New York | The Knowledge Dynasty

New York

How one woman harnessed people power to save old New York

New film tells story of Jane Jacobss battle’s against the wealthiest developers in the city.

She was a beaky, bespectacled architecture writer, hardly a figure likely to ignite protests that changed the shape of one of the worlds great cities. Yet such is the legend of Jane Jacobs and her bitter struggles to preserve the heart of New York from modernisation that a film charting her astonishing victories over some of the most powerful developers in the US is set to inspire a new generation of urban activists around the world.

Citizen Jane: Battle for the City tells the story of Jacobs, author of The Death and Life of Great American Cities, who made herself the bane of New Yorks powerful city planners from the 1950’s to 1970’s. Her nemesis was Robert Moses, the city’s powerful master builder and advocate of urban renewal, or wholesale neighbourhood clearance what author James Baldwin termed negro removal.

Moses dismissed the protesters as a bunch of mothers, and attempted to ignore their efforts to attract wider attention, which included taping white crosses across their glasses in the style of Jacobs.

But through a combination of grassroots activism, fundraising and persistence, Jacobs blocked Moses and successive city overlords from running Fifth Avenue through the historic Washington Square, tearing down much of SoHo and Little Italy to make way for a billion-dollar expressway, and building a six-lane highway up Manhattans west side.

“Some issues you fight with lawsuits and buy time that way,” she later wrote. “With others, you buy time by throwing other kinds of monkey wrenches in. You have to buy time in all these fights. The lawsuit is the more expensive way.”

Little
Little Italy, in New York, saved from demolition for a $1bn expressway. Photograph: Maremagnum/Getty Images

Jacobs warned of the dangers of mixing big business and government, and called them monstrous hybrids. She warned, too, that huge housing projects favoured by developers from the school of Le Corbusier would only bring social dislocation to the poor while making developers wealthy.

Jacobs’s method of prevarication, says Citizen Jane director Matt Tyrnauer, wrote the manual for activism. Speaking truth to power was her great strength, and she was fearless, but she was also a great strategist and analysed how to get to politicians and threaten them in ways that were going to be effective.

Robert Hammond, who produced Citizen Jane and co-founded the High Line, a significant renewal project along Manhattan’s west side that turned an elevated rail track into a garden and walkway, says key to her protest was targeting lower-tier elected officials because they depend on you for their jobs and they know it. She understood that fighting government is a slog, and no matter how powerful you think people are, things can be changed the value of individuals coming together and working as an organism, which today we call crowdsourcing.

Those lessons, in particular Jacobs’s later studies of economics, helped shape The Indivisible Project, an umbrella organisation for thousands of protest groups that have sprung up in the US in the aftermath of the presidential election.

Tyrnauer, who previously directed Valentino: The Last Emperor, considers that Indivisible’s activism, which includes berating local officials and challenging congressional leaders at town hall meetings, is cut from the Jacobs playbook. Late last year the group’s founders, four congressional aides moved to act by the election of Donald Trump, published suggestions that have become central to democratic resistance. Six thousand groups have registered so far, seeking to follow Indivisible’s basic, Jacobs-esque credo: localised defensive advocacy; recognition that elected representatives think primarily about re-election and how to use that; efforts to build constituent power through organically formed, locally led groups; and a focus on congressional representatives via town hall meetings, district office visits and mass phone calls.

Jane
Jane Jacobs won many victories over her nemesis Robert Moses, the powerful master builder. Photograph: Library of Congress/Sundance Selects

In her academic and personal life, Jacobs looked at the power individuals have in their own communities, says co-founder and executive director Ezra Levin. Indivisible is fundamentally about constituent power, and we recommend that people assert that power on their own turf, in their own communities. But the connection runs deeper. Jacobs maintained cities are best left to be self-organising. Too much control and they become lifeless. She believed they should be messy something old, something new and warned of the concentration of money and too little diversity. Crucial to Indivisible’s success is an individual group’s basic autonomy. “It’s crucial that this is not a franchise operation. We’ve created a platform but the decisions these groups are taking, or their exact form is fundamentally driven at a local level.”

Jacobs, who died in 2006 and whose centennial falls this year, used to tell an anti-authoritarian story about a preacher who warns children: In hell, there will be wailing and weeping and gnashing of teeth.

“What if you don’t have teeth?” one of the children asks.

Then teeth will be provided.

“That’s it the spirit of the designed city: teeth will be provided for you,” she told the New Yorker in 2004.

In Citizen Jane, the documentarians seek to apply the lessons of Manhattan in the 50’s to the urbanisation of China and India. The results are inconclusive.

Many of the challenges cities now face, at least in the west, are reversals of the clearances that affected cities in the last century. “The suburbs are where the poor people are moved to, and they’re becoming more impractical than cities to live in,” says Hammond.

Read more: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2017/apr/22/jane-jacobs-people-power-saved-old-new-york-architecture-grassroots

First edition of Isaac Newton’s Principia set to fetch $1m at auction

Rare European copy of key mathematics text is going under hammer at Christies in New York with record guide price.

A first edition of Sir Isaac Newton’s Principia Mathematica could become the most expensive print sold of the revolutionary text when it goes under the hammer with a guide price of at least $1m (790,000) this month.

The extremely rare continental copy being sold by auction house Christies in New York is one of a handful of texts thought to have been destined for Europe and has minor differences from those distributed in England by Newton and the book’s editor, Edmond Halley.

The list price of between $1m and $1.5m is thought to be a record for the book. An English version also bound in red morocco leather, which was said to have been presented to King James II, sold for more than $2.5m in 2013. Its list price was $600,000.

About 400 copies of Principia’s first edition were printed, of which the continental versions accounted for about 20%. Halley, the astronomer best known for the comet named after him, encouraged Newton to organise his theories into a text and paid for the printing because the Royal Society of which he and Newton were members had run out of funds.

The society retains two copies of the book, including the original manuscript on which the first print run in 1687 was based, which is described as its greatest treasure.

Written in Latin, the books full title is Philosophi Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy). It laid out Newton’s groundbreaking theories in areas such as gravity and the forces of motion, and introduced a more rigorous mathematical method to physical science.

Keith Moore, the head of the Royal Society library, described it as a benchmark in human thought.

“It’s not just the history and development of science; it’s one of the greatest books ever published,” he said. “It was hugely influential in terms of applying mathematics to basic physical problems.”

Moore said the large sum set to be attracted by the book could be in part due to the growing influence of science within culture, as well as the huge earnings of some technology entrepreneurs.

“People who have big books these days maybe are the kinds of people who have made their money on the internet or the web … If you have a few million quid to spend, why wouldnt you buy a copy of Principia Mathematica?

“If you’ve made your money from a really cool algorithm, you will probably appreciate Newtonian physics.”

Despite its wide-ranging impact, and the books use as a foundational physics text being unsurpassed until Einstein’s general theory of relativity, Principia did not make a list last year of the top 20 most important academic books of all time. The list was topped by Charles Darwins On the Origin of Species.

But because it was published almost two centuries earlier, first editions of Principia are rarer and likely to continue selling for far larger amounts. One of the highest prices paid for a first edition of Darwins book laying out the theory of evolution was 103,000 in 2009, and subsequent sales have been lower.

While the prices differ, the impact of the two texts was comparable, Moore said. What Newton does in the 1680’s is revolutionise the physical sciences. The fundamental laws of physics.

Darwin’s great work published in 1859 revolutionised the biological sciences in the same way. They are similar books in the impact they had.

  • The picture caption on this article was amended on 5 December 2016 to clarify that the copy of Principia Mathematica up for sale is not the one held by Cambridge University.

Read more: https://www.theguardian.com/science/2016/dec/05/principia-sir-isaac-newton-first-edition-auction-christies-new-york

What the cleaner saw: dirty secrets of the upper crust

The Long Read: When I took a job cleaning expensive Manhattan apartments, I had no idea what I would find out about my clients.

I heard about the cleaning company from a friend’s boyfriend, a musician who had supported himself by cleaning houses for years. I was living in an apartment in Brooklyn, sharing a windowless bedroom with a friend. She worked at a health food store on Sixth Avenue, ringing up sandwiches she brought home the ones that didnt sell and we ate them for dinner. I had an internship at a dance company, which I loved because I could take the dance classes at the studio for free.

The cleaning company was a boutique, environmentally friendly deep clean service owned by a woman who usually paid in cash. The company specialised in expensive one-time detoxes, rather than routine cleanings: shed send you to a different apartment almost every time. You never knew what youd find when you walked through the door, but most clients considered the service to be a special occasion, like a nice haircut or a spa day, and so were polite and often tipped.

I wrote to the owner of the cleaning company the next day. How did one convey ones aptitude for cleanliness over email? I am detail oriented, committed, and capable, I wrote, adept at dish washing and scrubbing of all kinds. I went on to say that I’d often lived in small spaces and knew the satisfaction that can be found in finding ways to maximise space. I also wrote that I had grown up in a house that shunned wastefulness, which had consequently led me to develop a sharp eye. I was always on time, I said. Plus, I was a dancer, and therefore enthusiastic about physical activity.

The cleaning companys website posited an unlikely but appealing correspondence between cleaning and art. The owner wrote that she saw the cleaning business as a creative pursuit and was upfront about her own preference for art over work.

This isn’t going to be like cleaning your own house, she said to me, as we rode the elevator on my first day. She had come to oversee me working on my first apartment: a spotless condo on one of the upper floors of a building in Lower Manhattan. While I worked, the owner of the cleaning company followed on my heels. Good pour, she said when I tipped the bucket of grey water into the toilet. As the day wore on, Id catch sight of her standing at the periphery of whatever giant living space I was crouching in, peering around the door frame while I stacked books. Later, while evacuating Cheerios from between the couch cushions, I saw her pick up the miniature rake in the familys decorative tabletop Zen garden and carefully comb the sand with its tiny teeth.


The owners deep-cleaning technique involved very little soap: the key was to scrub vigorously on hands and knees until the grime had been dissolved by force. The rags we used were microfibre cloths dipped in hot water, fortified with a capful of preapproved cleaning liquid. Vetted supplies were provided at the start of our employment and refilled whenever we asked. The boss also provided an assortment of essential oils, which came in small, pretty bottles and looked like perfume. I learned to make a performance out of adding a few drops to my bucket if a client was within eyeshot, holding the glass bottle aloft and squinting as though taking precise measurements.

She advertised us as consultants who would be able to advise on energy consumption and feng shui, but I was never asked to impart any of this wisdom except for one woman who asked me what lavender oil did. (It was good for wood, I told her.) The boss priced the jobs based on a telephone call, in which she performed some kind of calculus that factored in a prospective clients reported square footage, number of pets, and frequency of other (presumably less thorough) professional cleans. Shed jot their answers in an email and forward it to me. This email would be followed promptly by a Google Calendar invite, which bore an address and the start time of the clean.

It wasnt practical to carry vacuums from house to house on the subway, so we used them only if the clients had them already. In old houses, where the shower caulk had aged into grey ridges, it was nearly impossible to do a satisfactory job without resorting to the chemical-laden supplies under the clients sink. After dousing a tub in Ajax, Id sprinkle tea-tree oil on top to mask the scent.

I’d usually start my day at 8am and spend most of the morning sneaking sips of the iced coffee I hid in the sink. Most people didnt want to talk to me, which was fine. Sometimes clients would offer me water, tea, or soda, which I rarely accepted. Even the smallest gestures of goodwill would eventually turn grudging, as they searched with exasperation for a place to set the cup down while I vacuumed.


The important details of my clients lives emerged unbidden, without warning, like smells. Or, once, in the form of a sound clip that wafted from my clients laptop. The client had announced herself as a friend of the owner, then led me through a long-unoccupied apartment. Windows had been left open all winter: the books were warped with rainwater; the base of the sofa was scattered with leaves. While I swept, the friend of the owner sat cross-legged on the couch and fiddled with her computer. Suddenly, I heard an audio recording of her own voice through the tinny laptop speaker: This is the first time I have shown my life-altering birthmark to anyone. The oddness of this moment was not just its awkwardness my client moved swiftly to mute her laptop, and neither of us looked up but the fact that I had already seen the life-altering birthmark myself, which was mottled and raised like someone had slung a handful of wet sand at the flesh above her knee.

People left their most important documents face-up on hall tables for me to see. Receipts for abortions and letters announcing academic probation were pinned to the fridge. The plot points of their lives connected in an instant: sometimes my clients were almost too easy to caricature. There was the young man with a pile of womens underwear by his bed, whose Google history (discovered when I opened his laptop to stream a podcast) revealed a single search for rash from too much sex penis. Or the woman who had converted her lavish living room into a meditation area and reading room filled exclusively with divorce literature. I imagined her as a tremulous, breakable person, with the same shade of tawny hair as her dog.

Because I learned so much without trying, I never wanted to spy. The one time I flipped through a clients diary, it turned out to contain a series of cheery, colourless entries written by a father-to-be. Each was addressed to his unborn child. Mommy is so excited to meet you! one entry began, a sonogram taped to the facing page.


My favourite client lived in the West Village. His office was covered in Broadway playbills, tacked to the wall and strung across the mantelpiece like holiday greeting cards. When I dusted his bookshelves, I found that his books were not real: they came away in discrete sections, hollow volumes fused together at the spine. I could tell he had big feet from his clown-size shoes, which were lined up neatly by the door. I imagined a big, slow, clean-fingernailed man bending over with considerable effort to place his loafers toe to toe. His bedroom had a very large walk-in closet: XXL sweatpants, gym shorts, and complimentary T-shirts from conferences and car washes and diners hung delicately on individual clothes hangers like formal wear. The desk in his study was empty, except for the manuscript I found in one of the drawers. It was a novel that opened with a deathbed scene, in which family members gathered at the protagonists bedside and took turns making tearful expressions of guilt.

Once, while vacuuming the base of a corner shelf that held a collection of commemorative snow globes, I found a wallet-size photo of a woman clipped to a death certificate. She wore pearl earrings and had light brown hair and nice eyes. The cause of death was listed as murder. Upstairs, on the mantle in the main living space, where one might have placed a wedding photograph, I found a letter from Mayor Giuliani expressing his condolences to the families of September 11 victims.

I was gently wiping a porcelain Bo Peep figurine on the mantelpiece near the death certificate when my elbow knocked a glass candlestick. It fell to the floor and shattered. I was supposed to call the boss if anything like this ever happened, but I panicked and swept the pieces into a miniature dustpan I found leaning against the fireplace. The candlestick had been small and forgettable, about the size and colour of a juice glass. The dustpan, however, was curiously clean so clean that I suddenly realised that it, too, was probably decorative.

I called the musician friend who had got me the job. I broke something, I said. What do I do?

Ah, he said. You absolutely have to call her right now.

I broke something, I blurted when the owner of the cleaning company picked up her mobile phone.

“Don’t move, I’ll be there in 10,” she said. Like a superhero, she was already in the neighbourhood. When she arrived she slid noiselessly inside and scanned the room with wild eyes, as if expecting to see a dead body. When she saw the candlestick, she relaxed.

“Eh,” she said, nudging a shard. This is probably the least expensive thing he owns.

Illustration
Illustration courtesy of Emiliano Ponzi, Sunrise Hotel exhibition, Wunderkammer, Rome 2012 Illustration: Emiliano Ponzi

The boss had worked on Wall Street and left to give herself more time to work on her art. But I got the feeling that the cleaning business, originally intended as a lucrative side gig, had consumed her life accidentally. She didnt like leaving her apartment in Harlem, and so communicated mainly by all-caps text message. WHERE ARE YOU, CLIENT FURIOUS, shed write.

Despite her background in finance, her way with money was strange. She had me collect cash payments from my clients, which Id tote around for weeks in an envelope before shed meet me to collect her share. Shed retrieve the money at irregular intervals, arranging to meet in various Borders bookstores. She called it doing money. MEET ME TO DO MONEY, she would text. I’M IN THE CHILDREN’S SECTION.

When I arrived at the specified Borders, she would be sitting in a child-size chair. I’d squat beside her while she recited my jobs by neighbourhood tallying the fees as she went. She divided the bills into shaky towers, one for me and one for her, which she balanced on either knee.

One day I planned to meet her to DO MONEY, but at the last minute she texted to ask if we could meet somewhere else. She was at a garden-level apartment near Central Park, she told me. “I hardly ever do this,” she confessed, “But Im cleaning it.”

When I arrived, she was giving the place some finishing touches. A friend of mine who works for me was supposed to do this, but she couldnt finish, she offered as we ascended to the street. Shes a painter too. Another painter-slash-maid? As we rounded the corner on the way to the train, she stopped and asked me pointedly if I was still dancing. I told her yes, I was taking classes in my spare time.

“And are you going to dance right now?” she asked.

“Not now,” I said, indicating my large bucket of cleaning supplies.

“But you are going soon?”

I told her I would be going later, maybe tomorrow.

“Oh, good,” she said, as though shed been afraid I might stop.


It was hard not to be jealous of my clients, especially those who pursued casual artistic careers from the soundproof comfort of their carpeted Manhattan apartments. One of my clients was a flautist who stored bins of catalogued sheet music in transparent containers. The second time I cleaned for her, she offered me pancakes. When I told her, between bites, that I wanted to be a dancer she nodded slowly, weighing my words without surprise.

I didn’t have a maid’s uniform, but we were supposed to wear green (an environmental colour), so I wore a bowling shirt my boyfriend had once favoured for barmitzvahs. When I wasnt cleaning, I sported the white-shirt-and-jeans ensemble favoured by young women who don’t have very much money but aspire to some kind of recognisable style. My clients wardrobe excesses made me giddy with desire, especially the mounds of expensive purchases they left on the floor to collect cat hair and dust.

I knew dimly that I might gain advantages by befriending my wealthier clients, but I wasnt sure what kind and I was nervous about seeming phony. I’d occasionally sense that a strange door was open to me: not to friendship, exactly, but to some sort of benevolent leeching, or simply the opportunity to be liked. But when one of my clients offhandedly complimented my shoes, I could barely say thank you.

My clients other employees seemed confident and sassy, unapologetic about their opportunism. They belonged to another rank of professional service work comprising somehow essential people who wore beautiful clothes and moved confidently in and out of their own bedrooms, which were adjacent to those of their bosss kids. Very wealthy people were rarely home, and often Id interact solely with this kind of staff. Many affected warm proxy personalities that were chummy and distant, like teachers. Theyd appear suddenly, brushing by to snap a bureau door shut, bearing a credit card and pen, and flash me a knowing, toothy smile, as though my presence in the house had been arranged for my benefit and was somehow fun for me. They’d disappear just as quickly. Once, while cleaning a three-storey brownstone with shellacked black walls, like the sides of a limousine, I accidentally leaned against the glass of a fish tank behind a cocktail bar and pushed open a secret door. Inside was a cramped office where three or four manicured women, all talking on BlackBerrys, turned to look at me.

Later, one of them materialised beside me with her business card. It was printed on heavy cardstock and embossed with the shape of her eyeglasses. Her title was Organiser. I was a waitress around the corner, and we used to see each other a lot, she told me of her relationship with the owner. We got to talking, and I realised it would be great for me to just come and be here full-time! I had just cleaned her living quarters, which were decorated with the same woven grass rugs and scented candles used in the master bathroom. Just a tip! she said.

I felt a different kind of envy when cleaning houses of girls my age. They never seemed to notice that we were peers, or if they did, the information didnt seem to embarrass them the way it did me. In their homes I felt the way I did in college, only more intensely: deeply curious about the nice things my wealthier friends owned, which manifested as a kind of hunger for tactile access. I took my shoes off so I could feel the calfskin of their rugs; I pressed my fingernails into the creamy leather of their boots.


Inevitably, when I was alone or unseen, I slacked off. I didnt do more than I was paid to do, and I didnt go overboard for clients who didnt tip. Whenever suspicious customers double-checked my work at the end of the day, instead of passively trailing them through the apartment I would argue convincingly against their complaints, maintaining that the stench we could both smell in the freezer had indeed been eliminated by my baking soda rinse.

“Was that scratch there before?” a client might ask, fingering the stovetop.

“Yes,” I’d say, and look her right in the eye until she started talking about something else.

I learned to confront filth with an unblinking expression. I treated all surfaces the same, as though the detachable seat of a bedpan covered in an unidentifiable spatter was no different from the front door of a new fridge.

One day a client answered the door in a pantsuit, midconference call, and waved me into the bathroom. She’d asked for special attention there, and this was why: all the bathrooms surfaces bath, sink, and floor were obscured by several inches of soiled cat litter. She must have been dumping new bags of it straight on to the floor. I spent several hours loosening urine-soaked clods of litter from the tub and matted tufts of hair from the sink drain. As I vacuumed away the last bits of clay, I found an elegant dangling earring hugging the back of the toilet bowl.

Under her bed, beside a nest of strappy sandals, I found a small island of petrified little cat nuggets. Another nugget tumbled off the end of the bed when I adjusted the covers. I picked it up in my hand and began a pile in the corner of the apartment, taking the turd pile with me to the trash compactor on my way out.

People with appalling habits were interesting, at least. And being around them made me feel observant, as though their eccentricity made them readable, although of course it did not it just made them easier to reduce to type. When I first encountered characters, I was delighted: the anti-anxiety prescriptions poking out of the pockets of fur coats were like movies Id seen coming to life. But on the whole, of course , my clients were more complicated than that, and more ordinary.


After I had finished cleaning, I’d hurry to the evening dance class, wedging my arm through the hard plastic handle so my cleaning bucket sat against my side like a giant handbag. At the studio, I stowed it under one of the church pews that lined the dressing room.

The studio was large, beautiful, and more than a little run-down. Often Id find myself casing it like a new clean, squinting down at the grey rubber flooring and wondering whether a wet or dry mop would be best. The studio walls were lined on both sides with fickle windows, which would either stick open, unbudgeable, or fly shut with a nasty bang at the slightest touch. The views Greenwich Village on one side, the Hudson on the other were as beautiful as the ones from my clients apartments.


On my last job, I didn’t even clean. The client lived in the basement level of a pet-friendly apartment complex. The smell of dog grew stronger as I approached her doorway: sweet and stinky, like microwaved peas. When I knocked, several dogs threw their large bodies in a rhythmic, anxious way against the door, making it shudder. No one came. I banged on the door again; the dogs banged back. Finally, I heard the sounds of unlocking, and the door opened. A womans face peeked out over the security chain. She looked bleary, as though I’d woken her. Her body jolted back and forth as the dogs bumped her legs, but she didnt seem to notice. She wouldnt let me in. I stood in the sunshine outside, not knowing what to say. “I’m sorry,” I wrote to my boss in a text message. The dogs were making it impossible for me to communicate.

During the spring, my dance studio held a week-long workshop. It involved learning a piece of choreography from one of the companys former dancers and performing it at a recital. If I attended the workshop, which I wanted badly to do, I wouldnt be able to clean for a week.

I met the boss in person to ask for the time off.

You want to do a workshop, she echoed dully.

I nodded. She gave me a cool look. I realised that I had no idea how many other employees she had. For all I knew, shed end up doing my cleans herself.

“Well,” she said, “I guess you’d better go.”

The week of the workshop, the Eyjafjallajkull volcano erupted in Iceland. A plume of ash blew across the continent, grounding flights for days. The instructor, who was on tour with the dance company, couldnt leave the south of France. The company sent pictures of themselves to the studios administrative offices, smiling and sunbathing on the beach, raising frosty drinks to the camera. Were stranded, ha ha, the email said. I wrote the boss my own email, begging for my cleaning days to be rescheduled, but she never replied.

Illustrations courtesy of Emiliano Ponzi, Sunrise Hotel exhibition, Wunderkammer, Rome 2012

This is an adapted version of an essay from the new issue of n+1. To find out more, visit nplusonemag.com/subscribe

Follow the Long Read on Twitter at @gdnlongread, or sign up to the long read weekly email here.

  • This piece was amended on 28 September to remove an inconsistency. An earlier version of the piece stated that the author never accepted food or drink from clients. This has been amended to rarely.

Read more: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/sep/28/what-the-cleaner-saw-manhattan-new-york

Mike Pence introduced as Trump’s vice-president pick after days of uncertainty

At a Manhattan event held a day late after the Nice terror attack, the candidate lauds Indiana governor despite reports he had preferred Chris Christie

After a week of uncharacteristic hesitation and second-guessing, Donald Trump formally introduced the Indiana governor, Mike Pence, as his vice-presidential running mate on Saturday.

The event, at the Hilton Hotel in midtown Manhattan, was crafted not only as a curtain-raiser for the Republican national convention that begins in Cleveland on Monday but also as an opportunity to make a virtue of the differences between the politically inexperienced, ideologically freewheeling candidate and Pence, an unflappable conservative with evangelical Christian credentials and experience in office inside and outside of Washington.

The event itself, however, was not particularly slick. After a rambling introduction from Trump, which touched on well-worn campaign talking points as well as the Nice terror attack and the failed coup attempt in Turkey, Pence mentioned getting the call from Trump on Wednesday.

The phrase was somewhat jarring. Trump announced his selection of Pence on Friday. He was, however, reported to have long hesitated and hedged over the pick, almost up to the moment it was made official.

The billionaire was reportedly leaning toward the New Jersey governor Chris Christie, only to be persuaded by his children and his campaign chairman, Paul Manafort, to follow not gut instinct but political pragmatism. Trumps children had previously preferred the former House speaker Newt Gingrich.

Manafort has strongly rejected reports that the candidate considered changing his mind.

Never waffled once he made his decision, he wrote in an email cited by a number of media outlets.

The Clinton campaign seized on Trumps apparent indecision, however, releasing a web video entitled: Always divisive. Not so decisive.

The choice was aided by chance: Trumps plane burst a tire in Indianapolis, forcing him to spend more time with Pence in his home state.

On Saturday, Trump called Pence a man of character, honor and honesty and a solid, solid person.

He and Pence were the the law and order candidates, he said, adding that a Trump administration would be far tougher on foreign and domestic terrorism than a White House under his Democratic opponent, Hillary Clinton. Pence would also help him restore manufacturing jobs and protect religious freedom, he said.

Donald
Donald Trump and Mike Pence appear with family members. Photograph: Jason Szenes/EPA

In words likely to be welcomed by evangelical supporters of Pence who signed and then amended a controversial religious freedom law in Indiana in 2015 Trump said he would follow the Republican policy platform and seek to repeal the Johnson amendment in the IRS tax code. The amendment prohibits not-for-profit tax-exempt entities, including religious organisations, from taking political positions without risk of losing their tax exempt status.

Were going to let the people of faith speak, Trump said. The people who live in fear that theyre going to lose their tax exempt status. Religion is going to have a voice because it has been taken away. Were going to bring it back.

Trump said Pences selection was partially driven by a desire to promote party unity, and said he was happy to learn that the Republican Never Trump movement against him had been crushed this week, ahead of the convention.

Following Trump, Pence praised the candidates pledges to repeal Obamacare, revive the coal industry and toughen the nations immigration policy. He also invoked his small-town roots.

I am deeply humbled and thank God for his amazing grace, Pence said. These are good people and Donald Trump gets it. Who am I, oh Lord, to have been brought this far? Im a small town boy from southern Indiana who has a front row seat to the American dream.

Neither Trump nor Pence made note of their policy differences. The Indiana governor has been an advocate of trade deals such as Nafta and the Trans-Pacific Partnership, which Trump opposes, and has also criticized Trumps proposed temporary ban on foreign Muslims entering the US, calling the idea offensive and unconstitutional.

In his remarks, Trump said he had been impressed by Pences leadership in Indiana, singling out the states balanced budget, job growth and education reforms. He made no mention of his own controversial decision to postpone his introduction of Pence, originally scheduled for Friday, after the Bastille Day truck attack in Nice.

Weve witnessed the Islamic horror beyond belief, he said, and believe me, thats going to change. Mike Pence will never be afraid to shout the name of our enemy: radical Islam.

Trumps introduction of Pence was preceded by blasts of the Rolling Stones hit You Cant Always Get What You Want. The pair may also come to reconsider their campaigns other pre-event music: the fast section of a track by Elton John.

For one thing, the British musician is, with spouse David Furnish, parent to two young children an arrangement the evangelical, anti-gay marriage Pence would certainly oppose.

Furthermore, the song in question has a title that could prove awkward if the Trump-Pence ticket fails to generate the necessary campaign-trail chemistry: Funeral for a Friend.

Read more: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/jul/16/mike-pence-donald-trump-vice-president-announcement

Jessa Crispin: ‘We’re not allowed to say the Paris Review is boring’

The editor of Bookslut, which shut down last week, talks to the Guardian about the current state of American literature and its attendant frustrations

A couple of weeks ago, Jessa Crispin shut her longstanding book review site, Bookslut, down. Fourteen years after shed founded it, she told me at a Brooklyn coffee shop last week, she was feeling like she could not keep up the administrative duties required. She was personally exhausted, too.

Theres only so long that you can be the crank, before thats just who you are, Crispin said. Where youre wearing eight hats at the same time and three coats, drinking malt and yelling through the window of the Greenlight Bookstore [in Fort Greene, Brooklyn], Youre all a bunch of frauds!

Crispin laughed as she said that, self-aware about her reputation. All that week, shed been getting online aftershocks because shed been interviewed by New York Magazines Vulture website. I just dont find American literature interesting, went one quote. I find MFA culture terrible was another. This ruffled some (American and/or MFA-holding) feathers.

Yet to longtime readers of Crispins site, these criticisms came as no surprise. Crispin has rarely minced words about the publishing industrys priorities. She told me that it was the professional version of literature that bothers her now, versus what literature actually is. She can reel off a list of writers she currently finds exciting Kathryn Davis, Daphne Gottlieb, Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore with ease. These days she is more into nonfiction, though its not usually the popular sort of personal essay that currently has her hooked. Its academic stuff, big tomes about William James or other weird topics.

Big publishers have stopped doing intellectually ambitious nonfiction, she explained. And so those writers are now on academic presses.

When Crispin started Bookslut back in May 2002, the internet was still a wide-open space. If you were passionate about something, you simply set up shop as a blogger and went for it. For Crispin, then a Planned Parenthood employee in Texas far from the center of literary publishing in New York, that something was books. She and her friends simply organized themselves and started writing about their obsessions.

Early Bookslut pieces tended to be quite short, and often they were written in the direct vernacular style of writers still finding themselves. James Joyce is seen as being impenetrable, incomprehensible, and just plain obtuse, reads one early piece on How to Throw a Bloomsday party having fallen in love with Ulysses when forced to read it for a James Joyce class, I tend to disagree. But as Bookslut grew and flourished, the opinions and the subjects became more complex alongside the language. The result is a reading diary that tracks not only Crispins own reading and writing but that of a host of contributors she had on the site. In recent years youd more commonly find lesser-known writers like Sallie Tisdale or works in translation under review or interview there.

Booksluts sensibility extended nicely from its beginnings as an outsider. It can be a bit hard to remember now, but as little as 10 years ago, book reviewing was still a province largely restricted to daily newspapers. Amazon reviews had only recently come to the fore. The average reader was rarely heard from. And authors were just beginning to dip their toe into the water of those opinions. Blogs are like reports from a far-flung world, one writer told the New York Times back then, in a remark that already seems quaint.

But within a few years, book blogs became increasingly professional-looking. They were also increasingly well-regarded by writers and newspaper editors alike. Like Bookslut, though, they were still only very occasionally profitable for the people who ran then.

The influence of those blogs is hard to parse, because often they reflected the idiosyncrasies of their creators rather than industry priorities. Book blogs did not respond to the general priorities of American readers, either, who tend to read more potboilers than literary fiction. They were passion projects, done for the love and with little eye to marketing priorities. And while many book bloggers went on to become critics and novelists, it was usually not the case that they scored high-profile or lucrative book deals.

Crispin is an illustrative example. It is only in the last two years that the industry shed written about for so long seemed interested in giving her work. She has published two books in the last 18 months. One was an introduction to tarot, long an interest of Crispins, for Touchtone books, a Simon & Schuster imprint. The other was a more personal project, a memoir for the University of Chicago Press called The Dead Ladies Project. Right now, for the small literary press Melville House, she is writing a book on feminism. Though that may sound like success, none of these book deals have made her rich.

In fact Crispins long run at Bookslut, where she did basically what she wanted, gave her a vision into the world of publishing that made her ill. She would open Bookforum, for example, she said, and find it reviewing only a certain set of books. As things get kind of more chaotic for publications, she said. They get narrower and narrower and more elite and nepotistic. It bothered her that the industry thought of itself as being intellectually honest when it was obsessed with money and celebrity.

She began to think of Bookslut as a kind of alternative to the literary scene. If you could just pretend like the scene didnt exist, she said. Thats how I was combating it. Increasingly Bookslut became a home for writers on more obscure work, and eschewed the usual conversation-grabbers. To get away from it all Crispin moved, for awhile, to Berlin, which she said was a nice cushion from conventional book chatter.

Staying outside of that mainstream, Crispin said, had some professional costs. We didnt generate people that are now writing for the New Yorker, Crispin said. If we had, I would have thought that we were failures anyway. Shes bored by the New Yorker. In fact, of the current crop of literary magazines, she said only the London Review of Books currently interested her, especially articles by Jenny Diski or Terry Castle. Of the New Yorker itself, she said: Its like a dentist magazine.

Crispins general assessment of the current literary situation is fairly widely shared in, of all places, New York. It is simply rarely voiced online. Writers, in an age where an errant tweet can set off an avalanche of op-eds more widely read than the writers actual books, are cautious folk.

And Crispin cant stand the way some of these people have become boosters of the industry just at the moment of what she sees as its decline. I dont know why people are doing this, but people are identifying themselves with the system, Crispin said. So if you attack publishing, they feel that they are personally being attacked. Which is not the case.

Its not that she doesnt understand these writers reasoning. Everything is so precarious, and none of us can get the work and the attention or the time that we need, and so we all have to be in job-interview mode all of the time, just in case somebody wants to hire us, Crispin added. So were not allowed to say, The Paris Review is boring as fuck! Because what if the Paris Review is just about to call us? The freedom from such questions is something Crispin personally cherishes.

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/may/09/jessa-crispin-bookslut-publishing-new-york-literature

Categories

Coursera

New Skills, New You: Transform your career in 2016 with Coursera

Likes

Follow us on Twitter