The Final Solution: On Shithole Countries

If there is good in every bad happenstance, at least insofar as they are all potential learning opps, then let’s try to look on the bright side of the current furor over Donald’s Trump’s speech and in particular his use of the term “shithole countries.” To begin with this is an era in which speech is increasingly being threatened, particularly in university enclaves. William Deresiewicz’s "On Political Correctness" (American Scholar, Spring, 2017) is an especially nuanced essay that sees the notion of religious dogma lurking under the surface of a supposedly egalitarian impulse. Elites are perpetrating the notion of right ways of thinking and being that run contrary to the essence of liberal education. That’s not to say that crying fire in a crowded theater or in this case hurling racial insults at nations is an example of exercising a right. It’s beyond mere prejudice and one of the worst of many horrible things Trump has done, amongst them pulling out of the Paris Environment Accords and passing a tax bill that blatantly favors the rich. So what's good? The good lies in the fact that The New York Times gets to print “shithole” on the front page. Hopefully Trump will start calling women “cunts” and also threaten to “fuck up” Kim Jong-un so that those words will finally grace the columns of the paper of record. Trump called Senator Elizabeth Warren, “Pocahontas.” But for the sake of the language let’s hope he calls her worse. And let’s not forget “asshole,” “prick” and a host of other forbidden words which will now get their green cards.

Rome Journal: The Nassau Coliseum

Everyone goes to Rome to see the ruins. There are of course the famous sites like the Colosseum and the Baths of Caracalla, but  lesser known ones dot practically every neighborhood. If you journey to the outskirts near the Borgata or public housing built in the Mussolini era you will find a splendid contrasts between the juggernaut of machine age uniformity and the grandeur of the past, in Aqueduct Park. Still Rome gives you pause. Anywhere else you go ruins provoke a totally different response. Ruins are a sign of war and poverty (and indeed even the much touted remains of the Eternal City testify to the Fall of Rome). Tourist buses don’t pull up in front of the burnt out sections of Detroit. There are no headsets offered for those who intend to explore the favelas of Rio and come out alive. There's plenty of dilapidated housing, broken down theaters and defunct stadia to discover back home in the U.S.A. Why go all the way to Italy to see ruins? Why not go to the newly renovated Nassau Veterans Memorial Colisseum which used to be the home of the Islanders and the Nets before they moved to Barclays center, if you want to experience the past? Talk about archeology, the once glorious home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, Ebbets Field, is now a housing complex and if you want to see real ruins go up to the Catskills where only ghostly memories remain in the spots where grand resorts like Kutsher's, Grossinger’s and the Concord once reigned supreme.

Rome Journal: The Great Library at Termini

photo: Francis Levy

Not far from Termini, the central train station in Rome, with its ominous sounding name, are a number of sodden green painted wooden bookstalls, of the kind you still see in Paris along the Seine. The only difference is that these are more beaten down and forgotten. Some just sell editions of old paperbacks in all languages, some are devoted to art books, but a few sell pornographic tapes and magazines with titles like Sex Slave. Even in terms of porn the material displayed is the kind of dated stuff that can only be found on old VCR tapes. The purveyors of these goods are the kinds of guys in raincoats who used to haunt the old 42^nd Street peep shows. This lost landscape is really Graham Greene territory. Readers of Brighton Rock might be looking out for the local Pinkie. But in our era of political correctness these stalls may turn out to be the last place on earth that you’ll one day find copies of banned classics like Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer. If the world continues to spin in its current direction, there may, in fact, be an upsurge of traffic to the bookstalls near Termini which will be the last place on earth where free speech still exists. Libraries will only be carrying the sanitized version of Huckleberry Finn.  So if you want to read it in the original, you will have to fly over to Rome where it will be lined up alongside work by other banned authors like Sophocles and Garrison Keillor, whose triggering warnings have given them an X rating. The stalls at Termini may one day rank with Alexandria as one of the great libraries of history.

Rome Journal: The Fast Lane

The collective unconscious of Italy possesses a massive superego known as the Catholic Church. Placing the Vatican City in the middle of Rome is like having power brakes on a high powered car. There's no secret to the fact that the degree of liberalization in a society is inversely proportional to degree to which the so-called pleasure principle may be compromised. Steven Marcus demonstrated this years in ago in his iconic tome, The Other Victorians. Could the profanity, apostasy and lustfulness of Italian society that Americans so covet be the result of having a strong papa or Pope. You can only waiver and test when you're reassured the parent is safely ensconced in home. It’s not surprising that one of the most sacrilegious films of all time, Pasolini’s Salo, a brilliantly lurid take on Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom was made in Italy. And let’s not forget the same director's The Decameron, Bertolucci’s Last Tango or Bellocchio’s Devil in the Flesh. Tourists from more permissive societies should look not only at the hedonism of antiquity in trying to understand the sensuality of Italian society. It’s precisely the oppressive manners and mores of a powerful religion that allows the populace to go nuts.

Rome Journal: A Taxi Ride

Mussolini and Hitler in Berlin (photo: Ladislav Luppa)

An otherwise innocent taxi ride can turn into a hijacking. On a recent afternoon in Rome, a tourist decided to grab the first cab he saw because of a one day strike which had shut down the buses and subways. The driver wasn’t familiar with the address and there was some back and forth as he failed to get the name right and find it on his Google maps. Finally the driver found it and the tourist lay back feeling he had made the right decision in taking a cab rather than trying to walk to his destination in the light rain, which had begun to fall. He’d relax and watch the scenery which consisted of the Aracoeli Steps and the Colosseum. But just as he lay his head against the window, the driver started to talk. The tourist knew a few words of Italian, yet he strained to understand the argument which was that the Germans were responsible for the strike that was occurring. The price of gas had gone up for Italians and it was from what the tourist could make out the German's fault. As they rode along the Tiber, the driver then commented that “gli Ebrei,” were the ones to blame. It just so happened that at this very moment the cab was passing a synagogue and the driver pointed to it indignantly to underscore his point. The tourist being a Jew wasn’t sure exactly what to do. Italy had a history of fascism and there were still fascists in the country, the way France still had its apologists for Petain. “Where are you from?” the driver asked in English. “Sono Ebreo di Manhattan,” the passenger replied.  There was a pregnant pause. “Non sono razzista,” the driver said with a shrug. His passenger wasn’t sure what to say and not  being able to remember the Italian word “pace” simply said “peace.” The driver looked nonplussed. Fate L’amore non fate la Guerra. The 60’s expression came back as the cab reached its destination. The tourist paid his 10 Euro fare and slipped away into the night.