Archive for the ‘Books’ Category

Lecterns on wheels

August 13, 2026

They bring me reference volumes for work in progress, allowing me to hold them open on the lectern itself.

My reference works are mostly big heavy volumes, very hard for my disabled hands to cope with at all. Lifting them is a problem in itself. Then I used to have a space on my worktable, in front of my tv, where they could lie open, right next to my computer’s keyboard, to the pages I needed. But that space had to be used as the phone center for my home office, so more complex measures were required. From an office supply company, lecterns on wheels.

Oh dear, now you’re entertaining fantasies of crazy-eyed mad professors zooming around dusty lecture halls, all jazzed up on their turbo-charged lecterns — bumper cars for the academic elite.  Sadly, the excellent Interion mobile podium / lectern from Global Industrial (which mostly provides heavy-duty industrial office supplies) moves slowly but majestically; it was just what I wanted, and I needed two of them, one for each of two bookish rooms. They definitely required assembly by a professional — and even so consumed a fair chunk of time for the mechanic — during which I suffered sharp pangs of tool envy, an affliction I am prone to.

But it was done, and here’s the one from the main room of my apartment, with the most-often used reference works installed in convenient places:

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Yesterday’s metromanteau

August 13, 2026

The Wayno / Piraro 8/12 Bizarro: “The Metromorphosis”:


metro- [the libfix, representing the noun metrosexual] + metamorphosis [the abstract noun meaning ‘transformation’] = metromorphosis ‘transformation to metrosexuality’ (if you’re puzzled by the odd symbols in the cartoon — Wayno says there are 4 in this strip — see this Page)

Two contributors:

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Marjane Satrapi

July 26, 2026

In The Economist issue of June 13th, in print; on June 11th on-line:

Obituary: Veil and beard and nuclear weapon
Marjane Satrapi set out to correct the West’s views of Iran
The author of Persepolis, an international sensation, died on June 4th, aged 56

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Sorting

July 24, 2026

After many grueling hours, I now have my books and DVDs sorted into (admittedly eccentric) categories on the bookshelves, in the various places the movers put the shelves. This task creates a series of insoluble puzzles in categorization, which I have been inclined to solve in an assortment of ad hoc ways.

There’s one giant category of linguistic structure, covering phonetics, phonology, morphology, syntax, semantics, and pragmatics, arranged (in a desperate faute de mieux move) alphabetically by author — which is truly not useful, but resists breakup because so many of my interests cut across subareas. Similarly for a giant agglomeration of public-intellectual books, many (but not all) touching on matters of language; this is where you’ll find Geoff Nunberg, Arika Okrent, Steve Pinker, and Ben Yagoda.

Then there are more specialized topic collections: your library probably doesn’t have a subcollection on male prostitution or comics studies, but mine does. I’ve done less breaking down of the DVDs, because there aren’t a great many of them, but that has led to some surprising neighbors — as with the sequence of Marx Brothers movies, then My Neighbor Totoro, and then The Night of the Hunter.

But at least if it’s survived to get here, it’s on the shelves. Somewhere.

 

Small worlds

July 23, 2026

In recent news: the publication (on 7/6) of John D’Emilio’s latest book, Making Gay History: Memoir of a Scholar-Activist (Duke University Press). From Jonathan Ned Katz’s blurb:

a report from the trenches, a history of the struggle to create a history of sexuality, a personal history of political activism, the story of a [AZ: devoutly Catholic] smart boy from the Bronx who made himself into a pioneering, left, feminist, anti-racist gay, public intellectual.

Which prompts me to tell an anecdote about my man Jacques and me — and John D’Emilio. So my tale will of course begin with Larry Kramer, the author of the controversial novel Faggots, but more important to my tale, the founder of ACT UP, the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power, which means that through his ceaseless abrasive hectoring, he changed the world for the better and helped to save untold numbers of lives.

(There are brief accounts of Kramer and D’Emilio in my 7/21 posting “Two celebrated gays”)

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Alpine flora color plates

July 17, 2026

From yesterday, in the posting “nostalgie du ciel’, from an exchange with Hana Filip about nostalgia, with a reference to (from my father, long ago): 

guidebooks [to Alpine flowers], including a Swiss one with gorgeous color plates. Which are now inestimable sources of delight but also symbols of great loss. As you say, nostalgia.

Now, an inventory of my postings about the one with those marvelous illustrations.

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Merest note

July 16, 2026

Managed a shower, with improvised adjustments so I could sit down (though the shower is designed for a standing person) and also cope with a — surprise! — low-flow shower stream. All very edgy.

Then began some attack on the books, which are all mixed up, arranged on shelves in totally new ways in new places. As with pruning my library way down for the move, this requires handling large numbers of heavy books, so that my hands now barely work, cramp up, and hurt like hell. Constantly having to reinvent some new schemes for locating the books so that they’d be most useful and then rework them to fit the spaces I have. Utterly exhausted, barely able to speak. This is going to take many difficult days. Meanwhile, books are piled on the floor, on tables, and so on, while I sort things out. It’s a zoo.

Meanwhile, I’ve accumulated a huge number of fresh posting topics. Life lurches on.

 

Josef K. is summoned to appear

June 23, 2026

From Elizabeth Daingerfield Zwicky (my daughter) on  6/20, completely out of the blue:

Re: Assessment Thursday 10:30: The assessment visit is at the Avant [“a WellQuest Living Community”, offering independent living for seniors in Palo Alto]. All their departments meet you to make sure you’re a fit. I think it takes about an hour. Somebody will take you.

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The disastrous year 2003

June 5, 2026

Every year, for me this day (June 5th) is one of the most emotionally difficult days of the year; it’s my man Jacques Transue’s death day, in the bright early summer of what unfolded as the disastrous year 2003. Jacques died, after all those years of withering through dementia to death; I was crazed with grief (actually, I still am, it never went away, though the sharpest edges have worn down some, they would have had to); and then in November the flesh-eating bacteria came for me, and I just barely survived their onslaught, coming out disabled and disfigured, with almost all of my previous life gone.

Mozart’s disastrous year was 1791 — it’s chronicled in H. C. Robbins Landon’s 1791: Mozart’s Last Year (1988) — and ended with his death in the dark winter, but also embraced great triumphs, notably Die Zauberflöte. (More on Mozart’s last year below.)

I can’t tell you much about 2003 between J’s death in June and the appearance of a painful swelling in my right armpit in November. It’s almost all lost to me. I presumably spent this time in Palo Alto. I know that I was teaching a seminar at Stanford that fall, but I know that only because people have told me about it. My actual memory is blank.

I recall my response shortly after J’s  death, because I wrote some about it in postings on the net: I wept a lot, and raged. At him: how could he have abandoned me like this, how could he have left me, damn him, how could he have just gone and died on me like this? And I sat with the flannel shirts that were heavy with smell of his body and mourned. Now, I fully understood the irrationality of my response, but I also realized that I was, like, the millionth person in the world to react this way; I would endure. Meanwhile, I wept, bitterly.

But sometimes I fall back into that hole. And then I miss Jacques terribly — well, the Jacques who mostly melted away in the 1990s, over 3 decades ago. But still…

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Four difficult childhoods

June 1, 2026

… all fictional, unimaginably different, each one moving in its own way; welcome to the queen of the months, here in the northern hemisphere, where, on this celebratory day, the rabbits — 🐇 🐇 🐇 — come to play

Ir starts with a burlesque of the nursery rhyme “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” in yesterday’s posting “The server’s absurd attentions”, which led Benita Bendon Campbell to Kipling’s heartbreaking short story with that title. That led me to Saki’s black-comic short story “Sredni Vashtar”. And that to Frances Hodgson Burnett’s children’s novel of healing and the overcoming of adversity, The Secret Garden.  Finally, Bergman’s long masterpiece movie, Fanny and Alexander, which pretty much has everything, including some early luminous scenes of  family joy, then wrenching scenes of abuse, and finally horrific dream death made real, freeing the children. (There are two versions, a shorter one made for tv, then the full, epically long, theatrical release. Watching the long version is like packing up your mind and moving to another — fabulous but perilous —  country for some undetermined number of years; it took me several days to recover my bearings.  The only thing I can compare it to is reading García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude.)

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