Thursday, 31 May 2018

Roseanne Barr says 'I'm not a racist' while blaming bigoted tweet on Ambien - ABC News


CBS News

Roseanne Barr says 'I'm not a racist' while blaming bigoted tweet on Ambien
ABC News
Reeling from the cancellation of her hit ABC show, Roseanne Barr took to Twitter today to proclaim "I'm not a racist" despite the uproar over her social media post that has been widely bashed as bigoted.
White House comes out fighting on Roseanne racism rowBBC News
In more furious tweets, Roseanne blames Ambien for racist post, calls out her co-starsNBCNews.com
Roseanne Barr lashes out at "Roseanne" co-starsCBS News
Esquire.com -USA TODAY -Fox News
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Fox News Steamrolls Cable News Competition With Big Win In May ... - Forbes


Forbes

Fox News Steamrolls Cable News Competition With Big Win In May ...
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Fox News Channel grew its audience in May as MSNBC saw small declines, and CNN dropped dramatically.

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Residents allowed back home after landslide near North Carolina's Lake Tahoma dam - NBCNews.com


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Residents allowed back home after landslide near North Carolina's Lake Tahoma dam
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Breaking News Emails. Get breaking news alerts and special reports. The news and stories that matter, delivered weekday mornings. SUBSCRIBE. Thousands of North Carolina residents were allowed to return home Wednesday after a landslide caused by ...
NC dam evacuations canceled after landslide put area in dangerCBS News
WYFF News 4 anchor, photojournalist tragically die when tree falls on SUVWYFF Greenville
Residents allowed back home after landslide near North Carolina's Lake Tahoma damNBCNews.com

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The Fox News alternate reality: the stories it covers obsessively ... - Vox


Vox



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UFOs are suddenly a serious news story — you can thank the guy from Blink-182 for that - Chicago Tribune


Chicago Tribune

UFOs are suddenly a serious news story — you can thank the guy from Blink-182 for that
Chicago Tribune
Remember that wild news in December about a secret Pentagon UFO program? And those grainy military videos showing radar images of unexplained phenomena — white, Tic-Tac-shaped objects that appear to fly at remarkable speeds, at impossible ...

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Ivanka Trump exits White House conference call after questions on ... - CBS News


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Ivanka Trump exits White House conference call after questions on ...
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WASHINGTON -- While the White House press corps has figured out to employ the "listening mode" function for conference calls with reporters, the ...

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Russian Journalist Said To Be Killed Shows Up At News Conference Very Much Alive - NPR


NPR

Russian Journalist Said To Be Killed Shows Up At News Conference Very Much Alive
NPR
A spokeswoman for the Russian Foreign Ministry wrote that it was good news that Babchenko was alive, but said Ukraine had used him as a "propaganda effect." Writing last year in The Guardian, Babchenko described how a Facebook post he had written ...



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New top story on Hacker News: How to Install Tensorflow GPU with CUDA 9.2 for Python on Ubuntu

How to Install Tensorflow GPU with CUDA 9.2 for Python on Ubuntu
6 by Aryal007 | 0 comments on Hacker News.


Virginia man reels in record-breaking catfish with $20 Walmart fishing rod

A Virginia man made the catch of a lifetime on Saturday when he reeled in a 68-pound flathead catfish, beating a state record set nearly 25 years ago.

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Michigan man kicks, punches bear in nose to protect beagle from attack

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Dramatic volcano death: Huge flying stone crushed man in Pompeii, archaeologists discover

The discovery of a skeleton at the famous Pompeii archaeological site in Italy has revealed the gruesome fate that befell one of the ancient victims of the Mount Vesuvius eruption.

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Massive albino peacock on the loose, roaming small village

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The story of 'Manhattanhenge': An NYC phenomenon explained

Let's face it.

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The age of dinosaurs was like a real life 'Game of Thrones'

When you think of dinosaurs, your mind immediately goes to the impressive might of the tyrannosaurus rex or maybe the huge size of the brontosaurus.

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Whale's breathtaking 360-degree breach spin off New Jersey coast captured on video

Captain Mike Formichella was getting ready to pack up his fishing gear last week when he spotted a huge shadow in the water.

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Virgin Galactic's VSS Unity space plane aces 2nd powered test flight

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Exceptionally rare 1,000-year-old mummy found in Peru

Archaeologists have discovered a remarkably well-preserved 1,000-year-old mummy in Peru.

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Sam’s Dream

This piece appears in the LARB Print Quarterly Journal: No. 18,  Genius

To receive the LARB Quarterly Journal, become a member  or  donate here.

¤

 

 

Sam’s Dream

One day there is no day because there is no day
before, no yesterday, then a now, & time, & a cell
divides and you, you are in time, time is in you, as
multiplying now u slip into our stream, or is it u grow
a piece of stream in us, is it flesh or time you grow,
how, is it an American you grow, week 28, when we
are told dreaming begins. Welcome. Truest stranger.
Perhaps one of the last conceived & carried in womb.
Father and mother singular and known. Born of
human body. Not among the perfected ones yet. No. A

mere human, all firsthand knowledge, flying in as if
kindling—natural. The last breath before the first
breath is mystery. Then u burn into gaze, thought,
knowledge of oblivion. Rock yourself. Kick so I can
feel you out here. Push your hands against the
chamber. The world is exhausted. I moisten my lips
and try to remember a song. I have to have a song to
sing you from out here.They say you now hear vividly.
This could have been a paradise my song begins. No,
this is, was, is, never will be again, will be, we hope

desperately wasn’t a dream, maybe in your dream
now there is a clue, can you dream the clue, you who
are dreaming what having had no life to dream of,
dream from—what populates you—bloodflow and
lightswirl, stammering of ventricles, attempts at
motion, absorbings, incompletions, fluidities—do you
have temptation yet, or even the meanwhile—such a
mature duration this meanwhile, how it intensifies
this present—or nevertheless—no beyond of course
in your dream what could be beyond—no

defeat as so far no defeat—cells hum—no partiality
as all grows in your first dream which is the dream of
what you are—is that right—no attempt as there is
no attempting yet—no privacy—I laugh to myself
writing the word—oh look at that word—no
either/or—but yes light filtering-in, root-darknesses,
motion—and the laughter, do you hear it from us out
here, us, can you hear that strain of what we call
sincerity—Oh. Remain unknown. Know no daybreak
ever. Dream of no running from fire, no being shoved

into mass grave others falling over you, dream of no
bot, no capture filter store—no algorithmic memory,
no hope, realism, knowing, no quest-for, selling-of,
accosting violently to have, no lemon-color of the end
of day, no sudden happiness, no suddenly. It is much
bigger, faster—try to hear out—this place you’re
being fired into—other in it—judgment of other
logic, representation, nightmare—how to prepare
you—what do you dream—what must I sing—it says
you cry in there & laugh—out here a late October

rain has started down, soon you shall put your small
hand out & one of us will say slowly and outloud rain
and you will say rain—but what is that on your hand
which falling has come round again in the forever of
again to reach your waiting upturned hand. I look up
now. Clouds drift. Evaporation is a thing. That our only
system is awry a thing. That u will see rains such as I
have never seen a thing. Plain sadness, this hand-knit
sweater, old things, maybe u shall have some of—in
this my song—in my long song not telling u about the 

paradise, abandoning my song of what’s no longer
possible, that song, it is a thing. Oh normalcy, what a
song I would sing you. Child u shall god willing come
out into the being known. First thing will be the
visible
. That’s the first step of our dream, the dream of
here
. You will see motes in light. And lights inside the
light which can go out. A different dark. And spirits,
wind exhaustion a heavy thing attached to you—your
entity—as u enter history and it—so bright, correct,
awake, speaking and crying-out—begins. And all the 

rest begins. Amazing, you were not everything after
all. Out you come into legibility. Difference. Why
shouldn’t all be the same thing?
It’s a thing, says the
stranger nearby, it’s a new thing, this stance this skin
like spandex closing over you, it’s you. A name is
given you. Take it. Can you take it? All seems to be so
overfull at once. Now here it is proffered again, this
sound which is you, do u feel the laving of it down all
over you, coating you, so transparent you could
swear it is you, really you, this Sam, this crumb of life

which suddenly lengthens the minute as it cleans off
something else, something you didn’t know was
there before, and which, in disappearing now, is felt.
The before u. The before. That dream. What was that
dream. There, as if a burning-off of mist, gone where—
not back, where would back be—dried away—a
sweetness going with it—no?—feel it?—I do—I
almost smell it as it is dissolved into the prior by
succession, by events, not raging, not burning, but
going—nothing like the loud blood-rush in the

invisible u & u in with its elasticities, paddlings, nets,
swirls. In this disunion now stretch. Take up space.
You are that place u displace. That falling all round u
is gazing, thinking, attempted love, exhausted love,
everything, or it is everyone, always going and coming
back from some place. They do not stay. They do not
stay
. And then out here circumference. One day you
glimpse it, the horizon line. You are so…surprised.
How could that be. What are we in or on that it stops
there but does not ever stop. They tell u try to feel it 

turn. The sun they will explain to you. The moon.

How far away it all becomes the more you enter. How

thin you are. How much u have to disappear in order

to become. In order to become human. Become Sam.

 

 

¤

Jorie Graham is the author, most recently, of Fast and From The New World (Poems 1976–2014). She lives in Massachusetts and teaches at Harvard.

The post Sam’s Dream appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.



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Blood Will Tell, Part 2: Did Faulty Evidence Doom Joe Bryan?


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Fox News Breaking News Alert

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Suspect charged in death of Tennessee sheriff's deputy

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Tesla in autonomous mode hits parked police carPolice in a Southern California coastal town said that a Tesla in autonomous mode hit a patrol car parked on the side of a road on Tuesday. No one was in the patrol car when the collision took place in the late morning, the Laguna Beach Police Department said in a message posted along with photos on Twitter. "When using Autopilot, drivers are continuously reminded of their responsibility to keep their hands on the wheel and maintain control of the vehicle at all times," a Tesla spokeswoman said in response to an AFP inquiry.




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Small Victories

ALAN PARKS HAS a terrific resume for a first-time novelist. As the creative director of Warner Music UK, he created campaigns for musicians as diverse as New Order and CeeLo Green, and in his role as managing director of 679 Artists he launched numerous careers. Naturally, Bloody January features notable music references and scenes. But as I read the book, it was not Parks’s former career that I thought about — not even when Ziggy Stardust showed up. Instead, I was fixated on his degree: an MA in Moral Philosophy from the University of Glasgow. 

According to the university’s website these days: “In moral philosophy you will consider questions such as the objectivity of morality and the application of ethics to the study of difficult practical problems.” Sure, Bloody January has all the gritty bells and whistles expected of noir, but at the same time its main character, Detective Harry McCoy of the Glasgow Police Force, grapples with the contradictions of morality on a multitude of levels. 

Despite being a classic noir antihero, McCoy is not a predictable guy. His complexity grows alongside the crime he’s charged with solving. It’s 1973, and McCoy is summoned to Barlinnie Prison, where one of the convicts informs him that a girl named Lorna is going to be killed tomorrow. McCoy follows the few vague clues he’s given, but he doesn’t make it to Lorna in time. Given that he sees the shooter, before the kid turns the gun on himself, solving the murder should be straightforward. But the warning at the prison doesn’t sit right with McCoy. Peeling back the layers, McCoy is led to hookers, hustlers, loan sharks, and one of the city’s most prominent and powerful families. Along the way, Parks keeps the prose fluid with some knockout descriptions. My favorite: A woman who has “a face like she was chewing a wasp.”

I talked to Alan Parks about Bloody January, as well as Aleister Crowley, Chinatown, and whodunits via email.

¤

KIM FAY: Noir makes certain demands on a writer. In Bloody January, you maintain many of the genre’s conventions. For example: McCoy’s tormented childhood and his being saddled with an annoying, newbie partner. At other times, the book goes its own way. Were there any tropes you deliberately chose to avoid, or any you wanted to explore in new ways? Were there any you felt a novel like this absolutely could not do without?

ALAN PARKS: The only thing I consciously wanted to avoid was the novel having an arch, bon mot–laced kind of dialogue. I didn’t want to use the kind of overwrought descriptive phrases and metaphors that noir can be a bit fond of. I wanted the dialogue to be realistic and to include humor, to try and reflect the way people really speak to each other.

The book is pretty standard in some ways. Troubled detective, newbie partner, corrupt town. Those are the kind of conventions I like and wanted to include. Once the book is rooted in those you can move off and explore other areas. They are a kind of reassurance as much as anything else, a way of recognizing what the book is.

I also didn’t really want to write a whodunit as such. I always find those books a bit confusing. Either it’s obvious who did it from the beginning or the last few pages are a tortured and convoluted explanation of who the murderer is that often leaves you none the wiser. Or maybe that’s just me.

At the beginning of Bloody January, McCoy arrives at the scene of a murder, just in time to witness the killer shooting himself in the head. As the young man lays dying, McCoy holds his hand, needing “to feel he was some comfort to the boy.” Despite McCoy’s coarse exterior and painfully broken interior, this is not an unusual response for him. His relationships with colleagues, women, and even his enemies are complicated by degrees of empathy. Empathy is not a trait commonly found in noir. What do you feel it can add to the genre?

I think empathy is a vital component. The detective character has to have it, and the reader has to have it for him. Without empathy, or a notion of some sort of depth from the main character, it just becomes increasingly difficult to care what’s going on with him. It was also part of the hope to make the book seem more realistic. Most people do act with empathy in situations similar to the ones McCoy finds himself in. Why should he be any different just because he is a cop?

McCoy’s personal philosophy seems to be based on situational ethics. He walks a fine balance between intentional and unintentional harm. I am thinking of one character whom he accidentally throws to the wolves, and then purposefully injures in the hope of saving him. What appealed to you about creating a character who acts in context rather than from a place of moral certainty?

That is an interesting one. I could say that as a product of a moral philosophy university course taught in the early ’80s, it is programmed in me to see context as a huge factor in moral decisions. Maybe I am just a child of my time. But I would imagine in the realpolitik of a job that involves making decisions about the rightness or wrongness of people’s behavior, the decisions made have to be somewhat contextual.

McCoy believes in what he does, he tries to do what he thinks is the right thing, it’s important to him. His background has taught him the institutions that are supposed to be “right” — the church, the institutions of child care — very often are not. He has no real reason to believe in a given set of moral certainties. Why would he after the childhood he has lived?

At one point in Bloody January, McCoy punches a man: “It was a little victory in a situation where he was never going to get the big one.” This statement captures the book’s refusal to stick with black and white: bad guy caught, bad guy punished, The End. Instead, there are layers of justice. How would McCoy define justice, and does he even believe justice is possible?

I think he would define justice as what he can get. He knows the world is an unequal and unfair place. He is realistic enough to know he will never change that, but he believes small victories are possible and worthwhile. That may not be ideal, but it is enough to keep him going. These small victories are as valuable to his own sense of worth as they are to the people they may help.

As they say at the end of the best film ever made about the moral dimensions of crime, “Forget it, Jake, it’s Chinatown.”

In an article in Scotland’s Sunday Herald, you said that when you returned to Glasgow from living in London about five years ago, you took night classes on the city’s 20th-century history. You also visited parts of the city you hadn’t been to since you were a child, only to discover that much of what you had known was gone. You wanted to write about the lost city, but instead of a history book, you wrote Bloody January. Given the accessibility of fiction, and especially genre fiction, what role do you feel novels can play in preserving history, and how much of a role do you want this series to play?

I think novels and films and TV programs are great at showing a kind of social history, not so great at illuminating huge historical shifts. I would love the series of books to be a chronicle of the changes in Glasgow throughout the ’70s. The small things as well as the big things. The clothes, the way people spoke, the things they bought, what the city looked like. A hope would be that they would eventually read them as a kind of guide to life in Glasgow at the time.

When the actor who reads the audiobook asked me how he thought McCoy should speak, I suggested he watched Just Another Saturday, a TV play about a day in a young guy’s life in Glasgow made in 1975. It was written by Peter McDougall, a dramatist who I think has the best ear of anyone for the way Glaswegian people speak. The program is a kind of dialect time capsule. While I don’t think these books will ever be as accurate as that, that is definitely the benchmark.

Philip Kerr’s March Violets trilogy is also a great example of how crime novels can give you a vivid and evocative insight into a particular time, in this case late-’30s Berlin. The crime story is embedded in the social history of the period. Little details in the book, like people being so poor they gather tiny bits of coal that have fallen off lorries, illuminate their social situation much more clearly than a strict historical account of their circumstances would. It’s that kind of historical insight that I think novels do best.

Bloody January feels like a local story, with one exception. One of the “bad guys” is a follower of the teachings of the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley. When this is discovered, parallels are drawn between what is happening in Glasgow and the Manson murders in the United States. Why did you choose to bring in comparisons to such a well-known “outside” event like this? Was it used as part of the framework to hold the time period in place, or did you have something less obvious in mind?

The reference is in there for a couple of reasons. As you said it helps cement the time period. Everyone knows when and what the Manson murders were.

Aleister Crowley, like Manson, also seems very redolent of the ’60s dream going haywire. The benevolent interest in the I Ching, runes, astrology, and alternative philosophies somehow — popular culture-wise anyway — ended up with Altamont and Manson and Anton LaVey and a lot of damaged people.

Aleister Crowley’s famous dictum, “Do as thou wilt as the whole of the law,” became a kind of a get-out clause for people like one of the book’s heavies, Jamie Gibbs. If he believed that, how could anything he wanted to do be wrong? Jamie isn’t interested in philosophy; he’s interested in drugs and fucking teenagers. To him, Aleister Crowley et al are just weapons in his arsenal of seduction. The dream of an alternative lifestyle ends up as a seduction technique for a middle-aged sleazeball. Just like the dream of Hells Angels as some kind of avatar of freedom ended up with the beating to death of Meredith Hunter.

Let’s discuss heroin. McCoy regularly sleeps with a prostitute, and when he is told that she’s hooked on heroin, he says, “She’s not intae that. Besides, you can’t get the bloody stuff in Glasgow.” Because McCoy is not naïve, this means Glasgow is on the verge of something new when it comes to drugs. By the end of the book, the city’s heroin deaths are described as “a plague.” Bloody January feels balanced on a moment between before and after. Is that after going to play a significant part in the series? And what else is up next for McCoy?

It does play a part in the new book. McCoy’s best friend, Stevie Cooper, manages to get a strong and stable heroin connection via Hong Kong. It’s part of his bid to expand his empire. If he is the sole supplier of large quantities of heroin to Glasgow, he is pretty much made.

This reflects what happened in reality. Primary income for people like Cooper started to shift from money lending and protection rackets to the supply of drugs. The drug trade was vastly more profitable, especially in socially deprived places like Glasgow. This too is part of the social change in Glasgow through the ’70s. Junkies went from being rich bohemians to 17-year-old working-class kids. From the novelist Alexander Trocchi to the cult film Trainspotting.

McCoy has a lot to deal with in the next book. A particularly nasty underworld enforcer goes rogue and starts to kill for his own twisted reasons. A terrifying part of McCoy and Cooper’s past comes back to haunt them. And McCoy tries to come to terms with what happened to him at the end of Bloody January and starts to question whether he should even be a detective any longer.

At one point in Bloody January you write, “Driving through the north of Glasgow, a place [McCoy had] known since he was a boy, was like driving through a different city now. All the landmarks were gone, couldn’t find his way anymore.” This description feels very much like a metaphor for McCoy. Did you deliberately set out to create a setting that paralleled your main character, and what function do you feel the wrecking balls and half-demolished tenements play in shaping McCoy?

Glasgow in the ’70s was in many ways a very strange place. The city that had existed before was effectively being destroyed. Vast swathes were demolished, manufacturing jobs disappeared, factories crumbled, people were moved out to vast housing estates in the suburbs. It looked like a city during a war. Meanwhile the German performance artist Joseph Beuys was staging events in the city, Ziggy Stardust was playing, the council was buying Dalí paintings, nationalists were setting off bombs, Billy Connolly was changing comedy forever. The city was in flux.

That, to some extent, reflects what is happening with McCoy. He is a man with one foot in the future and one in the past. He’s a policeman who takes drugs. A moral man whose best friend is a murdering gang boss. Like the city itself he is caught between two worlds, changing, trying to keep his balance in the shifting sands.

¤

Kim Fay is the author of The Map of Lost Memories.

The post Small Victories appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.



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Martyr at the Picnic Table

This piece appears in the LARB Print Quarterly Journal: No. 18,  Genius

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¤

In the Basilica di Santa Margherita, which overlooks the expansive Val di Chiana in Tuscany, Margaret of Cortona’s relic is kept in a small casket. The patron saint of the dispossessed, canonized by Pope Benedict XIII in 1728, has been housed inside her glass shrine for centuries. Margaret was not an obvious candidate for sanctitude. She was born in Laviano, Umbria, to a peasant family. At 16, she fled with a nobleman from Montepulciano. Nearly 10 years later, when the nobleman was found mangled in a forest, Margaret moved with her son to Cortona where she led a life of penitence and self-mortification. As proof of her contrition, she asked to be dragged through the streets like an ass by a rope around her neck. Margaret could not tolerate her own beauty. A friar caught her before she could hack off her nose and lips, the iconography of her great allure. In her twilight, she reprimanded vice and experienced many ecstasies before dying in a small cell within the church that would become her temple.

The casket rests on a marble altar, on which scenes from Margaret’s life are engraved. The altar is the work of sculptor Gano di Fazio, but the reliquary was designed by Baroque painter and craftsman Pietro da Cortona. St. Margaret has been dead since the 13th century, but her corpse bears no evidence of putrefaction. She is a small woman. All but her head and feet are covered by a sand-colored tunic. The skin on her face is ashen and dry, and it looks as though someone had placed a burlap sack over her head and pulled taut until her eye sockets and mouth were outlined in the cloth. According to Catholic orthodoxy, Margaret is incorrupt. Her corpse was not found to be embalmed, mummified, or dressed with spices. The intact body is supposed to be an expression of divine favor.

The corpse, as a category, is a storehouse for the fantasies of the living. In times of medieval sickness, its organs were thought by some to contain medicinal unctions and oils. In times of war, encomia were written to praise the anonymous dead. The maturation of burial practices signified the presence of civilization, as though the division between brute and man was the degree to which one embellished the dead, cast glory upon them, and escorted them into memory. St. Margaret, though inanimate, is still a prominent actress. She was kept alive by those who couldn’t fathom the idea that a body once inhabited by a holy soul could be dismissed as a vessel of dust and earthworms. As historian Thomas Laqueur writes, “The corpse represents something radically different from itself.” Whether or not Margaret’s soul is immortal, imagination has prolonged her — and others like her — in ways that were not inevitable. The cadaver stiffened by rigor mortis is yet limber in our cultural theater.

Similarities between the treatment of two peculiar types of corpses have been alluded to, but left understated. That is, the bodies of Christian saints and the mutilated remains of African-American martyrs. Our understanding of martyrdom must be fluid. The martyr figure often whets his performative abilities against the stone of persecution. Death may canonize his fugitive sufferings, but alive he can acquire the gaping stigmata and stinging gashes that testify to his capacity to watch the flesh deform. The expressive sacra rappresentazione (sacred performance) exhibited by Polycarp or St. Jerome and the brutalization of lynch victims Henry Smith and Jesse Washington are similarly theatrical, notwithstanding some important distinctions between them.

When we talk about the black martyr, do we mean the retributive, self-destructive prophet, like Nat Turner? Maybe we speak of the messiah, like Dr. King, or the unwilling lamb, George Stinney? These models are useful for more than the writing of a martyrology, a Golden Legend or Actes and Monuments for condemned blacks. The particularities of one’s death allow us to better understand both the corpse’s appeal as a fetish object and its usefulness as currency. In the schema of black martyrdom, if death is the mytheme — the invariable element that unites all other myths — then the corpse’s contours, its stench and solidity, its dissolution and repose determine how and by whom it can be mobilized.

¤

Moribund flesh and viscera have been likened to food in the ways that they are dressed, vitalized, and virtually consumed by the living. Late historian and gastronomist Piero Camporesi identifies body parts as the “tormented protagonists” of the Middle Ages. Holy corpses were tampered with like any well-dressed holiday turkey, prepared as they were with unguents, poultices, and greases. While the souls of saints gloried in the ether, subsisting on light and air, living hedonists occupied themselves with dead chaff.

The sensational account of St. Clare of Montefalco, an Augustinian abbess, is telling. After Clare succumbed to illness, a group of ecstatic nuns opened her corpse with a razor, removed her intestines, and placed them into earthenware jars. The four nuns are said to have marveled at the woman’s gallbladder and heart, the latter of which they severed in two. The witnesses claimed that, embedded in the abbess’s heart, were the Arma Christi, the instruments associated with Christ’s Passion. Among the grisly inventory were a miniature crucifix, the Scourge, the Crown of Thorns, and three nails — a verification of the Trinity’s presence. These claims withstood the scrutiny of bishops, theologians, doctors, and civic judges. Camporesi believes this was one of many collective delusions that drifted across the medieval age. More likely, he supposes, the thorned coronet was a bundle of white nerves, the “nails” nothing more than dark tissue.

Following the inquisition, St. Clare’s cadaver was drained of blood — the spirit’s conduit, what Camporesi calls “the edible substance” — which was then kept in vials where it boiled during times of cataclysm and woe. Chroniclers wrote that the corpse exuded an odor of sanctity. An intoxicating fragrance, maybe of juniper or rosewater, hovered around her and deflected the corruptive heat of summer. The gentle abbess, stuck in time, embodied sprightliness and longevity. Hers was not the only flesh to be adored as health-giving. In some regions of Europe, bone ashes were imbibed in broth and wine while skull fragments were consumed to combat headaches and epilepsy. Leagues of the afflicted collected the liquefied fat of hanged criminals — a ghastly forefather of ibuprofen — in cups and pots. One form of cannibalism persists in the Catholic tradition as the Eucharist. A taste of Christ’s transubstantial body and a swig of His blood give rise to a memorial culture in which food is the direct link between death and life.

Few were so dementedly eager to disfigure themselves as the saints. While the modern world built its cranks and muskets, hermits and anchorites embraced guillotines, stakes, arrows, swords, and fasting — anything to ruin the flesh and subordinate their individuality to the symbol of divine mercy they could become. The post-mortem sweetness of the incorruptible’s body was a consolation prize from God.

From the other side of a translucent casket stared the envious onlooker. Her inner state reflected the extent of her immersion in the material world. This was the common person, as malodorous as a carrion flower. If her face was daubed with lily-root and saffron tincture, her innards stank like worm-infested feces. Her cadaver’s putridity would confirm what was already known about her tainted soul.

But smells were mercurial and ambiguous. Aromatic jasmine collided with the fetor of latrines. The by-products of dysentery and reeking spoil banks mingled with bitter berries. Sundry scents were discombobulating, in flux. Inevitably, smell guided taste. Air became a macrocosm of the kitchen and the courier of wretched stenches. The bodies of martyred saints were minced, pared, cured, and roasted. Consider the apocryphal tale of St. Lawrence, archdeacon of the early Church, who lived during the age of Christian persecution. When the Roman prefect demanded that Lawrence cede the Vatican’s wealth to the empire, Lawrence responded by presenting a horde of the poor and diseased. Though he was likely beheaded, legend has it that he was placed on a gridiron and cooked alive. When one of his sides was sufficiently burnt, he is said to have asked his executioners to turn him over.

Accounts of the renowned martyrdom of Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna, presaged the descriptions of black lynchings that would fill 20th-century newspapers and postcards. In the year 155 AD, at the order of Irenarch Herod, soldiers arrested Polycarp and brought him to an arena. He rode into the city on the back of a donkey. When he refused to renounce his Savior, we are told that the crowd prepared his pyre with “timber and faggots.” A fire was lit and then:

The fire, making the appearance of a vault, like the sail of a vessel filled by the wind, made a wall round about the body of the martyr; and it was there in the midst, not like flesh burning, but like [a loaf in the oven or like] gold and silver refined in a furnace. For we perceived such a fragrant smell, as if it were the wafted odor of frankincense or some other precious spice.

When the flames failed to kill the bishop, an executioner stabbed him to death. His blood flowed so profusely that it snuffed the fire. Officials wanted to keep the body away from the public because they feared it would be hailed as an imitation of Christ. And so it was. His martyrdom was one that “all desire[d] to imitate, seeing that it was after the pattern of the Gospel of Christ.” The saint’s corpse proselytized. His grisly wounds testified to the Lord’s greatness more directly than a zealot. The beautiful death was true.

¤

Henry Smith is an American Negro from Paris, Texas, an outlaw who killed the white baby Myrtle Vance in 1893. Smith’s punishment must be as savage as the man. He asks to be shot instead of ceded to a mob of thousands. He is told that he approaches destiny ad quod damnum. He will fit into a martyr’s mold as though it were a tailored suit. But, Sir Thomas Browne asks, who knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is to be buried? who hath the Oracle of his ashes, or wither they are to be scattered? 

They transport him to a scaffold in a mule cart. Hot irons scorch his feet, his tongue is set aflame, and his eyes are gouged. They bathe Smith with oil. Fire engulfs him like a coat. The tendons in his arms snap like poor bridge cables and he reaches for his eye sockets with crisp stumps. Smith tears away from his post hollering and burning, and when he crawls away, they toss him back. The next day, the Aurora Daily Express describes the collection of Smith’s remains: “Every scrap of his clothing was sought by relic hunters, and when all was over fragments of his bones were carried away also.”

Hagiographic texts are babels of undisciplined history and invention. The saint mutates in successive chronicles written by disciples, clergy, and anonymous scribes until the historical personage is fractured. The body of the saint becomes a stage. The corpse is revived in every retelling and dies interminably. The pious listener accepts the necessity of the decapitated head. Her old eyes glisten with desire and the sublime.

¤

When James Baldwin wrote his short story “Going to Meet the Man,” he thought of Jesse Washington, a black man from Waco, Texas, accused of assaulting and murdering a white lady in 1916. Many children at the killing ground were on their lunch hour. Baldwin likens this genre of public execution to a Fourth of July picnic. He writes that the “wind blew the smoke from the fire across the clearing” into the protagonist’s eyes and nose. The protagonist senses “the odor of something burning which was both sweet and rotten.” What do they taste, these children, women, and men? Before castrating the lynch victim, a man weighs the accused’s scrotum in his hand like a meat merchant. When they finish, the deceased’s head is blackened pulp. At the story’s closing, the protagonist tells his son, “I reckon we better get over there and get some of that food before it’s all gone.” In truth, attendees stole Washington’s bones, genitalia, and teeth. Some were sold, others kept. Like triumphant Achilles, the denizens watched as this Hector was dragged through the town by horses.

With the help of civil rights activist Elisabeth Freeman, W. E. B. DuBois and the NAACP used the photographs of Waco resident Fred Gildersleeve to promote their anti-lynching campaign. News of the “Waco horror” resounded in nooks and dailies from America to Europe. The lynching, the most notable of its day, was condemned by most. Lynching had not reached its apotheosis, but the publication of Washington’s mutilated corpse tempered rhetoric in support of the practice. The specificity of the violence — Washington’s body, and no one else’s — was made general. His mourners were not his own. They were rather like paid eulogists, grieving for whomever required commemoration.

These bodies, scoured by crows and all but stuffed into the maws of mobs, glimmered in their chaos. They were unintelligible, unnaturally oriented, decontextualized. Brutalized bodies were denied the grave, and those that were disfigured into anonymity were more likely to be upheld as martyr symbols.

Franny Nudelman, a historian, criticizes the abstraction of pain in her book John Brown’s Body. The faceless martyr sustains a community based on pain. The unrecognizable corpse was — and still is — an object of great interest because it let empathizers shape something that no longer had an identity. Empathy is possession. The spectator gorges on the suffering of the victim. Nudelman warns against the impulse to glorify and conflate the anonymous dead. It denies the exactness of one’s pain and allows the viewer to indulge in limitless orgies of misery.

But imagine the congeries of pilgrims to Mecca and Canterbury. For most, they are palatable in aggregate alone, zooming toward that asymptote where the individual is infinitely indistinguishable from the group. The space between individuals turns into void. We populate it with imaginary emblems. Some of these are born in literature: history books, librettos, novels. Archetypes, in other words, the shadows we cast on the ground.

The black martyr lives. Its ghost threads through Laura Nelson, Denmark Vesey,  Addie Mae Collins, Mary Turner, Charles Lang, Michael Griffith, Yvette Smith, Stephon Clark, and Emmett Till. Many little black girls and boys hear Till’s story at a young age. I was 10 when I saw the images of that 14-year-old black boy from Chicago who died most horribly in Money, Mississippi, 1955. The story of the inciting incident is as contested as St. Lawrence in flames.

Emmett, with the hesitant approval of his mother Mamie Till-Bradley, is visiting his family Down South. He and some other boys skip church and enter a grocery store, where young proprietress Carolyn Bryant tends to business. Perhaps Emmett whistles at Bryant or says something bold and flirtatious as he exits the store. How little the facts matter. Bryant’s husband and brother-in-law abduct Emmett from his uncle’s home that evening. He is beaten, shot, and thrown into the Tallahatchie River with a 74-pound cotton-gin fan noosed to his neck by barbed wire. It is a burlesque of the strange fruit swinging from the tree, in the open air.

Emmett plummets into dark waters and, on the third day, is found by two boys gone fishing. After some struggle, his body goes home to Chicago. Two blocks from the funeral parlor, Mamie Till smells a “most terrible odor.” When she enters, she doesn’t recognize what lies in front of her. Its skin is bloated and its teeth are missing. An eye stretches across the jaw and she can see daylight through its head. Mamie leaves her son’s glass-topped casket open for the funeral. Tens of thousands flock to see the child, and images of his body metastasize in black-owned publications across the country. He is the bellwether of aborted democracy. His flesh is rigmarole and confusion. This Christ-figure becomes part of the bedrock that undergirds the nation’s Second Reconstruction.

Emmett Till finds new life as a political totem. Mourners blow breath into his battered body in an incredible act of necromancy. Black literati and intelligentsia hallow the boy that had no refuge in an American wasteland. They cradle Emmett in their hosannas and accommodate him in their dreams. The poet Gwendolyn Brooks writes a ballad that fictionalizes Carolyn Bryant. As she awaits the return of her knight-errant, she labors in the kitchen:

Her bacon burned. She
Hastened to hide it in the step-on can, and
Drew more strips from the meat case. The eggs and sour-milk biscuits
Did well. She set out a jar
Of her new quince preserve.

The woman does not know if her life was worth more than that of the “Dark Villain.” Her Fine Prince, her husband, beats her in front of their children and she envisages blood. Her blood and the blood of the Villain, who is the innocent child, commingle. The blood is as viscous as fruit spread, a “red ooze” that was “seeping, spreading darkly, thickly, slowly / Over her white shoulders, her own shoulders / And over all of Earth and mars.” Emmett’s blood terraformed the earth. Its nectar shocked the palate and stirred the insensate masses. They had tasted blood before, white and black alike, but never so publicly. There were thousands of Emmett Tills circulating in private night terrors. The law, for all its pompous austerity, was impotent. After receiving payment for their confession, Emmett’s killers walked free. Custom was held as law.

And so Emmett’s body was its own advocate and intercessor. Its gnarled limbs pleaded eloquently. Emmett’s apostles rendered in speech what the boy had no tongue to say. The interpretation of Emmett’s body was unusually cogent: blameless flesh was inconsonant with a culpable, bloody empire.

¤

Sixty years later, the unrest in Ferguson would become a new iteration of an aged myth. The martyr of the Third Reconstruction was born at the instance his body was penetrated by six bullets and Darren Wilson’s fretful imagination. Like Mamie Till before her, Michael Brown’s mother, Lesley McSpadden, was inducted as the Black Madonna. The Passion of Mike Brown enthralled us because we were uncertain what had led to its lurid conclusion. Eyewitnesses read Brown’s body as an archetypal construction. Furious observers noted that the body laid unattended for hours under the sun.

Brown’s corpse was the difference between the law as it was and as it should be. It was an expression of insidious, unchanging folkways. Ours is an age of exceptional harvest. Legends are recast and horrific morality tales are authored by gunfire. This juncture is what the postwar historian C. Vann Woodward calls “the twilight zone that lies between living memory and written history.” The catalog of executed blacks is Homeric in scope and the boundary between Ralph Ellison’s tragic character Tod Clifton and casualties like Laquan McDonald, Amadou Diallo, or Philando Castile is fading, if it has not already dissipated. (Of Clifton, Ellison wrote: “Cause of death (be specific): resisting reality in the form of a .38 caliber revolver in the hands of the arresting officer”)

The organizers of Black Lives Matter are storytellers. They architect marches and vigils that evoke the agitations of the 20th century. Their slogans (“I can’t breathe”) echo and subsume the dead. Their questions (“Is my son next?” “Is my niece safe?”), at once rhetorical and earnest, organize the myth’s structure and dictate how it will be told. The questions come from a place of knowledge. They have already been answered and the protesters know this. Their fear is predictive. It is meant to warn. Yes, my son is next. My niece will be killed. It’s his little boy today, her girl tomorrow, and mine is somewhere in line.

The same basic story retold, with myriad permutations. Its narrators are masterful, always finding some way to make it new. This one is set in Milwaukee, that one near Detroit. This one was shot at more than 100 times, but that boy only took one. It is a story the narrators would rather not tell. But they will renew it as often as they must, ad infinitum until the body finds its niche in unalienable life, so that its executioner may know the restless charge of firebrands.

¤

Aaron Robertson is a James Reston Reporting Fellow for The New York Times.

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