Liars and Saints

 When I think of the circus, I think of the amazingly tasteless musical "Side Show," which assigns these lyrics to conjoined twins: I will never leave you! I will never go away. We were meant to share this moment. Beside you is where I will stay! To its credit, the Ringling Museum in Florida doesn't shy away from the troubling history of the Side Show. There is an ad for "Bird Girl," whose posture resembles the posture of a penguin. There is also a gigantic man, a woman with unusually long hair, a photo of (yes) conjoined twins, a bearded lady, a three-legged man. When the circus was most popular, in or around the 1930s, you, a performer, would travel all over the country (staying for one day in each new spot with few exceptions). You would eat your meals in a tent. And you would share transit accommodations with aerialists, clowns, lion tamers, strongmen, tightrope walkers. The Ringling has a special alcove that describes the training of clowns and distinguishe...

  "Like Father, Like Clown" is a beautiful episode from the third season of "The Simpsons." It's one of only three cases in history in which a guest actor won an Emmy for a "Simpsons" voiceover (a performance by Jackie Mason as Hyman Krustofsky). The episode rewrites Paul's famous monologue from the climax of "A Chorus Line." A young man has a taboo interest--an interest in clowning. His imperious father, the rabbi, says that the interest must die. The boy Herschel locks himself in the bathroom--we think he is masturbating--but a violent act destroys the lock. (Nothing onanistic was happening; Herschel was just trying to teach himself how to juggle.) Later, in the Catskills, Herschel paints his face white; attending a rabbinical conference, Hyman doesn't recognize the clown. A bucket of water falls from on high; the makeup is washed away. Hyman understands that he is looking at his son, and a rupture occurs. The reconciliation is sill...

 Yesterday, I was in a small hot tub; I watched as a ten-year-old boy slowly and deliberately spat a wad of mucus into the tub. This kid's father was distracted. Surely, the act wouldn't happen again? Then it happened again. Before I could stop myself, I was interceding. I sternly announced that there was to be no spitting in the hot tub. The father observed none of this. Later, my husband spotted the father pointing at me. Perhaps there would be a physical altercation! But--to his relief--Marc saw that the father was not notably mobile. We could outrun him. All this interested me for a few reasons. Had I been impetuous--speaking directly to the kid and not to his parent? What if the father had *sanctioned* the spitting? Did my spouse really think that an altercation could be in the cards? And what was going on in the kid's head? Was the spitting a cry for help (as in the little Spatafore's public pooping incident at the end of "The Sopranos")? This is what I ...

 One reservation that people have with regard to contemporary literary fiction is that characters will not "make a scene." There is a mildness, a quietness, that does not lead to explosive conflict. For this reason, many readers turn to "young adult" novels. "Sunrise on the Reaping" has a terrific central figure: Plutarch Heavensbee, a kind of journalist who stages tearful moments for the entertainment of the masses. He makes an error and loses footage of a family breakup; he then offers the family extra minutes of togetherness if they will cry on camera for him. (The writer Suzanne Collins was inspired in part by reality TV. When we watch someone get her hopes crushed on "The Bachelor," what are we really doing?) Elsewhere, a "tribute" in the Hunger Games confesses that he has previously organized betting pools around the games. He has profited when certain children have died. Now, he suspects that his own family is placing bets agains...

  Rachel Aviv wrote a wonderful piece in "The New Yorker" about Alice Munro. Among the revelations: *Munro was raped. She didn't report the rape. She threatened her assailant with an idea for a short story about the incident--and I think the two never spoke again. *After Munro sabotaged her own relationship with her daughter, she still collected stories about the daughter (via another family member). She would then insert herself into the stories and present them to her editor, Dan Menaker; in Munro's retelling, Munro herself would be (magically) at the kitchen table as her estranged grandchild performed his various tricks. *When Munro's husband was outed in court, Munro made plans to live with a family friend. When she realized that the scandal would not become international news, she stayed with her husband. The planned matrimonial rupture had been just a face-saving effort--bread and a circus for the masses. Thinking about Munro, I've returned to the story ...

  It's said that "The Simpsons" has the success it has because of its twin subjects: family and folly. There will always be family; there will always be folly. We will always feel an interesting ambivalence toward our blood relations. We will always behave in silly ways. And so there will always be "The Simpsons." My son has a behavioral coach who visits on Tuesdays. I find this person well-intentioned and somewhat exasperating. She has built a career on challenging the gospel of potty training--the gospel that says, "Your child must display curiosity and readiness before you begin the process." The behavioral coach says, "Nope. Not true." The coach's prodding so deeply irritates my son, he has started to shut her out. He isn't subtle. "Go away," he says, when she arrives. "Bye! Bye now!" Sometimes, he holds up a hand and says, "Stop talking. If you talk, I'm going to hit you." Once, the coach suggest...