the conversation friday essay

The Conversation Friday Essay: A fresh perspective on Leonard Cohen and the island that shaped him

• Tanya Dalziell, Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities
• Paul Genoni
• Discipline of English and Literary Studies
• School of Humanities

Press/Media : Press / Media

Description

A 2000 word article on Leonard Cohen; the Greek island of Hydra and mid-20th century expatriation; Cohen's posthumous book of poetry; and New Zealand author Redmond Wallis.

Media contributions

• Leonard Cohen
• Expatriation
• Redmond Wallis

Friday essay: on the ending of a friendship

Thursday, Sep 19, 2019, 08:55 PM | Source: The Conversation

Kevin John Brophy

Friendship is an incomparable, immeasurable boon to me, and a source of life — not metaphorically but literally.

• Simone Weil

About eight years ago, I went to dinner with a dear friend I had known for more than 40 years. It would be the last time we would see each other and by the end of that evening I was deeply shaken. But more lasting and more unsettling than this has been the feeling of loss without his friendship. It was a sudden ending but it was also an ending that lasted for me well beyond that evening. I have worried since then at what kind of friend I am to my friends, and why a friendship can suddenly self-destruct while others can so unexpectedly bloom.

My friend and I were used to going to dinner together, though it had become an increasingly tricky matter for us. We had been seeing each other more infrequently, and our conversations had been tending towards repetition. I still enjoyed his passion for talk, his willingness to be puzzled by life’s events, our comically growing list of minor ailments as we entered our sixties, and the old stories he fell back on — usually stories of his minor triumphs, such as the time his car burst into fire, was declared a write-off by insurance, and ended in an auction house where he bought it back with part of the insurance payout and only minor repairs to be made. There were stories of his time as a barman in one of Melbourne’s roughest pubs. I suppose in a lot of long-lasting friendships it is these repeated stories of the past that can fill the present so richly.

Nevertheless, both his opinions and mine seemed to have become too predictable. Even his desire to come up with the most unpredictable viewpoint on any problem was a routine I expected from him. Each of us knew the weaknesses in the other’s thinking, and we had learned not to go too far with some topics, which were of course the most interesting and important ones.

He knew how politically correct I could be, and shrewdly enough he had no time for my self-righteousness, the predictability of my views on gender, race and climate. I understood this. He knew too that his fiercely independent thinking was often just the usual rant against greenies or lefties. Something had begun to fail in our friendship, but I could not properly perceive this or speak of it.

We were a contrasting pair. He was a big man with an aggressive edge to his gregarious nature, while I was lean, short and physically slight next to him, a much more reserved person altogether. I liked his size because big men have been protective figures in my life. At times when I felt threatened I would ask him to come with me to a meeting or a transaction, and just stand next to me in his big way. During one long period of trouble with our neighbours he would visit when the tension was high to show his formidable presence and his solidarity with us.

I was always reading and knew how to talk books, while he was too restless to read much. He knew how to sing, bursting into song occasionally when we were together. He had been unable to work professionally since a breakdown that was both physical and mental. By contrast, I was working steadily, never quite as free with my time as he was.

Nearly two years before our last dinner together his wife had suddenly left him. As it turned out, she had been planning her departure for some time, but when she went he was taken by surprise. I saw a more confused and fragile side of him during those months when we would meet and talk through how he was dealing with their counselling sessions, and then how the negotiations were proceeding over belongings and finally the family house. He was learning to live alone for the first time since he had been a young man, and was exploring what it might be like to seek out new relationships.

Read more: Research Check: is it true only half your friends actually like you?

A safe haven

We had met when I was a first-year university student boarding at my grandmother’s home in an inner Melbourne suburb. I was studying for a Bachelor of Arts, staying up through the nights, discovering literature, music, history, cask wine, dope, girls and ideas.

He lived in a flat a few doors away in a street behind my grandmother’s place, and I remember it was the local parish youth group, or the remnants of one, that used to meet in his flat. In my friend’s flat we would lie around the floor, half a dozen of us, drinking, flirting, arguing about religion or politics until the night was strung out in our heads, tight and thin and vibrating with possibilities. I loved that sudden intimate and intellectually rich contact with people my own age.

My friend and I started up a coffee lounge in an old disused shopfront as a meeting place for youth who would otherwise be on the street. I was the one who became immersed in the chaotic life of the place as students, musicians, misfits, hopeful poets and petty criminals floated through the shop, while my friend kept his eye on the broader picture that involved real estate agents, local councils, supplies of coffee, income and expenditure.

Perhaps the experience helped delay my own adulthood, allowing me time to try out a bohemian, communal alternative lifestyle that was so important to some of us in the early 1970s. My friend, though, was soon married. It was as if he had been living a parallel life outside our friendship, outside the youth group, coffee shop, jug band, drugs and misadventures of our project.

This did not break us up, and in fact after his marriage he became another kind of friend. I was at times struggling to find some steady sense of myself. Sometimes in those years I would not be able to talk or even be near others, and I remember once when I felt like this I went to my newly married friend’s home, and asked if I could lie on the floor in the corner of their lounge room for a few days until I felt better.

They indulged me. I felt it was this haven that saved me then, giving me the time to recoup and giving me a sense that there was somewhere I could go where the world was safe and neutral.

In time, and more bumpily and uncertainly than my friend, I was with a partner raising a family. He was often involved in our children’s birthdays, other celebrations, our house-moving, and just dropping in on family meals. It worked for us. I remember him lifting our cast iron wood-burning stove into its place in our first renovated Brunswick cottage. He lived in a more sprawling home near bushland on the edge of Melbourne, so one of my pleasures became the long cycling trips out to see him.

My partner and I were embraced by a local community thanks to the childcare centre, kinders, schools and sport. Lasting friendships (for us and for our children) grew in the tentative, open-ended, slightly blindly feeling way of friendships. Through this decade and a half though, the particular friendship with my songful friend held, perhaps to the surprise of both of us.

‘Tolerating much, for the sake of best intentions’

In his thoroughly likeable 1993 book on friendship , the political scientist Graham Little wrote under the bright light of writings by Aristotle and Freud, that the purest kind of friendship “welcomes the different ways people are alive to life and tolerates much in a friend for the sake of best intentions”.

Here perhaps is the closest I have seen to a definition of friendship at its best: a stance imbued with sympathy, interest and excitement directed at another despite all that otherwise shows we are flawed and dangerous creatures.

On that evening, the evening of the last time we went out to dinner together, I did push my friend towards one of the topics we usually avoided. I had been wanting him to acknowledge and even apologise for his behaviour towards some young women he had spoken to, I thought, lewdly and insultingly nearly a year before in my home at a party. The women and those of us who had witnessed his behaviour felt continuing tension over his refusal to discuss the fact that he had wanted to speak so insultingly to them and then had done it in our home in front of us. For me, there was some element of betrayal, not only in the way he had behaved but in his continued refusal to discuss what had happened.

The women were drunk, he said, just as he had said the last time I tried to talk to him about this. They were wearing almost nothing, he said, and what he’d said to them was no more than they were expecting. My friend and I were sitting in a popular Thai restaurant on Sydney Road: metal chairs, plastic tables, concrete floor. It was noisy, packed with students, young couples and groups out for a cheap and tasty meal. A waitress had put menus, water and beer on our table while she waited for us to decide on our meals. Wanting to push finally past this impasse, I pointed out to him that the women had not insulted him, he had insulted them.

If that’s the way you want it, he replied, and placed his hands on each side of the table, hurling it into the air and walking out of the restaurant as table, bottles, glasses, water and beer came clattering and smashing down around me. The whole restaurant fell silent. I could not move for some time. The waitress began mopping up the floor around me. Someone called out, “Hey, are you all right?”

This was the last time I saw or heard from him. For many months, I thought of him every day, then slowly I thought of him less often, until now I can think of him more or less at will, and not find myself ashamed of the way I went for him in a conversation where I should have been perhaps more alive to whatever was troubling him.

Improvised, tentative

For some years after this, I felt I had to learn how to be myself without him. I have read articles and essays since then about how pitiful men can be at friendship. We are apparently too competitive, we base our friendships on common activities, which means we can avoid talking openly about our feelings and thoughts. I don’t know about this “male deficit model”, as some sociologists call it, but I do know that the loss of this friendship took with it a big part of my shared personal history at that time. It dented my confidence in ever having properly known this man or understood our friendship — or in knowing how secure any friendship might be.

I was drawn to read and re-read Michel de Montaigne’s gentle and strangely extreme essay on friendship where he was so certain that he knew with perfection what his friend would think and say and value. He wrote of his friend, Etienne de Boëtie, “Not only did I know his mind as well as I knew my own but I would have entrusted myself to him with greater assurance than to myself.”

Against this perfection of understanding between friends, there is George Eliot’s odd excursion into science fiction in her 1859 novel, The Lifted Veil . Her narrator, Latimer, finds he can perceive perfectly clearly the thoughts of all the people around him. He becomes disgusted and deeply disturbed by the petty self-interest he apparently discovers within everyone.

After 40 years of shared history, there was not the disgust Eliot writes of, nor Montaigne’s perfect union of mind and trust between me and my burly friend, but there was, I had thought, a foundation of knowledge whereby we took each other’s differences into ourselves, as well as our common histories of the cafe we had run, and as it happened our common serving of time in semi-monastic seminaries before we’d met — differences and similarities that had given us, I thought, ways of being in sympathy with each other while allowing for each other.

Read more: Guide to the classics: Michel de Montaigne's Essays

Montaigne’s dearest friend, Etienne, had died, and his essay was as much about the meaning of this loss as about friendship. His big idea was loyalty, and I think I understand that, though not in the absolute way Montaigne wrote of it.

Loyalty is only real if it is constantly renewed. I worry that I have not worked enough at some friendships that have come into my life, but have let them happen more passively than the women I know who spend such time, and such complicated time, exploring and testing friendships. The sudden disappearance of my friend left me with an awareness of how patched-together, how improvised, clumsy and tentative even the most secure-seeming friendship can be.

When the philosopher and brilliant essayist, Simone Weil wrote shortly before she died in 1943,

I may lose, at any moment, through the play of circumstances over which I have no control, anything whatsoever that I possess, including things that are so intimately mine that I consider them as myself. There is nothing that I might not lose. It could happen at any moment ….

she seemed to be touching on the difficult truth that we run on luck and hope and chance much of the time. Why haven’t I worked harder at friendships, when I know that they provide the real meaning in my life?

Some years ago, when I was told by a medical specialist that I had a 30% chance of having cancer, as I waited for the results of a biopsy, I remember that in response to these dismal odds I had no desire to go back to work, no desire to even read — all I wanted to do was spend time with friends.

Inner worlds laid waste

To know what it is we care about, this is a gift. It should be straightforward to know this and keep it present in our lives, but it can prove to be difficult. Being the reader that I am, I have always turned to literature and fiction for answers or insights into those questions that seem to need answering.

I realised some time after the ending of my friendship that I had been reading novels dealing with friendship, and was not even sure how consciously I had chosen them.

For instance, I read The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber, a novel about a Christian preacher, Peter Leigh, sent to convert aliens in a galaxy ludicrously far from earth on a planet with an equally unlikely atmosphere benign to its human colonisers.

It is a novel about whether Leigh can be any kind of adequate friend to his wife left behind on Earth, and whether his new feelings for these aliens amounts to friendship. Though my suspension of disbelief was precarious, I found myself caring about these characters and their relationships, even the grotesquely shapeless aliens. Partly I cared about them because the book read like an essay testing ideas of friendship and loyalty that were important and urgent to the writer.

I also read at that time Haruki Murakami’s novel, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage , a book that came with a little game of coloured cards and stickers, and I found that I cared about Tsukuru Tazaki too, for I felt all along that Murakami’s character was a thin and endearing disguise for himself (what a beautiful word that is, “en-dearing”).

The novel centred on lost friendships. I heard a tone in its voice that was the oddly flat, persistent, vulnerable and sincere searching of a man for connection with others. If Murakami’s novel has a proposition it wishes to test it would be that we only know ourselves in what images of ourselves we receive back from our friends. Without our friends we become invisible, lost.

In both those novels, the friendships are crashing to pieces in slow motion in front of the reader’s helpless eyes. I wanted to shake those characters, tell them to stop and think about what they were doing, but at the same time I saw in them mirrors of myself and my experiences.

I read John Berger too , on the way a human looks across an abyss of incomprehension when looking at another animal. Though language seems to connect us, it might be that language also distracts us from the actual abyss of ignorance and fear between all of us as we look, across, at each other. In his book on the savage mind , Lévi-Strauss quotes a study of Canadian Carrier Indians living on the Bulkley River who were able to cross that abyss between species, believing they knew what animals did and what their needs were because their men had been married to the salmon, the beaver and the bear.

I have read essays by Robin Dunbar on the evolutionary limits to our circles of intimacy , where he suggests that for most of us there needs to be three or maybe five truly close friends. These are the ones we lean towards with tenderness and open ourselves to with endless curiosity — those in whom we seek only the good.

My partner can name quickly four friends who qualify for her as part of this necessary circle. I find I can name two (and she is one of them), then a constellation of individual friends whose closeness to me I can’t easily measure. It is this constellation that sustains me.

Recently I was away from home for three months. After two weeks away I wrote a list in the back of my diary of the friends I was missing. A little more than a dozen of these were the friends, men and women, with whom I need contact, and with whom conversations are always open-ended, surprising, intellectually stimulating, sometimes intimate, and often fun. With each of them I explore a slightly different but always essential version of myself. Graham Little wrote that “ideal soulmates are friends who are fully aware that each has himself as his main life project”.

To live this takes some effort of imagination, and with my friend at dinner that night I might in myself have been refusing to make this effort.

There are also, it occurs to me, the friends who came as couples, with whom my partner and I share time as couples. This is itself another manifestation of friendship, one that crosses over into community, tribe and family — and no less precious than the individual intimacy of a personal friendship. For reasons I can’t properly fathom, the importance of this kind of time with coupled friends has deepened as I have grown through the decades of my fifties and sixties.

Perhaps it is that the dance of conversation and ideas is so much more complex and pleasurable when there are four or more contributing. It could be too that I am absolved from the responsibility of really working at these friendships in the way one must when there are two of us. Or it might be the pang and stimulus of the knowledge that opportunities to be together are brutally diminishing as we grow older.

But to lose an individual friend from one’s closest circle is to have large tracts of one’s inner world laid waste for a time. My feelings over the end of this particular friendship were a kind of grief mixed with bewilderment.

It was not that the friendship was necessary to my existence, but that perhaps through habit and sympathy it had become a fixed part of my identity. Robin Dunbar would say that by stepping away from this friendship I had made room for someone else to slip in to my circle of most intimate friends, but isn’t it the point of such close friends that they are in some important sense irreplaceable? This is the source of much of our distress when such friendships end.

Still learning

When I told people about what had happened in the restaurant that night, they would say, reasonably, “Why don’t you patch things up and resume your friendship?”

As I imagined how a conversation might go if I did meet my friend again, I came to understand that I had been a provocation to him. I had ceased to be the friend he needed, wanted or imagined.

What he did was dramatic. He might have called it merely dramatic. I felt it as threatening. Though I cannot help but think I provoked him. And if we had “patched” a friendship back together, on whose terms would this have been conducted? Would it always be that I would have to agree not to press him on questions that might lead him to throw over some table between us again?

Or worse, would I have to witness his apology, forgive him myself, and put him on his best behaviour for the rest of our friendship?

Neither of those outcomes would have patched much together. I had been hurting too over what I saw as his lack of willingness or interest to understand the situation from my point of view. And so it went inside me as the table and the water and the beer and the glasses came crashing down around me. I had been, in a way, married to my friend, even if he was a salmon or a bear — a creature across an abyss from me. Perhaps this was the only way out of that marriage. Perhaps he had been preparing for (moving towards?) this moment more consciously than I had been.

The ending of this friendship, it is clear, left me looking for its story. It was as if all along there must have been a narrative with a trajectory carrying us in this direction. A story is of course a way of testing whether an experience can take on a shape. Murakami’s and Faber’s novels are not themselves full-blown stories, for there is almost no plot, no shape, to their stumbling episodic structures, and oddly enough in both books the self-doubting lovers might or might not find that close communion with another somewhere well beyond the last page of each novel.

These novels cohere round a series of questions rather than events: what do we know and what can we know about others, what is the nature of the distance that separates one person from another, how provisional is it to know someone anyway, and what does it mean to care about someone, even someone who is a character in a novel?

When an Indian says he is married to a salmon, this can be no stranger than me saying I spent a couple of weeks on a humid planet in another galaxy with an astronaut who is a Christian preacher and an inept husband, or I spent last night in Tokyo with an engineer who builds railway stations and believes himself to be colourless, though at least two women have told him he is full of colour. But do I go to this story-making as a way of keeping my experiences less personal and more cerebral?

When I got home that night eight years ago, I sat at my kitchen table, shaking, hugging myself, talking to my grown-up children about what happened. It was the talking that helped — a narrative taking shape.

Dunbar, like me, like all of us, worries at the question of what makes life so richly present to us, and why friendships seem to be at the core of this meaningfulness. He has been surveying Americans with questions about friendship for several decades, and he concludes that for many of us the small circle of intimate friendships we experience is reducing.

We are apparently lucky now, on average, if there are two people in our lives we can approach with tenderness and curiosity, with that assumption that time will not matter as we talk in a low, murmuring, hive-warm way to a close friend.

My friend cannot be replaced, and it might be that we did not in the end imagine each other fully enough or accurately enough as we approached that last encounter. I don’t know precisely what our failure was. The shock of what happened and the shock of the friendship ending has over the time since that dinner become a part of my history in which I remember feeling grief but am no longer caught in confused anger or guilt over it. The story of it might not have ended but it has subsided.

Perhaps in all friendships we are not only, at our best, agreeing to encountering the unique and endlessly absorbing presence of another person, but unknown to us we’re learning something about how to approach the next friendship in our lives. There is something comically inept and endearing about the possibility that one might still be learning how to be a friend right up to the end of life.

Kevin John Brophy does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

University of Melbourne Researchers

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• Guide to the Classics: Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale by Linda Wight, Federation University Australia
• Reading Classic Novels in an Era of Climate Change by Philip Steer, Senior Lecturer in English, Massey University
• Guide to the Classics: Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War , by Julia Kindt, University of Sydney
• Guide to the Classics: Homer's Iliad , by Chris Mackie, La Trobe University
• Guide to the Classics: The Epic of Gilgamesh , by Louise Pryke, Macquarie University
• Guide to the Classics: Ovid's Metamorphosis and Reading Rape , by Marguerite Johnson, University of Newcastle
• Guide to the Classics: The Icelandic Saga , by Margaret Clunies Rodd, University of Sydney
• Guide to the Classics: Moby Dick , by Sascha Morrell, University of New England
• Guide to the Classics: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas , by Joy McEntee, University of Adelaide

See also Articles on Literature, Theatre, Film and the Arts for Australian classics.

Articles on Education

• How the Brain Changes When We Learn to Read by Nicola Bell, The University of Queensland
• The Feminist Picture Book Revolution by Sarah Kanake, University of the Sunshine Coast

On the 1967 Referendum, Constitutional Reform, Reconciliation, and Australia Day

Here are articles that discuss the 1967 Referendum,matters around constitutional reform and reconcililation and Australia Day.

• ‘Right Wrongs, Write Yes’: What Was the 1967 Referendum All About? by Russell McGregor, James Cook University.
• Fifty Years on from the 1967 referendum, It's Time to Tell the Truth about Race by Chelsea Bond, The University of Queensland.
• Why Indigenous Leaders Met at Uluru in May 2017 by Harry Hobbs, University of New South Wales.
• Why the government was wrong to reject an Indigenous ‘Voice to Parliament’ by Harry Hobbs, University of New South Wales.

Defying Empire: The Legacy of 1967 by Joanna Mendelssohn, University of New South Wales.

Triple J did the right thing, we need a new Australia Day  by Henry Reynolds, University of Tasmania. You might also like to read: Date with Enmity  by Gamilaraay writer Natalie Cromb, published in  The Saturday Paper , 2 December 2017, on the controversy around the date of Australia's national day.

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Michelle Cottle

Opinion Writer

Tulsi Gabbard’s Trumpy Transition Is Now Complete

Step back, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. You aren’t even the most interesting ex-Democrat-turned-MAGA-tool to endorse Donald Trump this month.

For my money, that would be Tulsi Gabbard, the former House member and 2020 contender to unseat President Trump.

Gabbard has been on quite the political journey. She never got much traction in her 2020 race. But she did win herself a small but intensely passionate following based heavily on her isolationist leanings — which, admittedly, are more electrifying than most, thanks to her penchant for making indulgent statements about bloodthirsty strongmen such as Bashar al-Assad and Vladimir Putin. Indeed, Gabbard’s soft-on-Russia musings have been at times so striking that Hillary Clinton publicly called her “a Russian asset,” prompting Gabbard to sue Clinton for defamation. (Gabbard later dropped the suit.)

Gabbard quit the Democratic Party in 2022 and became an independent, saying it had fallen “under the complete control of an elitist cabal of warmongers driven by cowardly wokeness,” and promptly began making nice with the red team. She hit the campaign trail for Republican candidates in the midterms. She spoke at the Conservative Political Action Conference . Conveniently, she was already a hot guest on Fox News.

For this election, she has settled snugly into the MAGA fold — all the more so since Kamala Harris became the Democratic nominee. Gabbard has been helping Trump with his debate prep . During a primary debate in 2019, you may recall, Gabbard hit Harris hard from the left — successfully enough to leave a mark and tick off Harris . Trump, who has been struggling to figure out how to deal with his new opponent, is clearly hoping some of Gabbard’s mojo rubs off on him.

Just in case anyone had any doubts as to her new allegiance, Gabbard endorsed Trump on Monday. They appeared together at a National Guard conference in Detroit, on the third anniversary of the bombing in Afghanistan that killed 13 U.S. service members. A National Guard veteran, Gabbard asserted that Trump “understands the grave responsibility that a president and commander in chief bears for every single one of our lives.”

The next day, Trump announced that Gabbard was joining his transition team, as is Mr. Kennedy.

Team Trump is presumably betting that bringing on former Democrats will send a signal that his campaign is the one with a big tent and mainstream appeal. But when we’re talking about characters as … colorful as Gabbard and Kennedy, I’m betting the signal to many voters is that Trump’s G.O.P. is the home of the politically strange.

Zeynep Tufekci

Opinion Columnist

‘Free Speech’ Should Not Shroud Criminal Activity

The detention in France of Pavel Durov, the founder and chief executive of the messaging app Telegram, has sparked a loud outcry about free speech. Elon Musk has portrayed the arrest on his X account as an ominous threat to free speech, and Robert F. Kennedy Jr. referred to the app as an “encrypted, uncensored” platform and said “the need to protect free speech has never been more urgent.”

It’s a curious case, and the French government hasn’t helped matters by releasing information in dribs and drabs. While it is possible that there are free speech issues entangled here, some early details suggest the issue may be one of criminal activity.

On Monday, the French prosecutor said in a statement that Durov — who is a citizen of France, Russia, St. Kitts and Nevis and the United Arab Emirates — was being held for questioning in connection with an investigation into criminal activities on the app, including the trading of child sexual abuse material as well as drug trafficking, fraud and money laundering. Notably, Telegram explicitly boasts that it has never disclosed user data to any government, ever.

Questions have long swirled around Telegram. Contrary to widespread belief, Telegram is not encrypted in any meaningful sense. That would be “end to end” encryption, so that even the company couldn’t read users’ messages. Telegram — and anyone it chooses — can read all group chats, and there is no way to fully encrypt them. Those very large groups are the main attraction of the platform.

Private chats on Telegram also lack end-to-end encryption by default. Here, though, users can undergo an onerous process to turn on end-to-end encryption, which then applies only to that conversation. Even the protection provided to private chats is murky: Cryptography experts have long questioned whether Telegram’s limited encryption actually meets security standards.

Durov was born in Russia, where Telegram is used widely. The Kremlin has Durov’s back: It issued a statement that unless more evidence is provided, Durov’s detention may be “a direct attempt to limit freedom of communication.” Russian antiwar activists have long wondered how the Kremlin seems to know so much about their activities on Telegram. (Good question.)

Free speech is an important value, but protecting it does not mean absolving anyone of responsibility for all criminal activity. Ironically, Telegram’s shortage of end-to-end encryption means the company is likely to be more liable simply because it can see the criminal activity happening on its platform. If, for example, Telegram did not cooperate with authorities at all after receiving legal warrants for information about criminal activities, that would mean trouble even in the United States, with its sweeping free speech protections.

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Neel V. Patel

Opinion Staff Editor

Faced With the Boeing Starliner’s Flaws, NASA Gets a Couple of Things Right

Odysseus may lay claim to the most delayed and perilous trip back home, but the NASA astronauts Butch Wilmore and Suni Williams are giving him a run for his money. What was supposed to be a weeklong mission to the International Space Station will now be an eight-month stay in space, after the spacecraft they launched aboard, the Boeing Starliner, experienced some unexpected glitches .

Boeing has been utterly humiliated by the Starliner’s failure, not least because the company’s rival, SpaceX, will take Wilmore and Williams home. But it’s NASA that deserves applause: Faced with an unsettling turn of events for its human spaceflight program, the agency has gotten a couple of things right.

It got the first thing right nearly a decade ago. In September 2014, NASA awarded contracts to both SpaceX and Boeing for their commercial crew programs, effectively saying it would pay two companies to develop new spacecraft capable of ferrying astronauts to and from the space station. The veteran aerospace firm Boeing was awarded $4.2 billion, while the newcomer SpaceX was awarded $2.6 billion.

While both companies’ programs were mired in delays, SpaceX eventually vaulted ahead of Boeing and pulled off a successful crewed flight to space in 2020. Boeing remained sluggish. Throughout this period, NASA emphasized that the whole reason it gave contracts to two companies in the first place was in case one company hit snags. The wisdom of that choice is on full display now, as Wilmore and Williams can return home on a SpaceX mission, after the Boeing mission went awry. Redundancy paid off.

NASA got one other thing right during this debacle. Though Wilmore and Williams are trapped in space until February, the agency is wisely playing it safe. There isn’t much reason to think the Starliner couldn’t securely bring the astronauts back to Earth. But NASA is choosing not to risk a repeat of the tragic Challenger and Columbia disasters. Taking risks is a fundamental part of spaceflight, but the United States is no longer in a race to beat the Soviets. NASA can and should take its time to reduce the odds of risk whenever possible. It’s the right thing to do.

The astronauts’ delayed return must be truly aggravating for both of them and their families. But it’s unquestionably preferable to an alternative outcome that would put them both in any sort of elevated danger.

Pamela Paul

Gus Walz Brought Out Both the Joy and the Cruelty

Gus Walz’s unbridled emotional reaction last week at the Democratic National Convention to the nomination of his father, Gov. Tim Walz, embodied both the humanity that lies beneath the political process and the momentousness of the political process itself.

In other words, Gus reacted the way he did because he recognized the import of his father’s nomination. And because the man onstage was his father — “That’s my dad!” — a man who raised and supported and accepted and loved him for who he is, a 17-year-old boy with anxiety and a learning disorder and, as Tina Brown wrote in her gorgeous essay on Friday, a human being like any other.

Gus’s reaction was beautiful. And then things got ugly .

In response to Gus’s exuberance, Ann Coulter posted on X, “Talk about weird …” (She later took her post down.) “Sorry, but this is embarrassing for both father and son,” the conservative radio host Jay Weber posted. “If the Walzs represent today’s American man, this country is screwed,” he said, adding a crude insult of the teenage Walz. (He, too, removed his post.)

Perhaps they didn’t know the context. They didn’t know anything about Gus Walz beyond the politics of his father. They didn’t realize they should have been kind. Few people do before issuing a least-charitable-interpretation potshot. People’s private lives, their psychological state, their family or personal circumstances and their disabilities are often invisible. This is as true for public figures as it is for private citizens. Gus didn’t deserve “special” treatment — he deserved the kind of treatment any person does.

If nothing else, Gus reminds us of what an unfiltered human reaction looks like and what a sharp contrast it makes with the noxious swill of performance, hot takes and low blows that passes for online political commentary.

Let’s dwell on that contrast for a moment. Gus’s surge of emotion offered an image of us at our all-too-human best. Those who chose to disparage him reeked of our all-too-human worst. Gus Walz showed us what it means to really care about other people. His critics made clear they’ve forgotten how.

Patrick Healy

Deputy Opinion Editor

Harris Has the Momentum. But Trump Has the Edge on What Matters Most.

Every Monday morning on The Point, we kick off the week with a tipsheet on the latest in the presidential campaign. Here’s what we’re looking at this week:

We’ll know soon what kind of polling bounce Kamala Harris got out of her very good convention in Chicago. I’m especially curious how she’s faring in Pennsylvania and Georgia, which are the most critical battlegrounds in the race. Given Harris’s and the convention’s focus on themes like patriotism, small-town values and the economy, I can see her gaining a couple of points in Pennsylvania, Michigan and Wisconsin. The Democrats’ hammering of Trump on abortion is also going to help Harris in Pennsylvania and Arizona, where abortion rights is a hot-button issue.

The Democrats’ Joyfest is Over. Now Comes The Slugfest.

But consider this: Harris has won the vast majority of news cycles since she declared her candidacy. And yet, she is only two or three percentage points ahead of Trump in the national polling average and effectively tied with him in the seven swing states that will decide the election. Structural factors — polarization, the gender gap, Republicans’ advantage in the Electoral College — are keeping this race tight.

To that end, with early voting only weeks away, the battle between Harris and Trump will be to find the best strategies for the three most important elements of this campaign.

Defining the race: Harris wants to make the race about the future, freedom and unity; Trump wants to make the race about the past, his presidency and threats to the country. Harris has effectively cast the race as a choice between her and Trump, which helps her because he is so unpopular. But there is still time for this to change, especially if an unexpected or outside event suddenly shifts voter attention to safety or national security.

Defining Harris: So far, Harris is also winning on this front, positioning herself as the candidate of change — an appealing image to many voters. Trump is trying to define her as “ dangerously liberal ” and as the de facto incumbent, but even some Republican strategists tell me that they don’t see strong evidence this is catching on. Trump will campaign in Wisconsin and Pennsylvania later this week; watch for whether he starts trying to define her anew.

Defining Trump: The former president is struggling. He is trying to appeal to moderate and independent voters by opposing a national abortion ban and talking about the economy; if he had the discipline to bear down on the cost of living, trade and immigration, he’d be doing better than he is in Pennsylvania, where those issues resonate. But as the Democratic strategist Doug Sosnik put it to me, the only way Trump can win the presidency is by turning out his vote strongly and edging out his opponent with sufficient numbers of swing voters — which is what he did successfully in 2016.

Right now, Harris has the momentum, but I think the Electoral College currently favors Trump . Nothing will be more critical than the Sept. 10 debate to define the race, Trump and Harris. A debate changes things in an instant. Just ask Joe Biden.

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Friday essay: the ugly history of cosmetic surgery

• Written by The Conversation Contributor

Reality television shows based on surgical transformations, such as The Swan and Extreme Makeover , were not the first public spectacles to offer women the ability to compete for the chance to be beautiful.

In 1924, a competition ad in the New York Daily Mirror asked the affronting question “Who is the homeliest girl in New York?” It promised the unfortunate winner that a plastic surgeon would “make a beauty of her”. Entrants were reassured that they would be spared embarrassment, as the paper’s art department would paint “masks” on their photographs when they were published.

Cosmetic surgery instinctively seems like a modern phenomenon. Yet it has a much longer and more complicated history than most people likely imagine. Its origins lie in part in the correction of syphilitic deformities and racialised ideas about “healthy” and acceptable facial features as much as any purely aesthetic ideas about symmetry, for instance.

In her study of how beauty is related to social discrimination and bias, sociologist Bonnie Berry estimates that 50% of Americans are “unhappy with their looks”. Berry links this prevalence to mass media images. However, people have long been driven to painful, surgical measures to “correct” their facial features and body parts, even prior to the use of anaesthesia and discovery of antiseptic principles.

Some of the first recorded surgeries took place in 16th-century Britain and Europe. Tudor “barber-surgeons” treated facial injuries, which as medical historian Margaret Pelling explains, was crucial in a culture where damaged or ugly faces were seen to reflect a disfigured inner self.

With the pain and risks to life inherent in any kind of surgery at this time, cosmetic procedures were usually confined to severe and stigmatised disfigurements, such as the loss of a nose through trauma or epidemic syphilis.

The first pedicle flap grafts to fashion new noses were performed in 16th-century Europe. A section of skin would be cut from the forehead, folded down, and stitched, or would be harvested from the patient’s arm.

A later representation of this procedure in Iconografia d’anatomia published in 1841, as reproduced in Richard Barnett’s Crucial Interventions , shows the patient with his raised arm still gruesomely attached to his face during the graft’s healing period.

As socially crippling as facial disfigurements could be and as desperate as some individuals were to remedy them, purely cosmetic surgery did not become commonplace until operations were not excruciatingly painful and life threatening.

In 1846, what is frequently described as the first “painless” operation was performed by American dentist William Morton , who gave ether to a patient. The ether was administered via inhalation through either a handkerchief or bellows. Both of these were imprecise methods of delivery that could cause an overdose and kill the patient.

The removal of the second major impediment to cosmetic surgery occurred in the 1860s. English doctor Joseph Lister ’s model of aseptic, or sterile, surgery was taken up in France, Germany, Austria and Italy, reducing the chance of infection and death.

By the 1880s, with the further refinement of anaesthesia, cosmetic surgery became a relatively safe and painless prospect for healthy people who felt unattractive.

The Derma-Featural Co advertised its “treatments” for “humped, depressed, or… ill-shaped noses”, protruding ears, and wrinkles (“the finger marks of Time”) in the English magazine World of Dress in 1901.

A report from a 1908 court case involving the company shows that they continued to use skin harvested from – and attached to – the arm for rhinoplasties.

The report also refers to the non-surgical “paraffin wax” rhinoplasty, in which hot, liquid wax was injected into the nose and then “moulded by the operator into the desired shape”. The wax could potentially migrate to other parts of the face and be disfiguring, or cause “ paraffinomas ” or wax cancers.

Advertisements for the likes of the the Derma-Featural Co were rare in women’s magazines around the turn of the 20th century. But there were frequently ads published for bogus devices promising to deliver dramatic face and body changes that might reasonably be expected only from surgical intervention.

Various models of chin and forehead straps, such as the patented “Ganesh” brand, were advertised as a means for removing double chins and wrinkles around the eyes.

Bust reducers and hip and stomach reducers, such as the JZ Hygienic Beauty Belt, also promised non-surgical ways to reshape the body.

The frequency of these ads in popular magazines suggests that use of these devices was socially acceptable. In comparison, coloured cosmetics such as rouge and kohl eyeliner were rarely advertised. The ads for “powder and paint” that do exist often emphasised the product’s “natural look” to avoid any negative association between cosmetics and artifice.

The most common cosmetic operations requested before the 20th century aimed to correct features such as ears, noses, and breasts classified as “ugly” because they weren’t typical for “white” people.

At this time, racial science was concerned with “improving” the white race. In the United States, with its growing populations of Jewish and Irish immigrants and African Americans, “pug” noses, large noses and flat noses were signs of racial difference and therefore ugliness.

Sander L. Gilman suggests that the “primitive” associations of non-white noses arose “because the too-flat nose came to be associated with the inherited syphilitic nose”.

American otolaryngologist John Orlando Roe’ s discovery of a method for performing rhinoplasties inside the nose, without leaving a tell-tale external scar, was a crucial development in the 1880s. As is the case today, patients wanted to be able to “pass” (in this case as “white”) and for their surgery to be undetectable.

In 2015, 627,165 American women , or an astonishing 1 in 250, received breast implants. In the early years of cosmetic surgery, breasts were never made larger.

Breasts acted historically as a “ racial sign ”. Small, rounded breasts were viewed as youthful and sexually controlled. Larger, pendulous breasts were regarded as “primitive” and therefore as a deformity.

In the age of the flapper, in the early 20th century, breast reductions were common. It was not until the 1950s that small breasts were transformed into a medical problem and seen to make women unhappy.

Shifting views about desirable breasts illustrate how beauty standards change across time and place. Beauty was once considered as God-given, natural or a sign of health or a person’s good character.

When beauty began to be understood as located outside of each person and as capable of being changed, more women, in particular, tried to improve their appearance through beauty products, as they now increasingly turn to surgery.

There is a close link between cosmetic surgical trends and the qualities we value as a culture, as well as shifting ideas about race, health, femininity, and ageing.

Last year was celebrated by some within the field as the 100th anniversary of modern cosmetic surgery. New Zealander Dr Harold Gillies has been championed for inventing the pedicle flap graft during World War I to reconstruct the faces of maimed soldiers. Yet as is well documented, primitive versions of this technique had been in use for centuries.

Such an inspiring story obscures the fact that modern cosmetic surgery was really born in the late 19th century and that it owes as much to syphilis and racism as to rebuilding the noses and jaws of war heroes.

The surgical fraternity – and it is a brotherhood, as more than 90% of cosmetic surgeons are male — conveniently places itself in a history that begins with reconstructing the faces and work prospects of the war wounded.

In reality, cosmetic surgeons are instruments of shifting whims about what is attractive. They have helped people to conceal or transform features that might make them stand out as once diseased, ethnically different, “primitive”, too feminine, or too masculine.

The sheer risks that people have been willing to run in order to pass as “normal” or even to turn the “misfortune” of ugliness, as the homeliest girl contest put it, into beauty, shows how strongly people internalise ideas about what is beautiful.

Looking back at the ugly history of cosmetic surgery should give us the impetus to more fully consider how our own beauty norms are shaped by prejudices including racism and sexism.

Authors: The Conversation Contributor

Read more   http://theconversation.com/friday-essay-the-ugly-history-of-cosmetic-surgery-56500

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