Because Foch rejected German requests for a ceasefire while the Armistice was being negotiated … sixty-seven hundred and fifty lives were lost and nearly fifteen thousand men were wounded. Worse yet, British, French, and American commanders made certain that the bloodshed continued at full pitch for six hours after the Armistice had been signed. The delegates in Foch’s railway carriage put their signatures to the document just after 5 A.M. on November 11th … Nonetheless, Allied soldiers scheduled to attack that morning did so until the very last minute.
– “A Hundred Years After the Armistice,” New Yorker, November 5, 2018
Perhaps the above unfortunates at least found time that morning to contemplate how neat triple elevens looked.
For solemn consideration of two veterans of later wars, please read the latest post on my obit site. It’s about enemy soldiers who met unusually and died in circumstances both probably would not have imagined.
My high school probably had a decent English curriculum, but I don’t recall, because I didn’t read most of the books assigned. I’d buy the Cliff’s Notes at Sparr’s and then read Stephen King novels instead. One day I decided there might be more to literature, so I picked up Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities.
I’ve read it at least ten times now. It’s my third favorite novel. (If you really want to hear about it. The world is what it is.)
As it happened, I’d just finished re-reading The Right Stuff last week, and had been thinking a lot about what a marvelous writer Tom Wolfe is. I haven’t read all of his writing, and some of what I’ve read I haven’t liked. But if you told me I had to go read everything he’s ever written, I’d be happy to. (Except maybe his graduate work.)
He taught me good fiction need not plod. I get my love of the well italicized word from him. (I don’t try my hand at exclamation points, though. You put on a top hat, you best be Slash.) He made me look up “tabescent” and lots else.
A few years back I lived across the street from a Ghanaian man. One day I expressed to him my condolences on the death of Ghana’s president, whose obituary I’d just read. Kind of weird, yes, but it seemed the neighborly thing to do.
Some of my ancestors are from Norway, and I spend my weekdays with many students from other countries our president recently discussed.
I will concede that what’s most important in all of this is not my feelings, but I also wish to record it was crummy to feel the urgent need to assure my kids that America values them.
(Fine, I should be doing that anyway. I’d prefer to be otherwise inspired, though.)
During college I went to see Senator Paul Tsongas, then running for president, give a speech. He told a story about his Peace Corps days in Ethiopia, and seeing on the wall of a villager’s home a photo of JFK. He asked if we should expect the same with our current president. There was much wry laughter, including mine.
The other week my friend Ben sent me the obituary of Y.A. Tittle, remarking he was surprised to learn the man was not long dead. This naturally made me think of Algeria’s first president, Ben Bella.
You see, just that morning I’d read the following passage about the coup that deposed him:
Ben Bella is said to have been killed. To have been wounded. To be alive. To have been not wounded, but ill. Everything is reported, since nothing is known. One version has him on a ship anchored off Algiers. That version is confuted by a report that they are holding Ben Bella in the Sahara, at an army base. According to another view, he is still staying at the Villa Joly…
Everything is possible, since nothing is known.
The most common version is the official one: that Ben Bella is in Algeria and being well treated. It might even be true.
That’s from “Algeria Hides Its Face,” by Ryszard Kapuściński. Seeing as he’d written it in the mid-1960s, I decided to find out what finally happened to Ben Bella.
I must add that my hopes were not high; mortality in 20th century Algeria was not overly characterized by natural causes.
So I was pleased to learn that the official version was more or less true. Ben Bella died in 2012.
“For me it was easy: Produce text that was so good, an editor could not reject it,” he said.
Every couple years I search the internet to see if there’s any news from A Girl Called Eddy or Thom Jones. Tuesday’s obituary unhappily halves this task.
I owe much to Thom Jones. Although today regarded as astonishingly erudite, there was a youthful spell where I read no fiction. Then one day I was instructed – by a good woman who did what she could for my improvement – to read his short stories. Now not a week passes without me reading made-up stuff.
Years ago I had the great fortune to attend one of his readings. He began it by apologizing for his (perfectly fine) appearance and dedicating the event (with raised fist and no explanation) to his “homeboys in Attica.”
The line for book signing afterward was long, and the slowest I’ve ever seen. Thom Jones was talking to – as in having a conversation with – everyone. When my turn came, I was struck by how genial he was, and how interested he seemed. I don’t remember what we said, except that we talked about Africa, where we’d both spent time.
I met Thom Jones as a reader. Later, when I decided to try writing stories, he was my discouraging inspiration: half “You know, maybe I could do this,” and half “Yeah, but it ain’t gonna be this good.” I’m still right.
“Sharing cigarettes, just holding one another and loving one another. That was when I had everything.”
I got to the Sunday paper only yesterday – such is the vida loca I live – and, upon arriving at the obituary pages, thought “Wait, I’ve seen that face.” Sure enough, it was the cover star of the Smiths’ estimable single “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.”
If you haven’t heard it, listen at least for the outro alone. I can’t think of a lovelier interplay of guitars on a pop single. (Also, Johnny Marr – for it was he – apparently wrote the song in an hour. How’s your day going so far?)