mounds, and early humans had their campfires. We became humanized by a Promethean light. Around a crackling fire, we felt safe from predators. We told stories and sang songs. We cooked our meat and tubers into a more easily digestible form to feed our hungry, growing brains. We planned the next day’s hunt, reaffirmed our bonds of friendship, and thought, Wouldn’t it be great right now if somebody invented the marshmallow? Campfires were worth defending, and orange and black look good on a flag.
Wilson is a master storyteller, but not everybody is convinced by his narrative. Lately, he and a number of his colleagues have waged a public battle against the importance of inclusive fitness, a stalwart principle in evolutionary biology that says organisms seek to promote their relatives’ genes as well as their own. Researchers have long cited inclusive fitness to explain such puzzling behaviors as altruism, homosexuality, even suicide, but Wilson, who was once an adherent, now insists that the math doesn’t add up. He asserts that most biologists are coming around to his point of view, yet I see little evidence of that emerging consensus in either the scientific literature or my interviews with scientists.
Nor is it clear to me that the humanities will benefit greatly by a mind meld with evolutionary biology, which Wilson counts as one of the sciences most likely to reanimate the flagging fortunes of the liberal arts. The trendy field of “literary Darwinism,” for example, has produced little to date but dreck, and to reduce a masterpiece like Pride and Prejudice to the stock conceits of evolutionary psychology—fecund virgin toys with handsome rake and his bad-boy genes before finally mating with wealthy provider—adds nothing to our understanding of the work or of ourselves. Wilson is a far subtler thinker than the average evo-psychologist, but even he can fall into the off-putting adumbrations of the field, like referring to women as a “resource” over which men compete.
Wilson has another suggestion that I embrace with every axon and dendrite in my bobbling brain: that the arts and humanities break free of their anthropocentric perspective to imagine the world as nonhumans live it. The dazzling viewpoint of the mantis shrimp, whose eyes have 12 color receptors to our paltry three. The pointillist soundscape of bats, bouncing clicks off their insect prey or detecting vibrations on water that tell of fish to be snared. The chemocopia of smells that a bloodhound can capture, its nasal passages carpeted with 220 million odor receptors—200 million more than our own. Soon we may have the technology to re-create, through virtual reality, selections from nature’s vast Umwelten that currently elude us. Our greedy brains will still have their limits, but we can take in the new world one step at a time.


Surrounded by Books

Surrounded by Books | Chronicles Magazine

Surrounded by books has been a main circumstance of my long life.  So it is now, near the end of my 94th year, when I am in my large library of perhaps 18,000 books in the western wing of my house in Chester County, Pennsylvania.  So it was in the beginning: I was born in a sanatorium in Budapest, Hungary, wherefrom, after a day or two, I was translated home to my mother’s bedroom in an airy apartment that housed, among other things, many books.  This I know and can see from photos in a family album, still in my possession.
What a miracle that the writings and the words of great people had been preserved for thousands of years even before an age of books came into existence!  The word book was there in many languages well before the 16th century a.d.  The Book of God was the Bible, people thought and said.  Even now, the word bible (Gk., β?βλος) refers to and defines the meanings of books (bibliophilebibliographyetc.)  After about 1500 a new age began; wrongly named the “Modern” Age, it may even be named the Age of Books.  Before that, books were written on wooden tablets or parchments or cloths.  Now books were printed and fastened and bound and stored together.  Their numbers and their availability increased in much of the world.  In 1517, exactly 500 years ago, Erasmus wrote that the Middle Ages (a term then yet-unknown) were passing and something of a newer and golden age was about to begin.  Today, few people possess that kind of optimism or know that the “Modern” Age, the Age of Books, is now passing.
The increase of books was a result of an increase of reading—or also the other way around.  Who were their readers?  That answer belongs to the history of the so-called Modern Age, to the idea and meaning of progress (another arguable word), and to the transition from the rule of aristocracies to that of democracies.  Consider, if only for a moment, that history is what is still called public opinion.  Public opinion was and is not identical with democracy.  (Wikipedia says that “The desires, wants, and thinking of the majority of the people . . . is called public opinion.”  Wrong.)  The heyday of public opinions in most of Europe and in America were the 18th and 19th centuries, corresponding to the heyday of the Age of Books.  The health of democracies, said and wrote many of the Founding Fathers of the American republic such as Jefferson, depended on the existence of educated people—of readers of books (and also of newspapers).  By and large in the 20th century the rule of aristocracies no longer existed; and meanwhile the custom of reading books was declining.
That “meanwhile” is the main theme of this essay.  Or perhaps of my awareness of what was happening.  Knowledge is inseparable from its knower (whereby “objectivity” as well as “subjectivity” are illusions).  So I am constrained to write about my surrounding books in the 20th century.  I learned how to read and even to write some things at a very early age.  I was much influenced by my father, who was a man of great learning.  He was an eminent physician while being a patron of books.  He must have had more than a thousand of them.  His doctor’s office had three rooms, the first of which was his study.  Still vivid is my visual (and perhaps even an olfactory) memory of that.  At least one wall of it was filled with books surrounding his narrow sofa, above which I can still recall a small classic vitrine housing beautifully bound Greek and Roman authors.  Some time ago I ran across a reference by Proust, written in 1923, to “this old house whose air was saturated with the bouquet of silence.”  I was born the following year, saturated with a bourgeois existence.  My father was urban and urbane.  (Consider that citizen in most languages derives from the inhabitant not of a state but of a city.)  There were at least three famous bookstores in the inner city of Budapest where my father was well known and where he permitted me to buy any book and charge it to his account.  At home the bookcases were part and parcel of the furniture.  My mother, too, loved books.  They divorced when I was eight years old, a tragedy for me.  I went on reading book after book.  Ten years later I had many hundreds.
I was an unattractive boy and a middling student in a classical gymnasium.  Yet two things happened to me then, both with fortunate consequences for my entire life.  One was my burgeoning appetite for history and literature.  This did not involve historical novels but something else: my eventually budding and then flowering recognition that history was more of an art than a science and, later, that science was but a part of history (and not the reverse).  The other was my mother’s Anglophilia.  An Englishman taught me English, and for two summers, I was sent to a private school in England, increasing my knowledge of English and introducing me to English literature.  Thus I survived the years of my ugly adolescence.
And thus I survived the worst horrors and perils of the Second World War, the National Socialist and then the Russian conquest of Hungary in 1944 and 1945.  I began to write here and there.  By 1946, I recognized also that the Russian conquest of Hungary meant the imminent establishment of communism there.  I chose to escape that, preferably to America.  One small episode contributed to that decision.  The Hungarian government was not yet communist, but the political police force was.  One spring day in 1946, the police entered our now-rundown apartment, looking for this and that; they did not find anything, but they had come, of course, because of my connection with the American legation.  After the Russians had occupied Hungary, their then-allies, Britain and the United States, sent a few diplomats to Budapest to form offices there.  I had first gone to the British, offering them my services.  They were not interested, but the Americans were.  In July 1946, the U.S. ambassador gave me a fine letter of recommendation: “To Whom This May Concern.”  I applied for an Hungarian passport, but that was refused me.  I fled my native country illegally on July 22, 1946.  That day, I saw both of my parents for the last time.
Exactly three months later I landed in New York, penniless and forlorn.  Soon Providence and American generosity put me onto the first steps of a startling American career.  Millions of U.S. veterans had just been entitled to enter colleges or universities in America.  There was a sudden dearth of teachers.  Extraordinarily, I became a temporary and part-time assistant lecturer in history at Columbia University.  One year later, I became an assistant teacher at a small college in Philadelphia.  From that moment on, my life in America and the world of books coalesced.  One reason for (or, rather, source of) my loyalty to Chestnut Hill and La Salle colleges in Philadelphia was the astonishing help tendered me by their librarians.  During my single year at the university in Budapest, I had started to advance in the direction of a professional academic historian’s career; I had begun to know a few things about archives, collections of documents, singular manuscripts, etc.  And now, in these small libraries in Philadelphia, I found that, with the enthusiastic help of their librarians, I had little or no problem gaining access to documentary and other materials from other libraries to borrow.  Indeed, I found that my entry into these other magnificent libraries was welcomed, here and there, by their librarians, too.  Furthermore, any book I suggested to the librarians of my small colleges, they would quickly order.  I remain forever grateful to these people.
At the same time, I was surprised at how many American students hardly read books at all.  This was especially so in these small colleges, where many of them were the first college students from their families.  Some of their teachers did not assign additional reading beyond their textbooks.  Never mind: I did.  I gave students in my classes schedules of my lectures for the semester and a compulsory reading list of six or seven books; evidences of their reading such were required in their examinations.  Surprisingly, many of them did not mind that.  Surprising, too, was my gradual realization that many of my social acquaintances did not read much either.  Books were seldom subjects of dinner-party or cocktail-party conversations.  Again, never mind: I found enough men and women who were readers.  And then, after not more than six years in America, I met a famous Philadelphia lawyer who knew many splendid things and who read many books with enduring interest.  In 1953, I married his daughter: How very intelligent, how ladylike, was the eventual mother of my two children!  She read much and, even more, helped me with my work.  Alas, she died 17 years later.  Then I married my second wife, Stephanie, a treasure.
Meanwhile, over roughly 50 years, I wrote and had many books published.  They were published by prime American houses; many of them had multiple editions; most of them were translated and then published in perhaps more than a dozen languages and countries around the world.  Highly respected historians praised them.  I had chosen a country life, separate and independent from most professional intellectuals.  Still, my own library grew.  At first it contained perhaps a thousand books in a small study in our house.  I bought more and more.  Then we added a large hexagonal library to our house, which I could afford, along with travel, because of the royalties advanced against my books from publishers.  North of our house, I had a few acres of wilderness.  In 1981, I convinced Stephanie to sell our house and build another one on the northern edge of the wilderness, along a small river, the Pickering Creek.  So we did, in three years.  Perhaps this was my most precious achievement: a handsome house, near perfect, at the end of a long driveway, for months surrounded by green and gold, flowers, and books—a large library on its western side, on two floors.  More than saturated with a rich silence, this library is.  It exudes an atmosphere.  In this house and in its library, I have now lived a third of a century, from my early 60’s on.  Each morning, trying to catch my breath, I stumble down from my bedroom to the library.  There shuffling, I sit now at a narrow desk tapping at keys with my trembling fingers.  Sometimes on late afternoons I go out to sit on my terrace, breathing in the view of a greensward; and yes, thanking God for having allowed me this.  Then, soused with a stiff drink, I return to my surroundings until dinner.
The “Blessings of Old Age”?  Oh, not at all.  How very soon I shall be dead.  In a year?  In a few months?  In a few weeks?  I hope that I will not be constrained to move from here to a communal nursing home.  I hope; but I cannot know.  What I know is that, after my death, this library, this house, will instantly be changed.  They are my inheritance for my children and my stepson.  My house will be sold at once.  My books will go to the library of the University of Notre Dame, thanks to the excellent Rev. Wilson D. (Bill) Miscamble, C.S.C.  My furniture and the decorations, chests, vitrines, armoires, antique clocks, paintings, and etchings on the walls will be dispersed among my children or sold.  They are still my surroundings, which in this country I assembled from an older America, England, France, Austria, and even one or two pieces from my family in Hungary, miraculously regained almost 70 years ago.  Perhaps I have been not much more than an ephemeral owner of an outdated museum.  I am not a survivor.  I am a crumbling remnant.  A remnant of the very end of the Bourgeois Age and a remnant of the Age of Books.  Ave atque vale.
Five-hundred years after the beginning of the Age of Books, the mass of printed materials is still enormous, while the custom of reading and the numbers of readers have enormously declined.  There are no useful statistics of this devolution, of which television has been a main instrument, but there were symptoms of that even before this decline.  More and more people had been reading not books, but newspapers and other periodical publications.  Then in the mid-1950’s, even the enormous Curtis publishing empire, whose monumental building in Philadelphia towered over Independence Hall, began to collapse.  Its main publications were the Saturday Evening Post (with an enormous circulation in the early 20th century) and the Ladies’ Home Journal.
What Cicero was supposed to have said 2,000 years ago (“All I want is a book and a garden”) and a literate Englishman 200 years ago (“A study full of books is worth more than a purse full of money”) were statements from a long-faded past.  But it was not until the end of the 20th century that the disappearance of large numbers of readers finally led to drastic changes in the publishing of all kinds of reading matter, very much including books.  The massive influence of pictures and images had already preceded that (the movies).  But the death of the Age of Books, and of newspapers and magazines, was, indeed, television, followed by the Internet.  Already by the early 1990’s, many weeklies, magazines, journals, and quarterlies ceased to exist.  Entire large and traditional publishing houses went out of business.  Others cut their staffs to minimums.  Bookstores began to disappear.  In most schools there still was a minority of good students.  Even they read very little.
All of these transformations may suggest one momentous change: the declining effect of words.  “In the beginning was the Word”—and at the end of an age?  The incredible spread and availability of communications holds little promise, because communications are only instruments of transmissions.  Meanwhile, a great and deep consequence of the declining human respect for, and therefore the function of, words is the increasing evidence of the weakening of attention, seen in more and more spheres of life.
Still, history is unpredictable.  God writes straight with crooked lines.  And things are never quite as bad (or as good) as they seem.  Books will always exist.  Jefferson’s category of the educated minority, on whose existence the prospects of civilized mankind depend, is no longer enough.  To educated we need to add interested.  The very impulse of human attention depends on human interest, a quality often involved with humility, with our capacity of seeing beyond ourselves.  This awareness sometimes issues from reading.
In 1955, Harold Nicolson wrote, “I am confident that in coming generations the proportion of uninteresting people will be much diminished, whereas the proportion of interesting people will increase.”  In 1950, the great English bibliophile Holbrook Jackson (borrowing from Aldous Huxley) declared, “the proper study of mankind is books.”  I am uncertain about the first of these statements, but not about the second.  Now consider that Jacob Burckhardt and Johan Huizinga, two of the greatest historians of the Age of Books, wrote their most famous histories less for professional academic historians than for what in their lifetime could still be regarded as an educated and interested public.  And when on occasion someone asked Burckhardt how best to study history, the great man answered in three words: “Bisogna saper leggere.”
“You must know how to read.”


2017 Books

Here they are -- our favorite books for 2017. As always, they are books we read (or, for some of the lengthier tomes, finished reading) this year, but not necessarily books that were published this year. They are listed below, but not in any order of preference. If you wish to read an excerpt from any of the books mentioned, click on the title.

Thank you to everyone who made purchases through our affiliate links this year. All commissions are donated to children's literary projects. You can view and purchase through our affiliate links on our website, DelanceyPlace.com or click here.


by Jennifer Keishin Armstrong
OK, I admit it. I'm a "Seinfeld" fan. This book is a substantive look behind the scenes of the "show about nothing." It's all there -- and of particular interest is the detail about how script ideas were developed and the show's writers were utilized.

by Glenn Stout
In 1914, a new technology, electricity, led to more options for entertainment: dance halls, recorded music, nickelodeons and more -- and one consequence was the dwindling interest in baseball, which was replete with singles and bunts and pitchers' duels, but very few home runs. Then along came Babe Ruth, who revolutionized the way baseball was played by his willingness to strike out in his quest for a home run -- saving the New York Yankees and baseball along the way. 

by David Hepworth

If, like me, you were in high school in 1971, this book will bring a flood of memories of the greatest rock groups of that era -- the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, CSNY and more. Even if you weren't, the insights into the cultural issues and classic albums of the era are worth it. 


by Lawrence Goldstone
This is the story of the business of "flight." Though deified, the Wright brothers' innovation and engineering stagnated after their first few years of flight as they became preoccupied with defending their patents and thwarting the competition. That left others like Glenn Curtiss to swoop in and take the technological lead.

by Christian Wolmar
Railroads were the dominant business of the 1800s, towering over the economic landscape like none since. In 1900, railroads constituted 60 percent of the value of the New York Stock Exchange. Today, no sector comprises more than 20 percent. So large that they often owned the coal and telegraph companies that served them, railroads completely transformed business, politics, society, time and war in a way not matched since.

by Peter Zeihan

This author argues that the geography of the United States -- its river systems, arable land, coast lines, resources and natural defenses -- are so extraordinary that it was inevitable that it would become the world's dominant economy. So dominant, in fact, that post-World War II it was able to dictate an economic world order at Bretton Woods -- one that allowed the world to freely trade with global military protection provided by America. This order is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain. 

by Christopher Knowlton

In the mid-1800s, the large-scale cattle business -- with cattle drives in Texas and meat packing and shipping in Chicago -- was briefly one of America's largest industries. Like the tobacco industry before it, the cattle industry benefited from early investment by Scottish and English speculators. This book covers the history of that industry, including the true story of those cowboys lionized in popular culture, with lives more interesting yet less violent than Hollywood would lead us to believe. 

by Joseph J. Ellis
Thomas Jefferson -- author of the Declaration of Independence, Founding Father, president, slave owner, debtor -- fully embodies the contradictions of the American psyche. Joseph Ellis gives us a robust portrait of Jefferson, one that celebrates his fallibility as well as his genius. 

by Tom Lewis

A comprehensive history of the Interstate Highway System, the largest public works project in the world. A masterwork on politics and legislation, this book explores the way this system has altered American life for both good and bad. 


by Rebecca Rideal

Three dramatic events converged in England in 1666: the Anglo-Dutch Wars, which tipped the balance of global power away from the Dutch and toward England; the Great Plague, which devastated England's population; and the Great Fire of London, which necessitated the complete replanning and rebuilding of London. Rebecca Rideal chronicles pivotal moments in science, the arts and warfare that changed the course of English history. 

by Stephen R. Platt

Though you may have never heard of it, the Chinese civil war known as the Taiping Rebellion, which occurred at the same time as the American Civil War, was the bloodiest in history. According to conservative estimates, 20 million people may have died in this conflict, but the number may have been several times higher. It likely prevented the British from interfering in the American conflict on the side of the Confederate states, and it set the stage for China's 20th century upheavals under Sun Yat-sen, Chiang Kai-shek and Mao Zedong. 

by Barbara Freese

"Coal" is a compelling narrative of the symbiotic and still-controversial relationship between coal and human progress, which have been intertwined for a millennium. The Industrial Revolution was built on coal, and this book chronicles both the triumph and heartbreak that came from it. 


by Lisa Feldman Barrett

Though most scientists have long believed emotions are hardwired into the brain, Lisa Feldman Barrett's theory of constructed emotions argues that emotions may not be triggered, but created. Her research represents the first broad, systematic study of emotions, and the implications of her work are that individuals have a greater level of control and responsibility in their own emotional lives than generally thought.