"The Journalist and the Murderer," by Janet Malcolm. This is one of my all-time favorite books. It concerns a case in which a convicted murderer, Jeff MacDonald, went after his biographer, a loathsome man called Joe McGinnis. The problem was that McGinnis had led MacDonald to believe all was well; MacDonald thought he would get a sympathetic profile from McGinnis; the actual profile, an attack on MacDonald, came as a shock.
Malcolm uses this case to examine *all* journalism. Isn't there something weird about an interview? Isn't the writer looking to pierce through the subject's self-presentation and get at an actual, unflattering truth? (Famously, one of Malcolm's subjects, in this book, says, "I teach at a low-income university because it's noble; I could be at Harvard or Yale, but that wouldn't make as much of an impact." Malcolm can't let this pass. "Did you get offers from Harvard and Yale?" Immediately, the subject realizes he has "hanged himself." No other moment from the entirety of the interview will stay lodged in your memory.)
Motives are often mixed; a person can both love and hate another person; if we're being honest, we'd have to admit we're rarely, if ever, purely virtuous. Malcolm knows this. She makes us see this. She makes us want to be a bit more serious and intelligent in our daily lives. Also, in this book, there's the great side-act of the actual murder, the actual mystery: Did Jeff MacDonald really do the unspeakable and infamous thing that he continues to claim *not* to have done?
"Where the God of Love Hangs Out," by Amy Bloom. I enjoy reading these stories by my old teacher because she spots moments where people "betray" themselves. For example, in the title story, an elderly man in love with a local coffee-shop proprietress accidentally confesses his love, in an odd way. He tells the proprietress that her scones have "Dunkin' beat all to hell." The proprietress: "Thanks." But then, the protagonist, to his own surprise: "I suppose the coffee could be better, though." (Because he loves this woman, he wants her to succeed in her business. He is risking hurt feelings to help her succeed in her business.) The woman protests: "The coffee is great. Locally famous. People come here specifically for the coffee." And, in her doth-protest-too-much forcefulness, we get the impression that the proprietress, at least on one level, recognizes the truth in what her antagonist is saying.
Elsewhere, in the story, a young woman goes to a creative writing retreat and helps an aging male friend who can't help writing about male butt-cheeks "like ball bearings." "Darling," says the new friend, later, "I'm secretly homosexual." And, once again, there's comedy in the gap between how we want to be seen--and how we're actually seen.
"Bad Blood," by John Carreyrou. I wrote about this a few hours ago, but in case you're wondering, I'm still obsessed. I really wish the author had taken more time to consider where "the other side" (Holmes's side) was coming from. Which is not to say he needed to sympathize with Holmes. But there's a kind of cartoon-villain quality at play here. At the end, the author says that "a sociopath is someone without a conscience," and he clearly wants us to conclude that Holmes is a sociopath. But, as Janet Malcolm has observed, this isn't really helpful. It's like taking a mess and hiding it under the bed. You haven't actually addressed the problem; you've simply moved the problem. You've pushed the undesirable mashed potatoes all over so that they are spread out on your plate (but they're still on your plate). Using the term "sociopath" doesn't actually explain the problem of human evil. It doesn't really tell us where the evil came from. It doesn't help with complex questions about nature and nurture. It doesn't help us to know how an "evil" person--or a person who has done evil things--should be handled in society.
It seems likely that tonight's show, "The Inventor," will get into Holmes's mental and emotional life more deeply. (One hopes.)
Also, I love that Holmes blamed criticism of her work on "sexism"--and I wonder what kind of role gender will play in tonight's show. Clearly, there's speculation that Holmes's "baritone" voice is an affectation--a way of courting deference in a male-dominated tech world. The author of "Bad Blood" is interested in telling a propulsive story, and so he doesn't often stop for speculation. But I'd love to hear more about how Holmes's gender influenced her career, and how she thought about her gender "behind closed doors."
Malcolm uses this case to examine *all* journalism. Isn't there something weird about an interview? Isn't the writer looking to pierce through the subject's self-presentation and get at an actual, unflattering truth? (Famously, one of Malcolm's subjects, in this book, says, "I teach at a low-income university because it's noble; I could be at Harvard or Yale, but that wouldn't make as much of an impact." Malcolm can't let this pass. "Did you get offers from Harvard and Yale?" Immediately, the subject realizes he has "hanged himself." No other moment from the entirety of the interview will stay lodged in your memory.)
Motives are often mixed; a person can both love and hate another person; if we're being honest, we'd have to admit we're rarely, if ever, purely virtuous. Malcolm knows this. She makes us see this. She makes us want to be a bit more serious and intelligent in our daily lives. Also, in this book, there's the great side-act of the actual murder, the actual mystery: Did Jeff MacDonald really do the unspeakable and infamous thing that he continues to claim *not* to have done?
"Where the God of Love Hangs Out," by Amy Bloom. I enjoy reading these stories by my old teacher because she spots moments where people "betray" themselves. For example, in the title story, an elderly man in love with a local coffee-shop proprietress accidentally confesses his love, in an odd way. He tells the proprietress that her scones have "Dunkin' beat all to hell." The proprietress: "Thanks." But then, the protagonist, to his own surprise: "I suppose the coffee could be better, though." (Because he loves this woman, he wants her to succeed in her business. He is risking hurt feelings to help her succeed in her business.) The woman protests: "The coffee is great. Locally famous. People come here specifically for the coffee." And, in her doth-protest-too-much forcefulness, we get the impression that the proprietress, at least on one level, recognizes the truth in what her antagonist is saying.
Elsewhere, in the story, a young woman goes to a creative writing retreat and helps an aging male friend who can't help writing about male butt-cheeks "like ball bearings." "Darling," says the new friend, later, "I'm secretly homosexual." And, once again, there's comedy in the gap between how we want to be seen--and how we're actually seen.
"Bad Blood," by John Carreyrou. I wrote about this a few hours ago, but in case you're wondering, I'm still obsessed. I really wish the author had taken more time to consider where "the other side" (Holmes's side) was coming from. Which is not to say he needed to sympathize with Holmes. But there's a kind of cartoon-villain quality at play here. At the end, the author says that "a sociopath is someone without a conscience," and he clearly wants us to conclude that Holmes is a sociopath. But, as Janet Malcolm has observed, this isn't really helpful. It's like taking a mess and hiding it under the bed. You haven't actually addressed the problem; you've simply moved the problem. You've pushed the undesirable mashed potatoes all over so that they are spread out on your plate (but they're still on your plate). Using the term "sociopath" doesn't actually explain the problem of human evil. It doesn't really tell us where the evil came from. It doesn't help with complex questions about nature and nurture. It doesn't help us to know how an "evil" person--or a person who has done evil things--should be handled in society.
It seems likely that tonight's show, "The Inventor," will get into Holmes's mental and emotional life more deeply. (One hopes.)
Also, I love that Holmes blamed criticism of her work on "sexism"--and I wonder what kind of role gender will play in tonight's show. Clearly, there's speculation that Holmes's "baritone" voice is an affectation--a way of courting deference in a male-dominated tech world. The author of "Bad Blood" is interested in telling a propulsive story, and so he doesn't often stop for speculation. But I'd love to hear more about how Holmes's gender influenced her career, and how she thought about her gender "behind closed doors."
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