Benjamin A. Railton's Blog, page 388
March 20, 2013
March 20, 2013: Spring in America: “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”
[As spring gets ready to spring, a series on the season in American culture. Add your vernal associations and responses for a blooming weekend post!]
On the simple and vital song that captures the essence of political music.As I tried to make clear in one of my very first posts, on Public Enemy and N.W.A., I don’t have anything against overt and aggressive political, protest music; quite the opposite, some of my favorite American songs, from the ones referenced in that post to many by Springsteenand Steve Earle (among other songwriters), fit that bill quite directly. And I certainly have moments where nothing other than a Rage Against the Machine song seems to capture my AmericanStudier’s perspective on our politics, society, or culture. Yet at the same time, I would argue that the most effective political or protest songs are often far more simple and subtle, weaving their melodies and meanings into our consciousness in a quiet and compelling way; that’s how I’d describe Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” for example (my nominee for a new national anthem!).Guthrie’s song might be the most exemplary such simple political song, but it’s got some serious competition from Pete Seeger’s “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” Inspired by some lines in a Russian novel, based on a melody from a different Russian folk song, and expanded through a series of additions (both by Seeger and other songwriters) in the decade after its initial appearance, Seeger’s song certainly has had a complicated history and evolving American presence. But at its core is an even more simple use of structure, repetition, and imagery than in Guthrie’s song—yet “deceptively simple” is probably a better phrase, because by the end of its third verse (Seeger originally wrote only the first three, although again they have been expanded since) the song has tied together allusions to environmental destruction, fleeting and lost youth, marriage and its effects on women, and the consequences of war, among the many complex and sweeping themes to which we might connect its seemingly straightforward lines and phrases.But what about spring, you might ask? (If you care as much about the continuity of these weekly series as I do, which, I know, is asking a lot!) The song’s title and first verse might of course suggest the seasonal opposite, the shift toward fall that brings with it the close of each year’s most abundant flowering. Yet I would disagree, and would instead analyze the first verse as a statement about (in part) the worst kind of human response to the natural wonder that is spring’s annual rebirth. That is, those symbolic “girls” who have “picked every one” of the flowers represent to my mind the way in which we can come to take such natural wonders—and ultimately, of course, the environment and planet on which they occur—for granted, as simply more material of which we can take advantage for our own beauty and happiness. Would it be possible for us to appreciate and enjoy the flowers without picking them? Just as possible, Seeger might argue, as it would be to stop sending young men (and now women) to die in wars—which means incredibly difficult, yet worth aiming for. Sounds like a political anthem to me.Next spring connection tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? Thoughts on Seeger or political music? Other images of spring you’d highlight?
On the simple and vital song that captures the essence of political music.As I tried to make clear in one of my very first posts, on Public Enemy and N.W.A., I don’t have anything against overt and aggressive political, protest music; quite the opposite, some of my favorite American songs, from the ones referenced in that post to many by Springsteenand Steve Earle (among other songwriters), fit that bill quite directly. And I certainly have moments where nothing other than a Rage Against the Machine song seems to capture my AmericanStudier’s perspective on our politics, society, or culture. Yet at the same time, I would argue that the most effective political or protest songs are often far more simple and subtle, weaving their melodies and meanings into our consciousness in a quiet and compelling way; that’s how I’d describe Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” for example (my nominee for a new national anthem!).Guthrie’s song might be the most exemplary such simple political song, but it’s got some serious competition from Pete Seeger’s “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” Inspired by some lines in a Russian novel, based on a melody from a different Russian folk song, and expanded through a series of additions (both by Seeger and other songwriters) in the decade after its initial appearance, Seeger’s song certainly has had a complicated history and evolving American presence. But at its core is an even more simple use of structure, repetition, and imagery than in Guthrie’s song—yet “deceptively simple” is probably a better phrase, because by the end of its third verse (Seeger originally wrote only the first three, although again they have been expanded since) the song has tied together allusions to environmental destruction, fleeting and lost youth, marriage and its effects on women, and the consequences of war, among the many complex and sweeping themes to which we might connect its seemingly straightforward lines and phrases.But what about spring, you might ask? (If you care as much about the continuity of these weekly series as I do, which, I know, is asking a lot!) The song’s title and first verse might of course suggest the seasonal opposite, the shift toward fall that brings with it the close of each year’s most abundant flowering. Yet I would disagree, and would instead analyze the first verse as a statement about (in part) the worst kind of human response to the natural wonder that is spring’s annual rebirth. That is, those symbolic “girls” who have “picked every one” of the flowers represent to my mind the way in which we can come to take such natural wonders—and ultimately, of course, the environment and planet on which they occur—for granted, as simply more material of which we can take advantage for our own beauty and happiness. Would it be possible for us to appreciate and enjoy the flowers without picking them? Just as possible, Seeger might argue, as it would be to stop sending young men (and now women) to die in wars—which means incredibly difficult, yet worth aiming for. Sounds like a political anthem to me.Next spring connection tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? Thoughts on Seeger or political music? Other images of spring you’d highlight?
March 19, 2013
March 19, 2013: Spring in America: “Appalachian Spring”
[As spring gets ready to spring, a series on the season in American culture. Add your vernal associations and responses for a blooming weekend post!]
On the composer and work that helped bring classical to America, and vice versa.I’m no music historian, yet I would argue that many, indeed most, of the last century’s dominant genres of popular music originated in America: the blues, jazz, rock and roll, country, rap, hip hop, all would seem to have had distinctly American origins. By the same token, however, it’s inarguable that when it comes to one of the most longstanding world musical traditions, classical music (or orchestral music, to make clear that the tradition has continued into our contemporary moment just as much as those other genres), America’s historical role has been far more insignificant. For example, the 19th century saw such classical masters as Tchaikovsky, Chopin, Dvorák, and Mendelssohn, among many others; yet in America during roughly the same period, it’s fair to say (again, says the non-music-historian) that the only composer to achieve any sort of international prominence would be John Philip Sousa—and his marches were of course themselves not exactly classical symphonies.By the mid-20thcentury, many of the aforementioned popular genres had begun to emerge in earnest, and with them many significant American composers and musicians. Yet the same decades witnessed the rise of (to my mind) America’s greatest classical composer, one deeply indebted to contemporary American genres such as jazz yet also able to stand toe to toe with any international peer: Aaron Copland. Copland’s earliest (1920s) compositions reflected both sides to those influences, with more classical pieces such as “Symphony for Organ and Orchestra” (1924) complemented by jazz-inflected ones like “Music for the Theater”(1925). His more mature and famous compositions carried forward both trends, as evidenced by two pieces from 1942: the classical (“Fanfare for the Common Man”) and the American (“A Lincoln Portrait”). But perhaps no single piece, of Copland’s or of any other composer’s, better weds the classical to the American than “Appalachian Spring”(1944).Copland composed the Pulitzer Prize-winning “Appalachian Spring” for Martha Graham’s ballet of the same name, but of course the music has endured in our popular consciousness more fully than the ballet. There are various possible reasons for that persistence, but I would argue it’s most centrally due to just how successfully Copland balances American folk motifs (such as the traditional Shaker song “Simple Gifts” on which he apparently based one of his central melodies) with classical traditions. The truth, of course, is that every nation’s version of a “classical tradition” is due precisely to a combination of unique, local influences with overarching tropes and elements—as brought together and taken to another level by the kinds of musical masters I cited above. That isn’t to downplay the legacies of the world’s greatest composers, but to note, instead, how fully Copland stands among those greats, and how thoroughly he brought America with him into the classical conversation. An uncommon man, and piece, indeed.Next spring connection tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? Thoughts on Copland or music in America? Other images of spring you’d highlight?
On the composer and work that helped bring classical to America, and vice versa.I’m no music historian, yet I would argue that many, indeed most, of the last century’s dominant genres of popular music originated in America: the blues, jazz, rock and roll, country, rap, hip hop, all would seem to have had distinctly American origins. By the same token, however, it’s inarguable that when it comes to one of the most longstanding world musical traditions, classical music (or orchestral music, to make clear that the tradition has continued into our contemporary moment just as much as those other genres), America’s historical role has been far more insignificant. For example, the 19th century saw such classical masters as Tchaikovsky, Chopin, Dvorák, and Mendelssohn, among many others; yet in America during roughly the same period, it’s fair to say (again, says the non-music-historian) that the only composer to achieve any sort of international prominence would be John Philip Sousa—and his marches were of course themselves not exactly classical symphonies.By the mid-20thcentury, many of the aforementioned popular genres had begun to emerge in earnest, and with them many significant American composers and musicians. Yet the same decades witnessed the rise of (to my mind) America’s greatest classical composer, one deeply indebted to contemporary American genres such as jazz yet also able to stand toe to toe with any international peer: Aaron Copland. Copland’s earliest (1920s) compositions reflected both sides to those influences, with more classical pieces such as “Symphony for Organ and Orchestra” (1924) complemented by jazz-inflected ones like “Music for the Theater”(1925). His more mature and famous compositions carried forward both trends, as evidenced by two pieces from 1942: the classical (“Fanfare for the Common Man”) and the American (“A Lincoln Portrait”). But perhaps no single piece, of Copland’s or of any other composer’s, better weds the classical to the American than “Appalachian Spring”(1944).Copland composed the Pulitzer Prize-winning “Appalachian Spring” for Martha Graham’s ballet of the same name, but of course the music has endured in our popular consciousness more fully than the ballet. There are various possible reasons for that persistence, but I would argue it’s most centrally due to just how successfully Copland balances American folk motifs (such as the traditional Shaker song “Simple Gifts” on which he apparently based one of his central melodies) with classical traditions. The truth, of course, is that every nation’s version of a “classical tradition” is due precisely to a combination of unique, local influences with overarching tropes and elements—as brought together and taken to another level by the kinds of musical masters I cited above. That isn’t to downplay the legacies of the world’s greatest composers, but to note, instead, how fully Copland stands among those greats, and how thoroughly he brought America with him into the classical conversation. An uncommon man, and piece, indeed.Next spring connection tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? Thoughts on Copland or music in America? Other images of spring you’d highlight?
March 18, 2013
March 18, 2013: Spring in America: Williams and Eliot
[As spring gets ready to spring, a series on the season in American culture. Add your vernal associations and responses for a blooming weekend post!]
On the two modernist poems that exemplify alternative, contrasting, yet ultimately complementary narratives of hope.When it comes to literary images of spring, the first work that (pardon me) springs to mind is William Carlos Williams’ poem “Spring and All”(1923). Created at least in part in response to Williams’ work as a doctor (hence the “contagious hospital” in the opening line), and more exactly his experiences dealing with at-risk young patients whose very existence and future were in doubt, the poem transcends any specific contexts to become both a realistic and yet an idealistic depiction of spring itself: of what it means for new life to make its struggling, haphazard, threatened, perennial, inspiring journey to the surface of a world that had been cold and lifeless (in terms of blooming things, anyway) only days before. Making the best use of an unpunctuated last line since Emily Dickinson, Williams’ closing line captures perfectly the precise moment of “awaken[ing],” as both an uncertain transition to whatever comes next yet also a miraculous achievement in its own right.Williams at times consciously positioned himself and his poetry in contrast to high modernist contemporaries such as T.S. Eliot, and it’s difficult to imagine a more direct contrast to “Spring and All” than the opening lines of Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922). “April is the cruelest month,” Eliot’s poem begins, and in case the reader thinks he’s upset about Tax Day or something, the speaker goes on to make clear that it is precisely spring’s rebirths to which he refers: “Breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain. / Winter kept us warm, covering / Earth in forgetful snow, feeding / A little life with dried tubers.” Where Williams’ poem focuses on the season’s partial and uncertain but still powerful moves toward a future, Eliot’s thus looks back at a past, one that would be better left buried yet that is instead brought back with every new blossom. And where Williams creates images of awakening new life, of spring as birth, Eliot portrays the season as a painful re-awakening, back into identities already (it seems) too much in the world.Those contrasts are genuine, and again reflect more overarching distinctions between these two poets as well. Yet I think in at least one significant way the two poems (particularly when we take all of Eliot’s into consideration, not just his opening line) complement rather than contrast each other. After all, one clear way to describe the modernist literary project is as an attempt to represent life in the aftermath of disaster, destruction, death, doubt, all those characteristics so amplified within a post-WWI world. To that end, we can see both poems’ speakers as struggling with that question, and trying to imagine whether and how new life and possibilities can or should emerge into such an inhospitable world (whether represented through a contagious hospital or a barren wasteland). The poems do differ greatly in tone, but it’s possible to argue that the very act of writing is in both cases a hopeful one, a pushing through the wintry ground into some evolving new form. “These fragments I have shored against my ruins,” Eliot writes in his poem’s final lines—and what is spring (he said at the tail end of a New England winter) but a fragmentary yet inspiring annual rebirth of a ruined world?Next spring connection tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? Thoughts on these poems? Other images of spring you’d highlight?
On the two modernist poems that exemplify alternative, contrasting, yet ultimately complementary narratives of hope.When it comes to literary images of spring, the first work that (pardon me) springs to mind is William Carlos Williams’ poem “Spring and All”(1923). Created at least in part in response to Williams’ work as a doctor (hence the “contagious hospital” in the opening line), and more exactly his experiences dealing with at-risk young patients whose very existence and future were in doubt, the poem transcends any specific contexts to become both a realistic and yet an idealistic depiction of spring itself: of what it means for new life to make its struggling, haphazard, threatened, perennial, inspiring journey to the surface of a world that had been cold and lifeless (in terms of blooming things, anyway) only days before. Making the best use of an unpunctuated last line since Emily Dickinson, Williams’ closing line captures perfectly the precise moment of “awaken[ing],” as both an uncertain transition to whatever comes next yet also a miraculous achievement in its own right.Williams at times consciously positioned himself and his poetry in contrast to high modernist contemporaries such as T.S. Eliot, and it’s difficult to imagine a more direct contrast to “Spring and All” than the opening lines of Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922). “April is the cruelest month,” Eliot’s poem begins, and in case the reader thinks he’s upset about Tax Day or something, the speaker goes on to make clear that it is precisely spring’s rebirths to which he refers: “Breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain. / Winter kept us warm, covering / Earth in forgetful snow, feeding / A little life with dried tubers.” Where Williams’ poem focuses on the season’s partial and uncertain but still powerful moves toward a future, Eliot’s thus looks back at a past, one that would be better left buried yet that is instead brought back with every new blossom. And where Williams creates images of awakening new life, of spring as birth, Eliot portrays the season as a painful re-awakening, back into identities already (it seems) too much in the world.Those contrasts are genuine, and again reflect more overarching distinctions between these two poets as well. Yet I think in at least one significant way the two poems (particularly when we take all of Eliot’s into consideration, not just his opening line) complement rather than contrast each other. After all, one clear way to describe the modernist literary project is as an attempt to represent life in the aftermath of disaster, destruction, death, doubt, all those characteristics so amplified within a post-WWI world. To that end, we can see both poems’ speakers as struggling with that question, and trying to imagine whether and how new life and possibilities can or should emerge into such an inhospitable world (whether represented through a contagious hospital or a barren wasteland). The poems do differ greatly in tone, but it’s possible to argue that the very act of writing is in both cases a hopeful one, a pushing through the wintry ground into some evolving new form. “These fragments I have shored against my ruins,” Eliot writes in his poem’s final lines—and what is spring (he said at the tail end of a New England winter) but a fragmentary yet inspiring annual rebirth of a ruined world?Next spring connection tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? Thoughts on these poems? Other images of spring you’d highlight?
March 16, 2013
March 16-17, 2013: Supreme Contexts: The Cases Before Us
[Later this month, the Supreme Court will hear its next two landmark cases, these related to the issue of same-sex marriage. So this week I’ve highlighted five significant 19thcentury SC decisions, and more exactly analyzed one key contextual frame for each. That has lead up to this special post on the upcoming decisions. Add your judicious thoughts and takes in the comments, please!]
Three thoughts on how a historical perspective on the Supreme Court can help us consider the possible outcomes of these significant cases.I’m no legal expert, and I’ll leave the analyses and speculation on that front to those who are. So these are three AmericanStudies takes on the Court and its historical precedents:1) Always Political, But Worse than Ever: It’s impossible to examine the kinds of cases I did this week and argue that the Court has ever been divorced from politics, from relationships to presidents and Congress, to contemporary national debates, and so on. Yet at the same time, I stand by what I wrote in this post: that the last decade or so has seen a significant uptick in the Court’s overt political roles, stances, voices, and so on. Justice Scalia’s recent reliance on talk radio talking points in commentary on the ACA and the Voting Rights Act would be exhibit A in that brief. Makes it hard to argue that politics won’t play a role in these gay rights cases.2) Yet Can Rise Above It: I suppose you could make the case that even the Court’s most inspiring decisions—such as against Indian Removal in Worcester v. Georgia , or against segregation in Brown —were motivated in part by political concerns: an opposition to Andrew Jackson in the former, for example. But I’m not willing to be that cynical. At times, the Court has to my mind transcended political or social debates and found the more ideal and powerful side to the law, and particularly to what it offers all Americans. Those are two examples, and perhaps these gay rights cases will be another.3) They’ve Got the Power: The Court doesn’t get the final say on anything, and especially not on huge and evolving issues like same-sex marriage. The arc of the universe will keep bending in any case, and, I believe, will indeed bend toward justice. But a case like Dred Scott illustrates the Court’s genuine power to shape current events, for good or for ill. Would an anti-slavery decision in Dredhave staved off the Civil War? Most likely not—but at least it would have given abolitionism national momentum and support, instead of reinforcing its seemingly radical and revolutionary nature in those pre-war years. Would a ruling against same-sex marriage rights be akin to a 21st century Dred? Not sure, but let’s hope we get instead another Brown.Next series starts Monday,BenPS. What’s your take on these cases? Or on the Supreme Court in American history, identity, and society overall?
PPS. Speaking of significant cases, and to follow up a post of mine from last year, an Arizona judge has recently (and damn frustratingly) upheld the state's Ethnic Studies ban. Sigh. La lucha continua!
Three thoughts on how a historical perspective on the Supreme Court can help us consider the possible outcomes of these significant cases.I’m no legal expert, and I’ll leave the analyses and speculation on that front to those who are. So these are three AmericanStudies takes on the Court and its historical precedents:1) Always Political, But Worse than Ever: It’s impossible to examine the kinds of cases I did this week and argue that the Court has ever been divorced from politics, from relationships to presidents and Congress, to contemporary national debates, and so on. Yet at the same time, I stand by what I wrote in this post: that the last decade or so has seen a significant uptick in the Court’s overt political roles, stances, voices, and so on. Justice Scalia’s recent reliance on talk radio talking points in commentary on the ACA and the Voting Rights Act would be exhibit A in that brief. Makes it hard to argue that politics won’t play a role in these gay rights cases.2) Yet Can Rise Above It: I suppose you could make the case that even the Court’s most inspiring decisions—such as against Indian Removal in Worcester v. Georgia , or against segregation in Brown —were motivated in part by political concerns: an opposition to Andrew Jackson in the former, for example. But I’m not willing to be that cynical. At times, the Court has to my mind transcended political or social debates and found the more ideal and powerful side to the law, and particularly to what it offers all Americans. Those are two examples, and perhaps these gay rights cases will be another.3) They’ve Got the Power: The Court doesn’t get the final say on anything, and especially not on huge and evolving issues like same-sex marriage. The arc of the universe will keep bending in any case, and, I believe, will indeed bend toward justice. But a case like Dred Scott illustrates the Court’s genuine power to shape current events, for good or for ill. Would an anti-slavery decision in Dredhave staved off the Civil War? Most likely not—but at least it would have given abolitionism national momentum and support, instead of reinforcing its seemingly radical and revolutionary nature in those pre-war years. Would a ruling against same-sex marriage rights be akin to a 21st century Dred? Not sure, but let’s hope we get instead another Brown.Next series starts Monday,BenPS. What’s your take on these cases? Or on the Supreme Court in American history, identity, and society overall?
PPS. Speaking of significant cases, and to follow up a post of mine from last year, an Arizona judge has recently (and damn frustratingly) upheld the state's Ethnic Studies ban. Sigh. La lucha continua!
March 15, 2013
March 15, 2013: Supreme Contexts: Plessy and Activism
[Later this month, the Supreme Court will hear its next two landmark cases, these related to the issue of same-sex marriage. So this week I’ll be highlighting five significant 19thcentury SC decisions, and more exactly analyzing one key contextual frame for each. That’ll lead up to a special weekend post on the upcoming decisions. Add your judicious thoughts and takes in the comments, please!]
On the obvious reading of another of the Court’s worst decisions—and the arguments for seeing it in precisely the opposite way.We’ve heard a lot in recent years, mostly in the context of the issue on which those upcoming Court cases will focus (same-sex marriage), about “activist judges” and “judicial activism.” Much of the time I find myself agreeing with those who have sarcastically noted that the phrases seem to mean “judges or courts that interpret and apply the law differently than I would.” But on the other hand, it is fair to note that there have been throughout American legal history moments that might objectively qualify for those categorizations, circumstances when, for example, the Supreme Court has broken with precedent and ruled based on social changes or the like; Brown v. Board of Education (1954) could be seen as such an instance. Whether we agree or disagree with the resulting rulings (and of course I do in the case of Brown), I can see how they could thus be defined as moments of “judicial activism.”With that definition in mind, the Supreme Court’s infamous decision in Plessy v. Ferguson (1896) would seem to be the exact opposite of judicial activism; judicial conservatism, perhaps. After all, the Court’s reification of Jim Crow segregation in Plessy seemed to represent simply a judicial rubber-stamping of decades of accumulating discriminatory laws, including the Dred Scott decision about which I wrote two days ago as well as the numerous and other racist and segregating laws created in the Reconstruction era and its aftermath. Such segregation had become, by the late 19thcentury, not only the law of the land throughout the South but also quite common (if less consistently enshrined in specific laws) across the nation. And so it could be argued that if the Court had ruled against segregation (or at least the specific segregated railway cars that were the case’s focus), it would have been seeking to redirect dominant social and cultural trends in precisely the way implied by the phrase “judicial activism.”Yet it’s just as possible, if not in fact more accurate, to call Plessy a more genuine and troubling kind of judicial activism. After all, whatever laws had been passed by state legislatures in the throes of white supremacist demogoguery, racial segregation seems clearly opposed to the 14thAmendment and its guarantees of equal protection under the law for all American citizens (among many other details and aspects of the nation’s founding documents and ideas with which such segregation does not comport). For any court, and most especially the Supreme Court, to supercede such fundamental legal and civic ideas—cloaked in the “separate but equal” nonsense that fooled no one at the time, nor since—represents a particularly egregious kind of judicial activism, one that weds our most august legal body to the worst impulses of an era and American history. What could be more activist, that is, than converting the Supreme Court into an enforcer of racism?Special post this weekend,BenPS. What do you think?
On the obvious reading of another of the Court’s worst decisions—and the arguments for seeing it in precisely the opposite way.We’ve heard a lot in recent years, mostly in the context of the issue on which those upcoming Court cases will focus (same-sex marriage), about “activist judges” and “judicial activism.” Much of the time I find myself agreeing with those who have sarcastically noted that the phrases seem to mean “judges or courts that interpret and apply the law differently than I would.” But on the other hand, it is fair to note that there have been throughout American legal history moments that might objectively qualify for those categorizations, circumstances when, for example, the Supreme Court has broken with precedent and ruled based on social changes or the like; Brown v. Board of Education (1954) could be seen as such an instance. Whether we agree or disagree with the resulting rulings (and of course I do in the case of Brown), I can see how they could thus be defined as moments of “judicial activism.”With that definition in mind, the Supreme Court’s infamous decision in Plessy v. Ferguson (1896) would seem to be the exact opposite of judicial activism; judicial conservatism, perhaps. After all, the Court’s reification of Jim Crow segregation in Plessy seemed to represent simply a judicial rubber-stamping of decades of accumulating discriminatory laws, including the Dred Scott decision about which I wrote two days ago as well as the numerous and other racist and segregating laws created in the Reconstruction era and its aftermath. Such segregation had become, by the late 19thcentury, not only the law of the land throughout the South but also quite common (if less consistently enshrined in specific laws) across the nation. And so it could be argued that if the Court had ruled against segregation (or at least the specific segregated railway cars that were the case’s focus), it would have been seeking to redirect dominant social and cultural trends in precisely the way implied by the phrase “judicial activism.”Yet it’s just as possible, if not in fact more accurate, to call Plessy a more genuine and troubling kind of judicial activism. After all, whatever laws had been passed by state legislatures in the throes of white supremacist demogoguery, racial segregation seems clearly opposed to the 14thAmendment and its guarantees of equal protection under the law for all American citizens (among many other details and aspects of the nation’s founding documents and ideas with which such segregation does not comport). For any court, and most especially the Supreme Court, to supercede such fundamental legal and civic ideas—cloaked in the “separate but equal” nonsense that fooled no one at the time, nor since—represents a particularly egregious kind of judicial activism, one that weds our most august legal body to the worst impulses of an era and American history. What could be more activist, that is, than converting the Supreme Court into an enforcer of racism?Special post this weekend,BenPS. What do you think?
March 14, 2013
March 14, 2013: Supreme Contexts: Santa Clara County and Revision
[Later this month, the Supreme Court will hear its next two landmark cases, these related to the issue of same-sex marriage. So this week I’ll be highlighting five significant 19thcentury SC decisions, and more exactly analyzing one key contextual frame for each. That’ll lead up to a special weekend post on the upcoming decisions. Add your judicious thoughts and takes in the comments, please!]
On the seemingly offhand sentences through which the Supreme Court radically revised American law, history, and community.In the spring 1886, the Supreme Court heard a trio of cases related to California’s taxation of railroad corporations and properties, cases collectively entitled Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad (1886). The cases’ specifics hinged on small and (to this AmericanStudier) relatively uninteresting questions of (for example) whether fences adjoining railroad tracks were considered part of those tracks for purposes of land categorization and taxation, and the Court’s decision, written by Justice John Marshall Harlan, similarly focused on those small (if, of course, significant to the affected parties) questions. But it was in a “headnote” to that decision, transcribed by a court reporter and attributed to Chief Justice Morrison Waite, that the Court went far beyond those specific questions and helped change the course of American law and society.In that headnote, Waite stated, “The Court does not wish to hear argument on the question whether the provision in the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution which forbids a state to deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws applies to these corporations. We are all of opinion that it does.” The note was not part of the Court’s official decision, but the reporter (J.C. Bancroft Davis, a former railroad company president) included it immediately preceding the decision in his transcription for the official Court record. He did so, it’s worth adding, only after writing to Waite to inquire whether it did indeed represent the Court’s collective perspective; Waite responded that it did, and the sentences became part of the decision’s text and permanent identity from then on. Such a headnote would have no legal standing or precedent—yet nonetheless, by all accounts and all available evidence this informal opinion, that corporations were the equivalent of people under the 14th Amendment’s “equal protection” clause, became far more impactful than anything in the decision’s formal text.Santa Clara thus represented a watershed moment in the evolving narrative of “corporate personhood,” one that saw its latest statement during the 2012 presidential primaries, in Mitt Romney’s oft-quoted remark at the Iowa State Fair that “corporations are people, my friend.” Yet I would also argue that Waite’s headnote illustrates another of the Court’s striking powers, one perhaps not part of its original Constitutional mandate but certainly part of how the Court’s role has evolved over the centuries since: the power to revise, to change our national understanding of key issues and questions. It did so here not only in the 14th Amendment’s language (which focused entirely on “persons” and “citizens”) but also, if far more subtly, on its contexts. The Amendment, after all, was drafted first and foremost to ensure full citizenship and equal protection for freed and former slaves—for persons, that is, who had suffered at the hands of one of America’s most sweeping capitalist and, dare I say it, corporate entities, the slave system. To read that Amendment’s effects to include protection for corporations was thus, to my mind, a stunning revision.Next landmark case tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On the seemingly offhand sentences through which the Supreme Court radically revised American law, history, and community.In the spring 1886, the Supreme Court heard a trio of cases related to California’s taxation of railroad corporations and properties, cases collectively entitled Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad (1886). The cases’ specifics hinged on small and (to this AmericanStudier) relatively uninteresting questions of (for example) whether fences adjoining railroad tracks were considered part of those tracks for purposes of land categorization and taxation, and the Court’s decision, written by Justice John Marshall Harlan, similarly focused on those small (if, of course, significant to the affected parties) questions. But it was in a “headnote” to that decision, transcribed by a court reporter and attributed to Chief Justice Morrison Waite, that the Court went far beyond those specific questions and helped change the course of American law and society.In that headnote, Waite stated, “The Court does not wish to hear argument on the question whether the provision in the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution which forbids a state to deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws applies to these corporations. We are all of opinion that it does.” The note was not part of the Court’s official decision, but the reporter (J.C. Bancroft Davis, a former railroad company president) included it immediately preceding the decision in his transcription for the official Court record. He did so, it’s worth adding, only after writing to Waite to inquire whether it did indeed represent the Court’s collective perspective; Waite responded that it did, and the sentences became part of the decision’s text and permanent identity from then on. Such a headnote would have no legal standing or precedent—yet nonetheless, by all accounts and all available evidence this informal opinion, that corporations were the equivalent of people under the 14th Amendment’s “equal protection” clause, became far more impactful than anything in the decision’s formal text.Santa Clara thus represented a watershed moment in the evolving narrative of “corporate personhood,” one that saw its latest statement during the 2012 presidential primaries, in Mitt Romney’s oft-quoted remark at the Iowa State Fair that “corporations are people, my friend.” Yet I would also argue that Waite’s headnote illustrates another of the Court’s striking powers, one perhaps not part of its original Constitutional mandate but certainly part of how the Court’s role has evolved over the centuries since: the power to revise, to change our national understanding of key issues and questions. It did so here not only in the 14th Amendment’s language (which focused entirely on “persons” and “citizens”) but also, if far more subtly, on its contexts. The Amendment, after all, was drafted first and foremost to ensure full citizenship and equal protection for freed and former slaves—for persons, that is, who had suffered at the hands of one of America’s most sweeping capitalist and, dare I say it, corporate entities, the slave system. To read that Amendment’s effects to include protection for corporations was thus, to my mind, a stunning revision.Next landmark case tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 13, 2013
March 13, 2013: Supreme Contexts: Dred Scott and Definitions
[Later this month, the Supreme Court will hear its next two landmark cases, these related to the issue of same-sex marriage. So this week I’ll be highlighting five significant 19thcentury SC decisions, and more exactly analyzing one key contextual frame for each. That’ll lead up to a special weekend post on the upcoming decisions. Add your judicious thoughts and takes in the comments, please!]
On the horrifically misguided decision that ironically illustrated one of the Court’s most significant powers.I doubt I have to remind many readers why the Supreme Court’s decision in Dred Scott v. Sandford (1857) represents one of the institution’s lowest points. Far from simply rejecting the arguments made on behalf of Scott, a slave who had been taken into Illinois (a free state) and was suing for his freedom as a result of the move, Chief Justice Roger Taney and the rest of the six Justices who sided against Scott went a good deal further. They ruled that the 1820 Missouri Compromise(which had prohibited the expansion of slavery into new territories) was unconstitutional, amplifying the era’s violent debates over territories such as Kansas and contributing to the rampup to the Civil War. And, most broadly and destructively, the majority also ruled that slaves were not citizens, and so had no legal standing before the Court—or anywhere else.To quote Taney’s decision: “The question before us is, whether the class of persons described in the plea in abatement compose a portion of this people, and are constituent members of this sovereignty? We think they are not, and that they are not included, and were not intended to be included, under the word 'citizens' in the Constitution, and can therefore claim none of the rights and privileges which that instrument provides for and secures to citizens of the United States.” While Taney attempted to couch these lines behind the usual questions of precedent and the like, the truth, both legal and human, is that his Court’s decision went far past any prior rulings in this moment—and, just as importantly, that had the Constitution not itself been amended to outlaw slavery (the 13thAmendment) and define African Americans as citizens (the 14th), that the Dred decision would itself have constituted a substantial precedent, would have made it very difficult for ex-slaves (and perhaps even their descendents) to be legally considered citizens, Americans, or people.Beyond the simple awfulness of the decision, however, Dredalso reveals a subtle but crucial part of the Supreme Court’s power, as it had evolved into the mid-19th century and has continued to evolve into our own era. What Taney’s Court did in this moment was, quite simply, to define: to define an American community; to define American citizenship; to define, even, personhood. Of course those definitions already existed in American society, politics, and narratives more broadly—but such existing definitions were always and would always be both potentially contested and subject to change. Whereas when a definition receives the Supreme Court’s approval, it becomes, again, significantly more difficult for alternative voices and concepts to make their way into our legal system—and, I would argue, our social and political and communal ones. I have argued elsewhere in this space that the Supreme Court has become increasingly politicized—but Dredreveals that the Court has long taken a key, in fact a defining, role in our political issues.Next landmark case tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On the horrifically misguided decision that ironically illustrated one of the Court’s most significant powers.I doubt I have to remind many readers why the Supreme Court’s decision in Dred Scott v. Sandford (1857) represents one of the institution’s lowest points. Far from simply rejecting the arguments made on behalf of Scott, a slave who had been taken into Illinois (a free state) and was suing for his freedom as a result of the move, Chief Justice Roger Taney and the rest of the six Justices who sided against Scott went a good deal further. They ruled that the 1820 Missouri Compromise(which had prohibited the expansion of slavery into new territories) was unconstitutional, amplifying the era’s violent debates over territories such as Kansas and contributing to the rampup to the Civil War. And, most broadly and destructively, the majority also ruled that slaves were not citizens, and so had no legal standing before the Court—or anywhere else.To quote Taney’s decision: “The question before us is, whether the class of persons described in the plea in abatement compose a portion of this people, and are constituent members of this sovereignty? We think they are not, and that they are not included, and were not intended to be included, under the word 'citizens' in the Constitution, and can therefore claim none of the rights and privileges which that instrument provides for and secures to citizens of the United States.” While Taney attempted to couch these lines behind the usual questions of precedent and the like, the truth, both legal and human, is that his Court’s decision went far past any prior rulings in this moment—and, just as importantly, that had the Constitution not itself been amended to outlaw slavery (the 13thAmendment) and define African Americans as citizens (the 14th), that the Dred decision would itself have constituted a substantial precedent, would have made it very difficult for ex-slaves (and perhaps even their descendents) to be legally considered citizens, Americans, or people.Beyond the simple awfulness of the decision, however, Dredalso reveals a subtle but crucial part of the Supreme Court’s power, as it had evolved into the mid-19th century and has continued to evolve into our own era. What Taney’s Court did in this moment was, quite simply, to define: to define an American community; to define American citizenship; to define, even, personhood. Of course those definitions already existed in American society, politics, and narratives more broadly—but such existing definitions were always and would always be both potentially contested and subject to change. Whereas when a definition receives the Supreme Court’s approval, it becomes, again, significantly more difficult for alternative voices and concepts to make their way into our legal system—and, I would argue, our social and political and communal ones. I have argued elsewhere in this space that the Supreme Court has become increasingly politicized—but Dredreveals that the Court has long taken a key, in fact a defining, role in our political issues.Next landmark case tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 12, 2013
March 12, 2013: Supreme Contexts: Georgia and Sovereignty
[Later this month, the Supreme Court will hear its next two landmark cases, these related to the issue of same-sex marriage. So this week I’ll be highlighting five significant 19thcentury SC decisions, and more exactly analyzing one key contextual frame for each. That’ll lead up to a special weekend post on the upcoming decisions. Add your judicious thoughts and takes in the comments, please!]
On the decision that could not stop a tragedy—but did, eventually, help make history.In his final few years as Chief Justice, John Marshall’s Supreme Court had two significant chances to weigh in on one of the Early Republic’s most controversial and tragic federal actions: Andrew Jackson’s Indian Removal Act (1830), and its immediate, destructive, and enduring impacts on the Cherokee Nation. Marshall and company whiffed on their first such opportunity: ruling in 1831’s Cherokee Nation v. Georgia that the tribe was more of a federal “ward” than an independent nation, and thus that the Cherokee could not assert their sovereignty apart from the United States. More exactly, that ruling allowed the Court to sidestep deciding the case altogether, and thus perhaps to avoid utilizing Marshall’s concept of judicial review to challenge and overturn Jackson’s discriminatory Act.If that avoidance was any part of Marshall’s or the Court’s purpose, however, it did not last long. Less than a year later, the Court was offered the chance to, as Justice Joseph Story put it, “wash [our] hands clean of the iniquity of oppressing the Indians and disregarding their rights.” That chance was Worcester v. Georgia (1832), and in the decision Marshall and his Court not only asserted the Cherokee tribe’s specific right to determine what outsiders could visit their tribal lands (the case’s explicit focus was a Georgia law prohibiting certain missionaries from doing so), but also their broader status as a “distinct community occupying its own territory in which the laws of Georgia can have no force.” In so doing, the Court likewise affirmed all prior “treaties and laws of the United States” in dealing with this distinct and sovereign community, and thus, without ever explicitly referencing the Removal Act, supported the tribe’s legal and historical arguments against the Act and in favor of the many prior treaties and agreements it was violating.In the moment, this latter decision had no effect at all. President Jackson supposedly responded, “John Marshall has made his decision; now let him enforce it!”; whether he uttered those words or not, his actions exemplified such a perspective, as he continue supporting Georgia and enacting the Removal Act. Compared to the power of judicial removal and the heightened role for the Court it had effected, this case thus seems to reveal the limits of the Court’s authority. Yet if immediate power is one kind of legal authority, precedent is another, and of course a more lasting one. And to many scholars of Native American history and culture, the Worcesterdecision represented one of the first federal acknowledgments of sovereignty—a concept that has come to be increasingly central to a wide range of Native American ideas, arguments, and efforts. Marshall might not have been able to counter his era’s most discriminatory federal law, that is, but he contributed to a far more lasting and progressive American idea.Next landmark case tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On the decision that could not stop a tragedy—but did, eventually, help make history.In his final few years as Chief Justice, John Marshall’s Supreme Court had two significant chances to weigh in on one of the Early Republic’s most controversial and tragic federal actions: Andrew Jackson’s Indian Removal Act (1830), and its immediate, destructive, and enduring impacts on the Cherokee Nation. Marshall and company whiffed on their first such opportunity: ruling in 1831’s Cherokee Nation v. Georgia that the tribe was more of a federal “ward” than an independent nation, and thus that the Cherokee could not assert their sovereignty apart from the United States. More exactly, that ruling allowed the Court to sidestep deciding the case altogether, and thus perhaps to avoid utilizing Marshall’s concept of judicial review to challenge and overturn Jackson’s discriminatory Act.If that avoidance was any part of Marshall’s or the Court’s purpose, however, it did not last long. Less than a year later, the Court was offered the chance to, as Justice Joseph Story put it, “wash [our] hands clean of the iniquity of oppressing the Indians and disregarding their rights.” That chance was Worcester v. Georgia (1832), and in the decision Marshall and his Court not only asserted the Cherokee tribe’s specific right to determine what outsiders could visit their tribal lands (the case’s explicit focus was a Georgia law prohibiting certain missionaries from doing so), but also their broader status as a “distinct community occupying its own territory in which the laws of Georgia can have no force.” In so doing, the Court likewise affirmed all prior “treaties and laws of the United States” in dealing with this distinct and sovereign community, and thus, without ever explicitly referencing the Removal Act, supported the tribe’s legal and historical arguments against the Act and in favor of the many prior treaties and agreements it was violating.In the moment, this latter decision had no effect at all. President Jackson supposedly responded, “John Marshall has made his decision; now let him enforce it!”; whether he uttered those words or not, his actions exemplified such a perspective, as he continue supporting Georgia and enacting the Removal Act. Compared to the power of judicial removal and the heightened role for the Court it had effected, this case thus seems to reveal the limits of the Court’s authority. Yet if immediate power is one kind of legal authority, precedent is another, and of course a more lasting one. And to many scholars of Native American history and culture, the Worcesterdecision represented one of the first federal acknowledgments of sovereignty—a concept that has come to be increasingly central to a wide range of Native American ideas, arguments, and efforts. Marshall might not have been able to counter his era’s most discriminatory federal law, that is, but he contributed to a far more lasting and progressive American idea.Next landmark case tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 11, 2013
March 11, 2013: Supreme Contexts: Marbury and Balance
[Later this month, the Supreme Court will hear its next two landmark cases, these related to the issue of same-sex marriage. So this week I’ll be highlighting five significant 19thcentury SC decisions, and more exactly analyzing one key contextual frame for each. That’ll lead up to a special weekend post on the upcoming decisions. Add your judicious thoughts and takes in the comments, please!]
On the foundational decision that helped turn a revolutionary theory into reality.On the list of strikingly ahead of their time features of the government and laws created by the Constitution, the complete separation of church and state and the guarantee of habeas corpus would have to be 1 and 1a. The creation of three distinct branches of government was somewhat less revolutionary; both Britain and France, the two closest parallels to the new American state, likewise had a monarch, a parliament of some sort, and a court system. But nonetheless, the Constitutional emphasis on the separation and equity of those branches, on the checks and balances of powers distributed between them, did indeed represent a new idea: a government that would be eternally dominated not by a monarch or any locus of power and influence, but by competing and complementary forces, working as much to limit each other as to impact the nation more broadly.An important idea and theory, but not necessarily an easy one to implement in practice. In particular, given the more day to day activities of the executive and legislative branches, it stood to reason that the judicial branch would take a more secondary role; what could the Supreme Court truly do, in season and out, to check and balance the President and Congress? In the Court’s first dozen years of activity (1789-1801), under its first three Chief Justices (John Jay, John Rutledge, and Oliver Ellsworth), the answer was “Not a lot.” Jay’s court, for example, heard only four cases in his six years as Chief Justice, and was generally more concerned with delineating the Court’s rules and procedures, as well as its relationship not to other branches of government but to lower courts within the judicial system. By 1800, when President John Adams nominated John Marshall to serve as the Court’s fourth Chief Justice, that subsidiary relationship seemed well established; Marshall was already serving as Adams’ Secretary of State at the time, and continued to do so for his first few months as Chief Justice, making it hard to argue that he or the branch were in any way separate from the executive.By the time Marshall passed away in 1835, having served what remains the longest term of any Chief Justice, nobody could argue that the Supreme Court was anything other than an equal to the other two federal branches. While that shift comprised many distinct cases and moments, none was more defining and seminal than Marbury vs. Madison (1803). The case itself concerned the largely meaningless question of whether a John Adams appointee (Marbury), commissioned in the final moments of that presidency, could be guaranteed his appointment even if the subsequent Thomas Jefferson administration (and his secretary of state James Madison) refused to deliver it. But in deciding that question, Marshall extended his reach far beyond its specifics, making the clearest and most compelling argument ever advanced for the idea of “judicial review”—that the Supreme Court could declare actions of the other branches unconstitutional and overturn them. By cementing this concept with his ruling, Marshall helped create a genuine system of checks and balances that has endured for the two centuries since.Next landmark case tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On the foundational decision that helped turn a revolutionary theory into reality.On the list of strikingly ahead of their time features of the government and laws created by the Constitution, the complete separation of church and state and the guarantee of habeas corpus would have to be 1 and 1a. The creation of three distinct branches of government was somewhat less revolutionary; both Britain and France, the two closest parallels to the new American state, likewise had a monarch, a parliament of some sort, and a court system. But nonetheless, the Constitutional emphasis on the separation and equity of those branches, on the checks and balances of powers distributed between them, did indeed represent a new idea: a government that would be eternally dominated not by a monarch or any locus of power and influence, but by competing and complementary forces, working as much to limit each other as to impact the nation more broadly.An important idea and theory, but not necessarily an easy one to implement in practice. In particular, given the more day to day activities of the executive and legislative branches, it stood to reason that the judicial branch would take a more secondary role; what could the Supreme Court truly do, in season and out, to check and balance the President and Congress? In the Court’s first dozen years of activity (1789-1801), under its first three Chief Justices (John Jay, John Rutledge, and Oliver Ellsworth), the answer was “Not a lot.” Jay’s court, for example, heard only four cases in his six years as Chief Justice, and was generally more concerned with delineating the Court’s rules and procedures, as well as its relationship not to other branches of government but to lower courts within the judicial system. By 1800, when President John Adams nominated John Marshall to serve as the Court’s fourth Chief Justice, that subsidiary relationship seemed well established; Marshall was already serving as Adams’ Secretary of State at the time, and continued to do so for his first few months as Chief Justice, making it hard to argue that he or the branch were in any way separate from the executive.By the time Marshall passed away in 1835, having served what remains the longest term of any Chief Justice, nobody could argue that the Supreme Court was anything other than an equal to the other two federal branches. While that shift comprised many distinct cases and moments, none was more defining and seminal than Marbury vs. Madison (1803). The case itself concerned the largely meaningless question of whether a John Adams appointee (Marbury), commissioned in the final moments of that presidency, could be guaranteed his appointment even if the subsequent Thomas Jefferson administration (and his secretary of state James Madison) refused to deliver it. But in deciding that question, Marshall extended his reach far beyond its specifics, making the clearest and most compelling argument ever advanced for the idea of “judicial review”—that the Supreme Court could declare actions of the other branches unconstitutional and overturn them. By cementing this concept with his ruling, Marshall helped create a genuine system of checks and balances that has endured for the two centuries since.Next landmark case tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 9, 2013
March 9-10, 2013: Crowd-sourced Popular Fiction
[In this week’s series, I’ve considered some authors, texts, and contexts related to a much-maligned (in certain circles at least) but vital part of American literature: popular fiction. This crowd-sourced post is drawn from the responses of fellow AmericanStudiers to those specific and general topics—please help make it extra popular by adding your own takes!]
In response to Monday’s series-starting post, Matt Goguen writes, “Oprah's Book Club definitely deserves a mention here. It has definitely been a catapult for many authors, living and deceased. In addition to the Jonathan Franzen controversy, there was a well-known controversy around the book, A Million Little Pieces which was first publicized as a memoir but soon found to be near-complete fabrication.”Matt follows up Tuesday’s post on Christian fiction, writing “I'm sincerely glad you mentioned the Left Behind series! I haven't read them personally but I did know a lot of born-again Christians in my area who have. They were big fans and it's very important to acknowledge the popularity of those books, even if they were not as ‘mainstream’ (how is 100 million copies sold not mainstream?) as Twilight.”Heidi Kim also follows up Tuesday’s post to remind us also to consider “Christian-themed [fiction], like Dan Brown.”Irene Martyniuk follows up Thursday’s post on guilty pleasures, writing “about the genre of ‘war porn’ that has been around, I’m sure, but I’ve been ensnared through Afghanistan. Too much to say here except that I can only read one bit every so often because these best sellers are so mind numbing in their xenophobia and misogyny (Vince Flynn is the main offender). I also wanted to mention Harlequin romances—much studied but I got into the Sheikh side of it in December, even read The Sheik which was the basis for the Valentino hit movie.” She also highlights a recently scholarly work that deals with those topics, Hsu-Ming Teo’s Desert Passions.On Twitter, Thomas Ruys Smith passes along info about his new co-edited collection on American popular fiction, Must Read: Rediscovering American Bestsellers from Charlotte Temple to The Da Vinci Code (2012).Next series starts Monday,BenPS. So what do you think?
In response to Monday’s series-starting post, Matt Goguen writes, “Oprah's Book Club definitely deserves a mention here. It has definitely been a catapult for many authors, living and deceased. In addition to the Jonathan Franzen controversy, there was a well-known controversy around the book, A Million Little Pieces which was first publicized as a memoir but soon found to be near-complete fabrication.”Matt follows up Tuesday’s post on Christian fiction, writing “I'm sincerely glad you mentioned the Left Behind series! I haven't read them personally but I did know a lot of born-again Christians in my area who have. They were big fans and it's very important to acknowledge the popularity of those books, even if they were not as ‘mainstream’ (how is 100 million copies sold not mainstream?) as Twilight.”Heidi Kim also follows up Tuesday’s post to remind us also to consider “Christian-themed [fiction], like Dan Brown.”Irene Martyniuk follows up Thursday’s post on guilty pleasures, writing “about the genre of ‘war porn’ that has been around, I’m sure, but I’ve been ensnared through Afghanistan. Too much to say here except that I can only read one bit every so often because these best sellers are so mind numbing in their xenophobia and misogyny (Vince Flynn is the main offender). I also wanted to mention Harlequin romances—much studied but I got into the Sheikh side of it in December, even read The Sheik which was the basis for the Valentino hit movie.” She also highlights a recently scholarly work that deals with those topics, Hsu-Ming Teo’s Desert Passions.On Twitter, Thomas Ruys Smith passes along info about his new co-edited collection on American popular fiction, Must Read: Rediscovering American Bestsellers from Charlotte Temple to The Da Vinci Code (2012).Next series starts Monday,BenPS. So what do you think?
Benjamin A. Railton's Blog
- Benjamin A. Railton's profile
- 2 followers
Benjamin A. Railton isn't a Goodreads Author
(yet),
but they
do have a blog,
so here are some recent posts imported from
their feed.
