SIGN IN to access Harper’s Magazine
1. Sign in to Customer Care using your account number or postal address.
2. Select Email/Password Information.
3. Enter your new information and click on Save My Changes.
Subscribers can find additional help here. Not a subscriber? Subscribe today!
Fake art movements usually involve one really famous person and then a
bunch of hangers-on. Like Josie and the Pussycats. Or Jackson Pollock
and a bunch of people who drank with Jackson Pollock. Imagine how much
better off Josie would have been minus those Pussycats hogging all her
fame. Poetry movements usually include a bunch of interchangeable
poets with little fame trying to create something famous (or
fame-worthy) by pooling their efforts, like all the little lion robots
that slam into each other to form Voltron. What ends up happening is
that Voltron gets a bum leg and back problems, because some of those
lions are lame poets. And then Voltron is defeated and the fake art
movement turns into just a bunch of bitter old poets. Not so glorious.
I mean, sure, your movement can get a special issue of Poetry
magazine, but wouldn’t you rather have an entire issue of Poetry
magazine dedicated to you? With you smiling out from the cover? Never
take your eyes off the prize, and when you have a chance to do so,
beat down all competition with the mallet made famous by Whack-a-Mole.
–“24/7 Relentless Careerism: How you can become the most important
poet in America overnight,” Jim Behrle, Poetry
Tall skinny guys with lots of body hair are “otters”; average-size men
who are relatively hairy and, often, exceptionally horny consider
themselves “wolves.” In the old days, before we got all politically
correct about everything, guys who were attracted to bigger men were
called “chubby chasers,” but no more. Nowadays, men who don’t fit into
any of the above categories who enjoy ursine company are called,
simply, “admirers.” And that’s just the Anglos. Many Asian bears like
to be called “pandas,” regardless of where their ancestors were born,
though just as many find the term offensive. Smooth-skinned Latinos
with short, compact physiques are often referred to as “toros” (or
bulls), which also suggests a testicular prowess. –“Confessions of a
Call Bear,” Rusty McMann,
I think about how Manny Pacquiao’s life is a cyclone of madness and
dysfunction and karaoke and tango dancing and fucked-to-death lions
and grown men vying to fluff his rice and cut his meat and massage his
thighs and sing harmony parts on Beatles songs.
How can he live this way?
Because he is the serene centering Eye. The storm, his life, envelops
but does not touch him. The Tysonesque psychopathologies that drive
other boxers to the dark side are flung centrifugally from his body
and soul, outsourced to his disciples, who carry this burden and lay
down their lives for him. –“The Biggest Little Man in the World,”
For the past three years my dosimeter had sat silently on a narrow shelf just inside the door of a house in Tokyo, upticking its final digit every twenty-four hours by one or two, the increase never failing — for radiation is the ruthless companion of time. Wherever we are, radiation finds and damages us, at best imperceptibly. During those three years, my American neighbors had lost sight of the accident at Fukushima. In March 2011, a tsunami had killed hundreds, or thousands; yes, they remembered that. Several also recollected the earthquake that caused it, but as for the hydrogen explosion and containment breach at Nuclear Plant No. 1, that must have been fixed by now — for its effluents no longer shone forth from our national news. Meanwhile, my dosimeter increased its figure, one or two digits per day, more or less as it would have in San Francisco — well, a trifle more, actually. And in Tokyo, as in San Francisco, people went about their business, except on Friday nights, when the stretch between the Kasumigaseki and Kokkai-Gijido-mae subway stations — half a dozen blocks of sidewalk, which commenced at an antinuclear tent that had already been on this spot for more than 900 days and ended at the prime minister’s lair — became a dim and feeble carnival of pamphleteers and Fukushima refugees peddling handicrafts.
One Friday evening, the refugees’ half of the sidewalk was demarcated by police barriers, and a line of officers slouched at ease in the street, some with yellow bullhorns hanging from their necks. At the very end of the street, where the National Diet glowed white and strange behind other buildings, a policeman set up a microphone, then deployed a small video camera in the direction of the muscular young people in drums against fascists jackets who now, at six-thirty sharp, began chanting: “We don’t need nuclear energy! Stop nuclear power plants! Stop them, stop them, stop them! No restart! No restart!” The police assumed a stiffer stance; the drumming and chanting were almost uncomfortably loud. Commuters hurried past along the open space between the police and the protesters, staring straight ahead, covering their ears. Finally, a fellow in a shabby sweater appeared, and murmured along with the chants as he rounded the corner. He was the only one who seemed to sympathize; few others reacted at all.
Number of U.S. congressional districts in which trade with China has produced more jobs than it has cost:
Young bilingual children who learned one language first are likelier than monolingual children and bilingual children who learned languages simultaneously to say that a dog adopted by owls will hoot.
An Oklahoma legislative committee voted to defund Advanced Placement U.S. History courses, accusing the curriculum of portraying the United States as “a nation of oppressors and exploiters.”
Subscribe to the Weekly Review newsletter. Don’t worry, we won’t sell your email address!
“He could be one of a million beach-bound, black-socked Florida retirees, not the man who, by some odd happenstance of life, possesses the brain of Albert Einstein — literally cut it out of the dead scientist's head.”