Review: Chaos: Making a New Science by James Gleick. (Penguin: 1987/2012) 384 pp.
The humble, fractal cauliflower. Its fractal structure is evident in the way that its structural patterns repeat over and over again on ever-smaller scales.
There are two ways of looking at it. From one perspective, the fact that I was stunned and shocked by a 26 year-old book subtitled “Making a New Science” was depressing; I mean, why hadn’t I learned this stuff 26 years ago? From the other, the fact that James Gleick’s magnificent book Chaos: Making a New Science (Penguin: 1987, 384 pp.) still had the power to blow my mind merely reinforces the book’s central thesis: Chaos theory can be overwhelmingly obvious and invisible at the same time. Like gravity, it was always a central fact that governed everything we did, it just took a genius like Isaac Newton to “discover” it. I’m grateful and humbled to finally have discovered this book.
I was already a huge fan of his most recent book, The Information: A History, a Theory, a Flood (Vintage: 2012, 544 pp.) so I was ready to like Chaos. But he does something different in each book. In The Information Gleick starts with something we’re all familiar with, the World Wide Web, and lifts the screen to reveal how it got there. Along the way it becomes the story of the alphabet, the “talking” drums of Africa, Morse Code and a million other forms of communication. It’s a masterpiece.
In Chaos Gleick goes in the opposite direction, taking seemingly unpredictable phenomena — global weather, long-term stock market pricing, the timing intervals of a dripping faucet — and revealing that “within the most disorderly realms of data lived an unexpected order.” Chaos theory, which applies to dynamical systems, is a bizarre mix of predictability (when a dynamical process involving three or more initial variables is set in motion, we can predict that certain patterns will eventually emerge) and unpredictability (although patterns will emerge, we cannot precisely predict what outcome will happen at what time, if ever).
The rules of chaos (that’s not a contradictory statement) result in similarly confounding realities. Gleick quotes mathematician Arthur Lorenz, one of the founders of chaos theory and the person who coined the term “the butterfly effect,” saying: “We might have trouble forecasting the temperature of [this cup of] coffee one minute in advance, but we should have little difficulty in forecasting it an hour ahead.” That is, we know the coffee’s temperature will eventually equilibriate with the room and air temperature. But between now and then, the forces of convection, cooling and friction are so complicated and chaotic, it’s impossible to predict exactly what will happen in the first minute.
It would take thousands of words to adequately describe all the features of chaos that Gleick manages to illuminate in the book. But his most profound contribution is in helping the reader understand something intuitive: “Our feeling for beauty is inspired by the harmonious arrangement of order and disorder as it occurs in natural objects–in clouds, trees, mountain ranges, or snow crystals. The shapes of all these are dynamical processes jelled into physical forms,” explains physicist Gert Eilenberger, and those dynamical processes are chaotic, with all the beautiful fractal patterns associated with them. The structure of snowflakes, of seashells, of the Milky Way, of whirlpools and fingerprints, all these owe their beauty and form to chaos theory.
Very few writers can translate difficult science into readable and fascinating prose like Gleick. As far as I can tell, both the scientists he interviews and the reading public feel he is on “their” side and I think they’re both right. Like the mathematical foundation of the theory itself, Chaos is a beautiful and profound book that helped me reconsider physics, philosophy and the universe itself.
Gleick captures both the concrete details of this science along with the revelatory and emotional resonance the discovery of chaos theory has had on the people who work in the field. “It’s an experience like no other I can describe,” said physicist Leo Kadanoff, “the best thing that can happen to a scientist, realizing that something that’s happened in his or her own mind exactly corresponds to something that happens in nature. It’s startling every time it occurs… A great shock, and a great, great joy.” Which was exactly my experience of reading this book.
Review: Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk by Ben Fountain. (HarperCollins: 2012) 320 pp.
Tom Wolfe haunts Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk, the 2012 novel by Ben Fountain. The first three sentences plunge the reader into a you-are-there sensory overload POV that Wolfe brought to nonfiction 50 years ago:
The men of Bravo are not cold. It’s a chilly and windwhipped Thanksgiving Day with sleet and freezing rain forecast for late afternoon, but Bravo is nicely blazed on Jack and Cokes thanks to the epic crawl of game-day traffic and the limo’s minibar. Five drinks in forty minutes is probably pushing it, but Billy needs some refreshment after the hotel lobby, where overcaffeinated tag teams of grateful citizens trampolined right down the middle of his hangover.
This is the story of Bravo Company during one epically weird day on their “victory” tour of the USA in the midst of the Iraq war of the early 2000s. Set in Texas Stadium before, during and after a Dallas Cowboys game, the soldiers are exposed to America at its most extreme, a nonstop chorus of hysterically sincere gratitude Fountain evokes in floating word clouds: nina leven… terrRist… evil… values… God… currj. Wolfian, n’est-ce pas? Lupine, even.
Wolfe’s kaleidoscopic, oversaturated literary technique begat pieces of reportage like “There Goes (Varoom! Varoom!) That Kandy-Kolored-Tangerine-Flake-Streamline Baby” (1964) and “Radical Chic and Mau-Mauing the Flak-Catchers” (1970). He’s probably equally famous at this point, FIFTY YEARS LATER (!!!), for his 1989 “literary manifesto for the new social novel” in his Harper’s essay, “Stalking the Billion-Footed Beast,” in which he warned that the American novel would become “irrelevant” if it failed to engage with contemporary life the way journalism did. “America today, in a headlong rush of her own,” Wolfe wrote, “may or may not truly need a literature worthy of her vastness. But American novelists, without any doubt, truly need, in this neurasthenic hour, the spirit to go along for that wild ride.”
Wolfe’s own subsequent novels failed to prove his point, though. A Man in Full (1998), I Am Charlotte Simmons (2004) and Back to Blood (2012) were mostly received as overblown and out of touch. So I hope he’s reading Ben Fountain. Because Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk realizes all Wolfe’s dreams. This is a fiction steeped in realism that manages to illuminates the weirdness and beauty of contemporary American life. Here’s one of Billy Lynn’s many philosophical musings, squeezed in between endless handshakes, backslaps and selfies with the fans:
Without ever exactly putting his mind to it, he’s come to believe that loss is the standard trajectory… you might keep the project stoked for a while but eventually, ultimately, it’s going down. This is a truth so brutally self-evident that he can’t fathom why it’s not more widely perceived, hence his contempt for the usual shock and public outrage when a particular situation goes to hell. The war is fucked? Well, duh. Nine-eleven? Slow train coming. They hate our freedoms? Yo, they hate our actual guts! Billy suspects his fellow Americans secretly know better, but something in the land is stuck on teenage drama, on extravagant theatrics of ravaged innocence and soothing mud wallows of self-justifying pity.
Billy Lynn is a beautiful, funny and dark portrayal of America in the post-9/11 era. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll throw your red Solo cup at the TV. The social novel is alive, Mr. Wolfe. It’s weaving its drunken way through the inner corridors of Texas Stadium, smoking weed with the catering staff and falling in love with Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. Like we all do.
Johnny Cash: The Life by Robert Hilburn
(Little, Brown: 2013) 679 pages
(Photo credit: Jim Marshall, Folsom Prison concert, California, 1969)
This review was originally published on October 27, 2013 in the Sunday Books section of the Boston Globe.
The three words chosen for the title of Johnny Cash’s 2000 compilation — “Love, God, Murder’’ — told you everything you needed to know about the contradictions that defined the man and his obsessions; he was just as comfortable whipping the felons of Folsom Prison into a frenzy with his famous lyric, “I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die” as he was testifying to the power of Jesus at prayer rallies with his good friend the Rev. Billy Graham.
Cash called his first autobiography “Man in Black”; his final book was “Man in White,” a novel about the Apostle Paul. His struggles with drug addiction and his stormy relationship with his second wife, June Carter Cash, are well known. Now Robert Hilburn, the longtime pop music critic and editor for the Los Angeles Times, delivers his new biography, “Johnny Cash: The Life.” Is there anything left to reveal?
According to Hilburn, despite two memoirs, an Oscar-winning biopic, and numerous books by family and friends, only “twenty percent” of Cash’s story has been told before now. The singer told Hilburn that “he wanted people to know his entire story — especially the dark, guilt-ridden, hopeless moments — because he believed in redemption and he wanted others to realize that they too could be redeemed.” One wonders whether Cash understood that his fans loved him because of his faults, not in spite of them.
Hilburn’s biography, based on interviews with Cash and those close to him, unearths new details about Cash’s personal problems, from his guilt at not being a better father to decades of bad behavior and occasionally bad music. But Cash’s conviction that no one knew the depths of his wickedness merely underscores the depth of his Southern Baptist spirituality and his lifelong view of himself as a sinner: Nothing in “Johnny Cash: The Life” will shock anyone who knows even the outline of the man’s career or those already inclined to love the singer or his songs. And the book’s best sections are those concerned with the music.
Cash spent the first three years of the 1950s in the Air Force dreaming of music stardom. As soon as he got discharged he headed for Memphis’s Sun Records, which had released Elvis Presley’s first recordings a few months earlier. Cash and his hastily convened band, the Tennessee Two (Luther Perkins and Marshall Grant on guitar and bass), had more ambition than musical skill, but they convinced producer Sam Phillips to give them a shot. The primitive, halting sound they produced, a stuttering boom-chicka-boom, was reminiscent of a freight train and just as powerful. “It wasn’t that they thought they had discovered something; it was just about the only way they could play,” Hilburn writes. Yet that spare, propulsive rhythm combined with Cash’s authoritative bass-baritone voice and fire-and-brimstone lyrics created a signature, timeless sound.
Cash’s songwriting and charisma carried him through the next several decades of performance and recording, and Hilburn charts it all, from the county fairs and prison concerts to Cash’s beloved gospel albums, recordings with the Highwaymen, and all the TV shows and schmaltzy Christmas specials in between. Like the touring schedule, Cash’s cycles of drug abuse, health scares, repentance, and relapse were unending; they exhausted those who knew him. After several hundred pages of day-to-day details they become something of a blur. Happily, Cash’s career and the pace of the book pick up again in the last decade of his life.
In 1993 Cash believed “his recording career was over.” Then hip-hop and rock producer Rick Rubin called. Cash was skeptical, but the Rubin recordings were a watershed, six albums of intense, painfully stark, and often solo performances “that sounded like it was coming from someplace deep inside of him,” Rubin said. “It was epic, and that’s what Johnny was to me — epic.”
After two decades of subpar records and halfhearted touring, Rubin’s American Recordings label brought Cash acclaim and his first hits in decades. They also reminded a world of music lovers that he was still relevant. “Rick made me think I might have a legacy after all,” Cash said, “I vowed not to let it slip away again.” They continued recording until just a few weeks before Cash died of diabetes-related complications in 2003.
Cash’s legacy as an icon of American duality had been restored: an outlaw with an angel on his shoulder; a holy prophet with a back-up plan. U2’s Bono spoke of his admiration for Cash and his music. “I think he was a very godly man, but you had the sense that he spent his time in the desert. And that just made you like him more.” He remembers sitting down to dinner at Cash’s home. “Johnny said the most beautiful, most poetic grace you’ve ever heard,” Bono says. “Then he leaned over to me with this devilish look in his eye and said, ‘But I sure miss the drugs.’ ”
Justin Cronin, The Passage (Ballantine: 2010), 784 pages.
Jamie Lee Curtis, as “final girl” Laurie Strode in Halloween (1978).
I just couldn’t do it. But I did try. I’d heard great things about The Passage, the 700+ page thriller by Justin Cronin. I checked the ebook out from my local public library and downloaded it to my Kindle and began tearing through it like a death-row inmate infected by a terrifyingly aggressive Amazonian bat virus… YIKES.
I’ve had this problem before, in fact I’ve had it all my life: I’m too squeamish for horror. The only scary movie I truly love is The Shining, which is less a horror movie than a Kubrick movie. All his movies are scary in some way (though The Shining is much less scary when recut as a family-friendly comedy, as seen here). The only reason I got any enjoyment out of Halloween, the 1978 John Carpenter movie, was because I was able to watch it on a meta-level, with Jamie Lee Curtis as the classic “final girl“, the victim who overcomes her torturers, thanks to Carol Clover’s fantastic book, Men, Women & Chain Saws: Gender in Modern Horror Film. (Alert: BEST BOOK TITLE EVER).
I tried to read Stephen King’s The Stand and quit once it got too… horrific. But I had high hopes for The Passage, perhaps because I thought it would be more of a dystopian fantasy along the lines of The Hunger Games (a novel about children killing each other – is there anything more horrifying?), which I was able to appreciate, if not enjoy.
The Passage begins with a classic Hubris of Man setup: American scientists hacking through the South American jungle in search of a miracle virus that will cure cancer and, possibly, death. Where are the bioethicists when you need them? Not in this scene, unfortunately, and thus a killer virus begins its journey from hidden bat cave to the rest of the planet. We then cut to various character setups: the early life of young Amy Bellafonte, the girl who will save the world; Brad Wolgast, the FBI agent who will save Amy; etc. We see the initial stages of disaster unfolding faster than the general public realizes or could even imagine and it’s thrilling, as a thriller should be. The writing is perfect: fast but not cheap. A young cop is described as “a fresh recruit with a face pink as a slice of ham” and storm clouds are “a wall of spring thunderheads ascending from the horizon like a bank of blooming flowers in a time-lapse video.”
This was all good. Exciting, fun, great language. But then it got scary. I’m not even going to get into it, because if you like this kind of thing you will read it for yourself and if you don’t it will just sound icky. It is icky, but more than that, it’s actually frightening. Cronin succeeds in describing an apocalypse that will make you worry not just about bats but about future natural disasters and what happens when the things that keep society glued together break down, from communication pathways (Wolgast realizes things are getting really bad when USA Today is reduced to two short pages) to electrical power plants to food production systems. And VAMPIRES! There, I said it.
I always enjoy the setups more than the outcomes, whether it’s Harry Potter first encountering Diagon Alley to buy his wizardry supplies or walking through Dignan’s 75-year plan for success in Wes Anderson’s first movie, Bottle Rocket (1996), but in the case of horror it turns out it’s the only part I am capable of enjoying. The decision to not finish it, however, did allow me the pleasure of spoiling the entire series (The Passage is the first of three novels, two of which have been published so far) by reading its Wikipedia page, something I also do on a guilt-free basis when the Game of Thrones books bog down. I recommend it.
So I apologize, Justin Cronin. You’ve written a terrific horror novel. It’s just too scary to read.
The Flamethrowers: A Novel by Rachel Kushner (Scribner: 2013, 400 pages).
Freeway overpass, Spiral Jetty, you get the idea…
There’s a sweet little riff in the second chapter of Rachel Kushner’s new novel The Flamethrowers, when the book is still zipping ahead with energy in which Kushner writes of former First Lady Pat Nixon, “Hair dyed the color of whiskey and whipped into an unmoving wave… she was a ratted beauty-parlor tough… from Nevada, like me.” This is supposed to be the voice of Reno, the young, Nevada-born aspiring artist at the heart of the novel and as of Chapter 2 I was still reading it that way, but by the end of the novel I stopped believing in that voice, despite how much I admired it.
In list form, The Flamethrowers is about: The 1970s Land Art movement; The meanings of speed vs. stasis; The New York City art scene; Motorcycles; Italian fascism; European student movements; China girls; Female sexuality; Minimalism; Futurism; Global capitalism; Corruption; The Bonneville Salt Flats and the World Land Speed Record. The writing is gorgeous. I could hardly wait to start.
Reno is a young woman on a mission to transcend her station, to get out of the doomed blue-collar world of dirtbikes and cheap beer in which she grew up and create a niche for herself in the art world of 1970s New York. If she can make it there, she can make it anywhere. Strangely, although she does sort of make it there – if you can count going to all the cool parties and sleeping with all the cool artists “making it,” which you probably can – she fades as a character once she arrives. She a passive – frustratingly passive – protagonist. Which brings us to Maria Wyeth.
Maria Wyeth is the deader-than-deadpan, self-abnegating antiheroine of Joan Didion’s 1970 novel Play It As It Lays and Maria haunts The Flamethrowers like Reno’s more sophisticated twin. Like Reno, Maria Wyeth is a native of Nevada who claws her way to New York City where she is valued for her beauty and carelessly used by abusive men. Both of these characters define themselves by their passivity, their “resigned tranquility,” as Didion puts it. Both women find momentary agency through driving, Reno on a motorcycle and Wyeth in a car through a maze of Los Angeles freeways, and on and on. Lots of similarities. Yet somehow Didion makes Maria Wyeth’s dispassion the subject of the novel; more than a coping mechanism, it’s a rational response to the craziness of the world around her. In Play It As It Lays, the events of the novel are a backdrop to real subject: Maria and her mood. In The Flamethrowers Reno becomes the backdrop.
Reno functions less as a character and more as a stand-in for the author, a partial observer who keeps all her observations – brilliant as they often are – hidden in an internal monologue. It’s a cliché to ask why a reader should care for a character but in this case one wonders: Why do the other characters care for her? “Hmm. Let’s see,” says Reno’s friend Giddle: “You’re young.” Reno is young, beautiful and compliant. That’s why they like her. It gets tiresome. Writing about housewives in the 1950s, Kushner observes: “The woman senses that time is more purely hers if she squanders it and keeps it empty, holds it, feels it pass by, and resists filling it with anything that might put some too-useful dent in its open, airy emptiness.” And that’s the problem. Reno doesn’t have to be a hero but after watching her merely float past the action of most of the novel I stopped believing she was capable of the observations Kushner was writing on her behalf.
There’s no question Kushner is a talented observer of people and their peccadilloes, a writer who in less than ten pages can set young Reno up in a romance with a motel maintenance man named Stretch - Stretch! – and make you not only believe it but want to see the Rachel Kushner-directed version of the short film based on the interlude. That film doesn’t exist, but if it did I would watch it.
“On occasion I let my thoughts fall into that airy space between me and whatever Stretch’s idea of me was,” Kushner writes. I know the feeling: ever since finishing The Flamethrowers I’ve let my thoughts fall into that airy space between the novel and whatever I hoped it might be. The Flamethrowers is worth reading for its gorgeous language and fascinating ideas. But like that hot guy on the motorcycle who becomes the world’s worst boyfriend, it might also break your heart.
The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
Not many authors can sell out Carnegie Hall. So when I heard that someone named John Green (never heard of him), the author of the YA novel The Fault in Our Stars (never heard of it) had done so in January of 2013, I was curious. It also reminded me of just how big our country/world/reading public is and how many ways there are to be successful without ever appearing at the top of my Google News page, but that’s another topic altogether.
I was late to the party, obviously: The Fault in Our Stars was published in 2012 and was an instant bestseller. I finally read it – it’s only $3.99 for the Kindle version, for Pete’s sake – and I now understand all the fuss. If you think you wouldn’t enjoy reading a novel about two smart-alecky teenagers who meet in a cancer support group, you’re probably wrong. Yes, they’re smart-alecky (Augustus, the Romeo to Hazel’s Juliet, insists on calling her “Hazel Grace,” which made me roll my eyes every time) and yes, the idea of young people – heck, any people – battling cancer makes me sad, but Green makes it work.
I think he does it by endowing his protagonist, Hazel, with enough skepticism and humor to make the cancer parts bearable, but with a sweetness that reminds us how vulnerable she – and all of us – are. At one point Hazel posts a For Sale ad on a Craigslist-type site and the passage is a nice example of how this book can be funny and charming and emotional but not maudlin, all at once:
Desperately Lonely Swing Set Needs Loving Home
One swing set, well worn but structurally sound, seeks new home. Make memories with your kid or kids so that someday he or she or they will look into the backyard and feel the ache of sentimentality as desperately as I did this afternoon. It’s all fragile and fleeting, dear reader, but with this swing set, your child(ren) will be introduced to the ups and downs of human life gently and safely, and may also learn the most important lesson of all: No matter how hard you kick, no matter how high you get, you can’t go all the way around.
Yes, it’s a sad story: I cried at the end. But as Hazel says, “You have a choice in this world, I believe, about how to tell sad stories, and we made the funny choice.” According to my Kindle, 2,214 other Kindle readers have highlighted that same passage. That fact, and the popularity of this lovely novel, are good signs for humanity, I think.
(Is that a terrific book cover OR WHAT?)
It was probably my dad, Jon A. Jackson, who introduced me to the work of Isaac Asimov. I dug it right away. Not just Asimov’s imagination and the thrill of wondering what the future would look like, but the direct style of Asimov’s writing: concise and clean. No matter how far-out his ideas were, the story itself was always grounded in a pragmatic, conversational style that to me still feels like midcentury America, full of average Joes and Janes drinking coffee and solving problems, whether on Earth or in a spaceship orbiting Mars.
Last year my nephew Jack was turning 13 and I wanted to introduce him to some classic science fiction, so I sent him a copy of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (1953) and Asimov’s I, Robot (1950). But when I read the synopsis for I, Robot, I wondered if it was the book I really had in mind. I remembered a series of stories about the evolution of artificial intelligence (AI), beginning with early computers and robots and ending somewhere in deep space where a vast computer brain floats, holding the fate of ongoing life in its circuitry. I, Robot fit some of those criteria – it does trace the development of AI and introduces Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics, which were influential in actual robotic technology in the real world. I wondered if I’d just mis-remembered the book and then I moved on to other important issues such as, What am I going to make for dinner tonight?
[SPOILER ALERT: If you want to know which Asimov story I was really remembering but don't want the rest of it spoiled, just skip to the bottom.]
That was about a year ago. A few months ago I decided to reread I,Robot myself. I enjoyed it but it wasn’t the novel I remembered. So a few days ago I thought about it again and I had that brilliant thought I have once every few days: Why don’t I just ask the Internet? So I Googled: “Asimov story let there be light.”
And yes, there was light. See, in my memory the Asimov book ends with this super-advanced computer solving the problem of how to reverse entropy by uttering the phrase “Let there be light.” Trust me, it makes sense in context. What the Google search revealed was the Asimov story “The Last Question” (1956) and an entire Wikipedia page devoted to it, which included the following comment from Asimov in 1973:
Then, too, it has had the strangest effect on my readers. Frequently someone writes to ask me if I can give them the name of a story, which they think I may have written, and tell them where to find it. They don’t remember the title but when they describe the story it is invariably “The Last Question”. This has reached the point where I recently received a long-distance phone call from a desperate man who began, ‘Dr. Asimov, there’s a story I think you wrote, whose title I can’t remember – ‘ at which point I interrupted to tell him it was “The Last Question” and when I described the plot it proved to be indeed the story he was after. I left him convinced I could read minds at a distance of a thousand miles.
Here we are, over 50 years later, and the story is still having this effect. On me, for sure. I reread “The Last Question” and was once again floored by Asimov’s mix of pragmatism and imagination. It still holds up. At less than 5,000 words it is so totally realized that I remembered it as a novel, not a story. There’s a reason the desperate man on the phone – and I – still remember it: “The Last Question” is a story not only about the fate of mankind but the fate of the entire universe. In under 5,000 words! It handles the issues with humor and seriousness and radical economy. And with what we now know about climate change and the Great Extinction period in which we’re now living, the story is relevant in a new way.
Sometimes when we go back to the science fiction of the mid-twentieth century it can seem quaintly retro with its man-in-the-gray-flannel-suit conversational styles and the gee-whiz of it all. Then again, in 1956 Asimov and his readers were only thirteen years away from a man walking on the moon. As of 2013, it’s been forty years since the last moon walk. Makes you wonder what happened to the Space Age future we were all supposed to be living in.
Read it for yourself: The Last Question by Isaac Asimov (1956)
Robert Oppenheimer: A Life Inside the Center, by Ray Monk (Doubleday: 2013), 822 pages.
“There aren’t any secrets about the world of nature,” Robert Oppenheimer told journalist Edward R. Murrow in 1954. It had been nine years since the bombs he’d helped develop as leader of the Manhattan Project’s secret weapons laboratory at Los Alamos destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki and ended the Second World War, and by now Oppenheimer was almost as well known for the fact that the US government had withdrawn his security clearance (because of suspected Communist sympathies) as for his achievements in physics. Secrecy had become a major aspect of Oppenheimer’s public persona—and he had strong opinions on the subject. “The trouble with secrecy is that it doesn’t give the public a sense of participation,” he told Murrow. “The trouble with secrecy is that it denies to the government itself the wisdom and resources of the whole community… There are secrets about the thoughts and intentions of men. Sometimes they are secret because a man doesn’t like to know what he’s up to if he can avoid it.”  That last comment reveals something profound about Robert Oppenheimer: How well did he understand himself—or want to?
Ray Monk faces this problem repeatedly in his massive and detailed new biography, Robert Oppenheimer: A Life Inside the Center. Oppenheimer sought meaning in the universe not only through the practice of science, but through spiritual study, poetry, and the contemplation of nature. His Los Alamos colleague Hans Bethe believed that Oppenheimer “worked at physics mainly because he found physics the best way to do philosophy.”  Surely he was the only scientist at Los Alamos who counted Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal as his favorite book.  In his early twenties, Oppenheimer confessed: “The kind of person that I admire most would be one who becomes extraordinarily good at doing a lot of things but maintains a tear-stained countenance”  – a pretty close description of the man Oppenheimer became.
Monk portrays Oppenheimer as an outsider who was constantly striving to reach “the center,” whether in his scientific work, which explored neutron stars and black holes in which the centers of massive stars collapse and fold into themselves; as a Jew at Harvard and Berkeley (both were wary of admitting “too many” Jews); as a political leftist with (as Albert Einstein remarked) “an unrequited love for the United States” (xvi); and as a scientific researcher whose appreciation for the value of collaborative work inevitably put him at odds with the security restrictions of the United States military.
Born in 1904, great things were always expected of Julius Robert Oppenheimer (named after his father, he dropped his first name early on) and he was raised in spectacular isolation in the luxurious New York City apartment of his wealthy parents. A boyhood interest in chemistry ultimately led him to the University of Gottingen in 1926 where his advisor Max Born became a lasting and profound influence. He was an outsider in Europe, but Oppenheimer’s work in quantum chemistry nevertheless managed to impress his colleagues.
After establishing UC Berkeley as a center for theoretical physics, in 1943 Oppenheimer was chosen to lead the secret weapons laboratory at Los Alamos, a job requiring all of his varied skills, a job at which he excelled. Yet as soon as the atomic weapons he’d helped develop at Los Alamos were deployed, Oppenheimer began to lobby for ways to mitigate their danger—primarily by sharing information with other countries to achieve international arms control. The Los Alamos scientists argued that the so-called “secret” to the atomic bomb would soon be unlocked by other developed countries. Yet most in the US government, “to whom the physics of fission was an utter mystery,” Monk reminds us, “regarded [this argument] as a treasonous plot.”  “Mr. President, I feel I have blood on my hands,” Oppenheimer told President Truman when they met shortly after the end of the war. Truman recoiled. “I told him the blood was on my hands,” Truman said later, “let me worry about that.”  After Oppenheimer left, Truman told Dean Acheson, “I don’t want to see that son-of-a-bitch ever again.”  It was the beginning of the end for Oppenheimer’s status as an American hero.
Although he continued to work on behalf of the United States in the Atomic Energy Commission, in 1949 he was accused of having Communist ties and his security clearance was revoked. The American scientific community was outraged. Drawing on many independent studies and testimonies, Monk demonstrates that Oppenheimer was never a security threat.
Oppenheimer died of cancer at the age of 62. He had been under surveillance by the FBI for the previous nine years. The diplomat George F. Kennan spoke at Oppenheimer’s funeral. “The truth is that the US Government never had a servant more devoted at heart than this one,” said Kennan.  The “secret” of Oppenheimer, Monk reveals, was not Soviet sympathy but rather, as his friend and fellow physicist Isidor Rabi observed, a “spiritual quality… He always left a feeling that there were depths of sensibility and insight not yet revealed.” 
This review originally appeared in the Boston Globe, May 19, 2013.
The Titanic, 1912
(John Jacob Astor IV, the richest man onboard, died in the disaster.)
Alexandra Aldrich, The Astor Orphan (Ecco: 254 pp.) $24.99
If you ever wondered what would happen to Downton Abbey if every one of its inhabitants became an alcoholic, a recluse, or simply lost their minds, the story of The Astor Orphan is one possible answer. Rokeby, a decrepit forty-three-room, 198-year-old mansion on 450 acres of riverfront in New York’s Hudson River Valley is the setting for Alexandra Aldrich’s memoir of her chaotic, unhappy childhood — from her elementary school days to her escape to the welcome discipline of boarding school — and while Rokeby’s upkeep is a constant struggle, it’s the entitled and unwashed heirs who turn the “big house”  into a nut house. It’s not a pretty story.
Alexandra Aldrich’s heritage includes a long line of Founding Fathers, Whigs, and robber barons, the Astor family among them, though, frustratingly, the book contains no family tree, which would be helpful in a book with this much name-dropping. But don’t confuse the grimy folks at Rokeby with their distant cousins, the wealthy New York City Astors. The central problem facing the heirs to the Rokeby estate is money: there isn’t any left.
Alexandra’s grandparents came of age in the early twentieth century and “caught the tail end of the glory days.”  Although her father, Richard Aldrich, attended boarding school and went on to Harvard, he possessed “too strong a sense of entitlement to do a single job day after day and take orders from others,” though, tragically, he “didn’t inherit the money to support that attitude.” . Alexandra’s mother, Ala, had a more practical upbringing in Communist Poland, but quickly adopted the laissez-faire approach to life endemic to Rokeby, content to feed her children discarded TV dinners — rejects from a local factory — rather than paying for groceries. 
The book meanders through snapshots of Alexandra’s childhood among the many Aldrich heirs living on the Rokeby estate: White-knuckled drives with drunk Grandma Claire ; her parents’ incessant bickering (“You’re a dirty swine!” was “a normal expression of spousal affection.” ); a casual introduction to her father’s mistress and, eventually, his illegitimate (and unacknowledged) son. 
“Surrounded by whimsical, unstructured people who did what they pleased whenever they pleased, I genuinely idealized a respectable and disciplined life,” Alexandra writes.  This is a girl who reads her grandmother’s Talbots catalogs “not for the conservative clothing, but for the furnished backgrounds.”  In her own family’s kitchen, “a ribbon of brown flypaper still plastered with dead flies from the previous summer” hung over the dining room table and everything “smelled of leftover cat food cans.” 
Among the many disturbing episodes we learn about at Rokeby are a mysterious death that occurs at a summer party  and the violent behavior of her father. He attempts to kill his mother’s dog by locking it inside a car parked deep in the forest (the dog was rescued)  and regales visitors with the tale of how, as a boy, he’d dropped a heavy crystal ball on the head of a cleaning lady “while she was on her hands and knees scrubbing these front stairs. She made a horrible groaning sound.”  He seems to think this is funny; it’s unclear what Alexandra thinks. While these scenes are vivid they don’t add up to much except a pathetic tableau of unhappy people wandering through the remains of a family that once had a purpose.
The book ends at the point where Alexandra’s life presumably begins: her education away from Rokeby (paid for by a sympathetic Parisian aunt). Her mother is outraged: “Someone could come up with twelve thousand dollars for boarding school tuition, while all these years we’ve gone hungry!”  she wails, “Because boarding school is more necessary than food in this family?” No, in this family, a sense of entitlement is more necessary than food.
Ultimately it’s just as unpleasant for the reader to spend time with these spoiled, deranged people as it must have been for Alexandra. “What’s so interesting about [my family], you ask?” a teenaged Alexandra muses in the book. “Although my family is directly descended from American aristocracy, my parents are rather… bohemian.”  They’re also unkind, selfish, and boring. That’s the problem with aristocrats: They’re only interesting when they have money.
(Review originally published in The Boston Globe April 30, 2013).
Book Review: Emily Rapp, The Still Point of the Turning World (Penguing: 2013), 260 pp.
In Emily Rapp’s powerful new memoir, “The Still Point of the Turning World,” the “worst possible news” arrives right in the second sentence: “our son, Ronan, then nine months old, had Tay-Sachs disease, a rare, progressive and always fatal condition with no treatment and no cure.”
But you should keep reading. Rapp has written a beautiful and passionate elegy for her son, a book that offers deep wisdom for any reader. In poetic language that is always grounded in the reality of her family’s day-to-day effort to cope with unimaginable pain, Rapp journeys through the terror of hearing Ronan’s diagnosis — “his death sentence, really” — to the slow, painful acceptance of death:
“Tucked inside the moments of this great sadness — this feeling of being punctured, scrambling and stricken — were also moments of the brightest, most swollen and logic-shattering happiness I’ve ever experienced,” Rapp writes. “I realized you could not have one without the other, that this great capacity to love and be happy can only be experienced with this great risk of having happiness taken from you — to tremble, always on the edge of loss.”
Part of Rapp’s initial shock comes from the fact that she had been tested for Tay-Sachs while pregnant and her results came back negative: not a carrier. She later discovers that only the nine most common mutations are covered in the standard Tay-Sachs screening; Rapp and her husband were unknowing carriers of a different, more rare mutation. “Never having been one to believe that statistics were on my side,” Rapp writes, “. . . I did everything to cover all the bases, get the results, to know.”
She reflects upon “our hopeful delusion that being good people might keep chaos at bay. But chaos finds everyone.” Fewer than 20 children are born in the United States with Tay-Sachs per year; like Ronan, most of them are “born to parents who didn’t know they had anything to worry about.”
The book is not a day-by-day account of Ronan’s demise but instead a series of meditations on life, death, and acceptance. “How do you parent without a future?” she wonders, a theme she returns to several times in the book. “For parents of terminally ill children, parenting strategies incorporate the grim reality that we will not be launching our children into a bright and promising future, but into early graves.”
Although “[t]his was absolutely depressing,” she writes, “. . . the experience of being Ronan’s mom was not . . . without wisdom, not without . . . a profound understanding of the human experience, which includes the reality of death in life that most parenting books and resources fail to acknowledge.”
Rapp finds that “parenting without a future” is a radical act, focused not on improving one’s child or preparing him for adulthood, but simply being with him, loving him. “Sitting with Ronan on the couch I often thought, How can I make this moment more precious? and then I’d realize with a sense of panic that no additional meaning needed to be sought or found. This was all there was.”
This wisdom is something she began to intuit when she was just a child. Rapp was born with a congenital disorder that led to the amputation of her left leg when she was 8, an experience chronicled in her previous book, “Poster Child.’’ She coped by pushing herself to achieve and be an inspiration to others.
As a young girl she was quoted in her local newspaper saying, “If you believe in yourself, you can do anything,” and she did: She skied, she biked, she swam. But eventually all the striving began to wear on her psyche. As an adult she began to question the “pursuit of happiness” itself, the never-ending, rarely questioned American quest for improvement. “People get sick with this idea of change; I have been sick with it,” she admits. In Ronan’s presence, the hollowness of this hunger for perfection finally becomes real to her.
There’s no avoiding it: “The Still Point of the Turning World” is a heartbreaking book about every parent’s worst nightmare. But it is very much worth reading. It’s neither a horror story nor a trite tale of triumph over adversity. “What can be learned from a dying baby?” Rapp asks at one point, as if daring the reader to answer. There are no tidy lessons here, but instead a dark, beautiful sky full of possible constellations of meaning, threads of resonance on the subjects of life, death, healing, illness, friendship, family, grief, and love.
Ronan was almost 3 when he died on Feb. 15, after the book went to press, but it’s clear the lessons he left behind came from his life and not from its end. “Ronan taught me that children do not exist to honor their parents,” she writes, “their parents exist to honor them.” Emily Rapp has done that and much more in this beautiful tribute to Ronan’s rich and meaningful life