Harper’s Notes (11/11/24)

The road to freedom: In the latest Harper Review essay, senior editor Elizabeth Eck calls attention to the matter of free expression. She reminds us that a part of the cherished Chicago Principles, which affirm the value of free expression at the University of Chicago, traces back to the University’s defense against McCarthyism in the 1940s. Motivated then not by neutrality, but rather by a firm commitment to the pursuit of truth, the University necessarily made contact with the issues of the outside world. This, Eck writes, is a far cry from the interpretation of the Principles by University leadership today, which used institutional neutrality in the spring of 2024 to justify its crackdown on the encampment protesting the war in Israel and Gaza. Eck asks, “Where do we go from here?” As universities face anew matters of congressional intimidation and the suppression of unwanted ideas, we ought to look back at what fifth University president and staunch advocate for academic freedom Robert M. Hutchins described as the only alternative: “the long, difficult road of education.”

Tough crowd: A comedian’s work is to be self-effacing, to make light of our fears, and to create an absurdity out of our reality. Facing a second Donald J. Trump presidency, consider Saturday Night Live’s pre-election episode featuring then-candidate Kamala Harris, when comedian Colin Jost joked about the fate of our democracy. Jost opened the “Weekend Update” segment by declaring, “Well, next week the American people will decide if the next president will be Kamala Harris, or if everyone at SNL will get audited.” A week later, I question the joke’s absurdity. Out of its irreverence seeps a dark foreshadowing about a man who has repeatedly threatenedhis critics in the press, the government, and the public. It remains funny for now, at least to those who believe that America is still somewhat exceptional and capable of protecting freedoms of expression. There may come a time when Jost’s joke loses its humor—perhaps when it starts ringing a little too true.

Work of art: When the first chords of “Ghost Notes” fell at Eli Winter’s concert with the Renaissance Society, I thought of Bertolt Brecht’s aphorism: “Art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it.” It’s a useless quote, divorced from context—not unlike the recording of “Ghost Notes” linked here. To shape reality, art must first be in reality. Satisfy that criteria, and shaping is unavoidable. All art does work on the world. I mean that physically: sound is a frequency of motion. The problem is, much of our contact with music is no longer situated beyond the inch between speaker and eardrum. But in Bond Chapel, across from the Eli Winter Ensemble, I closed my eyes and felt the bass thrum through oak, its molecules oscillating into mine. The room shook around our voluntary movement and involuntary vibration, the boundary of conscious action blurred by sound.
12 minutes into the recording, a crescendo begins. In the reality of Sunday’s concert, it lasted longer, with a ferocity that evinced why we say cymbals “crash” as waves do. Caught in the buildup, I thought, Why is my heart beating so fast? Is it even my heart? I couldn’t parse myself from the sound inside of it, or the other way around. Live music renders you passive because it transgresses bodily space, and because it withholds the easing knowledge of temporal bounds. At 16:57, the crescendo halts. For a long time until an end I couldn’t see, Winter plucked notes on his electric guitar. Each pluck rattled the snare drum’s beaded gut; every noise never self-contained. I clung to the errant sounds and tried to arrange meaning from its accrual. I walked into Bond Chapel that night, looking for salvation. In surrender, I found it.

Carthago delenda est: The year is 241 BCE. Carthage prepares a feast in celebration of its victory over the Romans at Eryx. Before the walls of the city are 20,000 mercenary soldiers, embittered by the unjust treatment and stinginess of their Carthaginian masters. Maddened with wine, the troops grow restless as whispers of revolt circulate. Salammbô, high priestess of Tanit and daughter of Carthaginian general Hamilcar Barca, attempts to placate the frenzied troops. Instead, she inadvertently bewitches their leader, Matho, whose obsessive love for her leads to war, ruin, and bloody retribution.
Salammbô, Gustave Flaubert’s meticulously researched account of the Mercenary War of 241 BCE, is a triumph of style. Written in ornate prose with Flaubert’s scrupulous attention to detail and dedication to le mot juste, it is a transportive experience; each paragraph comes alive with all the vigor and vibrancy of a Regnault painting. Shockingly, Flaubert narrates the exotic tale with utter aloofness, describing ecstasies, horrors, and exquisite cruelty with equal indifference. In doing so, he accomplishes a rare feat: a work of realist fiction that attains sublime heights of style while never lapsing into bombast or crude mythmaking. Prefiguring the works of other great prose stylists, Salammbô is essential reading for the student of historical fiction and literary aesthetics.