Land of Lime

Hallelujah

PDCS — Wed, 04 Apr 2007 20:12:04 +0000

Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah is a song that I like.

While reading a blog posting yesterday morning, I came across a link to one of my favorite clips from The West Wing, where it was used for the final episode of the third season. Sorkin used the Jeff Buckley version, which I prefer slightly over Leonard Cohen’s. I have been playing various versions all day, partly to escape from writing a conference paper for this weekend. YouTube is awesome. Ain’t it? Especially if you want to not work.

I thought some of you might like to watch it.

Here is the Leonard Cohen version. Then two more versions by Jeff Buckley, live in Chicago and NPA Live ‘95. Both are good. Here is a link to the lyric and some interesting factoids.

See how easy it is to pick the YouTube reality over American Idol (although on occasions they don’t seem to be much different) and the TV West Wing over the real one that George W Bush presides over.

Hallelujah.

Makara Sankranti

PDCS — Mon, 15 Jan 2007 06:59:00 +0000

Time to write a proper Land of Lime Makara Sankranti post. If I feel inspired by this afternoon’s trip to Kyatanahalli, in lush green Mandya district, then I will write an entry on how farmers in southern Karnataka celebrate the harvest festival.

In the meanwhile, greetings to all. Sankranti Subhashayagalu.

Good day. A man, who was in construction, last year ‘kicks‘ our Chicago Bears to NFC championship game. One game away from Superbowl. Good job, Robbie Gould.

Dilli Notes - 1

PDCS — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 02:55:52 +0000

On being declared (non) Indian
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For some years now, Archaelogical Survey of India has been charging higher entry fees to foreigners, to enter monuments under ASI control. Since most of the tourist attractions are managed by the ASI, foreign tourists sometimes pay as much as thirty to forty times more than Indian nationals.

Until this past weekend, we always wondered how the ASI gatekeepers would determine the nationality of visitors and assumed that color would be an obvious marker. But at the Taj, I was suspected to be a non-Indian / outsider and challenged to produce an Indian identity. I wasn’t carrying my passport (who would on a day trip to Agra) and my driver’s license was being renewed in Mysore. So bereft of all Indian identity, I was declared equal to thirty seven and half Indians and made to buy a Rs 750 ticket to enter the Taj.

But the explanation the ticket checker at the gate offered was interesting. He apparently challenges those whom he suspects of being outsiders. He wouldn’t elaborate on how he would make that judgment but simply asserted he knows. A few yards away, at the security gate, the policeman too took one look at my wallet and asked me to show my NRI ticket. My two companions were highly amused and couldn’t stop teasing me about my non-Indian status.

Taj is a postcard.

From every angle.

Delhi in Winter
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I love Delhi in winter months. One could be outside and walk everywhere, sip endless cups of chai and eat enormous quantities of food. Me and my friends know where to eat and what to do, which makes visiting a city truly fun. A light jacket or a sweater are adequate for survival, although some South Indians Delhi-ites might disagree.

I spent much of my time on the road, visiting neighborhoods and markets, bus and train stations. My new project is to build a photo archive of unusual sights in Delhi, which I want to use in a ‘Biography of a City’ course that I teach on Delhi. Unlike in Agra, this time, my companion wasn’t amused at being taken to the Interstate Bus Terminus (ISBT) and the Sabzi Mandi at Azadpur. Well, they aren’t on anybody’s tourist map. Our cab driver desperately tried to put us back into the tourist circuit and take us to Lal Qila. But the call of Sabzi Mandi was too powerful in the end.

Oxford and Oxford
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Oxford Bookstore is a superbly designed bookstore on Barakamba road in Delhi. Different sections and subjects are located in neatly divided superbly lit circular spaces. Bookshelves are cool and it’s fun to just sit around. Oxford University Press showrooms aren’t. At least the one in Bangalore isn’t. People struggle to find books and staff have no clue about catalogues. Some book sellers seems to be intent on killing the fun in buying books.

Agamben in Delhi
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Yesterday, Italian philosopher Giorgia Agamben delivered the B.N.Ganguly Memorial Lecture at the Center for the Study of Developing Societies (CSDS). I missed the talk since I had to return to Bangalore yesterday morning. Hoping to catch a report on it in the blogosphere but none seem to have surfaced so far.

Of Poets and Poetry

PDCS — Fri, 17 Nov 2006 14:40:14 +0000

Some months ago, I wrote about the friendship between Bhoja and Kalidasa. Here is another similar episode from medieval South India involving Krishnadevaraya and Allasani Peddana. A catu verse couched as a lament by Peddana offers a vision of the esteem that Krishnadevaraya had towards his favorite poet:

When he would see me on the street, he would halt his elephant
and help me up with his own hand.
For the mere asking, he gave me villages like Kokata, in any region.
On the day I dedicated my Story of Manu to him,
he himself carried the palanquin where i was seated.
He told me I alone was worthy to wear the anklet
of a triumphant poet, and it was he who tied it on my foot.
He called me Master of Telugu Poetry, Allasani Peddana, King of Poets.
Now Krsnaraya has died, and I couldn’t go with him
to heaven. I stay on,
like the living dead. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 157]

Of course, this isn’t as dramatic the Kalidasa-Bhoja encounter but as we read the Classical Telugu Poetry in my graduate seminar, I thought more about how the tradition seeks to honor and remember its cultural heroes. We will leave the analysis aside for another occasion but here is another excerpt from Appakavi, a seventeenth century poet and grammarian. Notice the self confident tone of the poet as he speaks of poety:

The wise say that poetry is the only form of knowledge.
Is there any doubt? Poetry is the ultimate
learning. To know it is to know the world.
A king is honored in his own kingdom. If he crosses the border,
he’s not worth a cowry shell. A scholar, though, is respected
everywhere. A pot is better still. As the saying goes,
“If you have poetry, who needs a kingdom?” This is true.
That’s why poets write.
It’s a joy when a woman or a poem
comes naturally to you.
If you force them, they bring you grief.
All the labor you invest in learning metrics and poetics
is a waste-if you are not driven to create
well-wrought poems in pleasing words.
The learning of a man with no ability to compose
never comes to life, like the shape of things at night
in a house without lamps. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 238]

In a lighter vein, here is another amusing verse by Tenali Ramakrishna on an ideal householder’s life. Here is Lord Siva himself responding to a question by Narada:

If the wife you married doesn’t nag
and your son doesn’t talk back,
and your brothers get along well with you,
and your daughter-in-law doesn’t grumble,
and your daughter doesn’t compromise her character,
and you are not burdened by debts,
and you don’t lose pride by serving others,
and you don’t suffer scandal,
and you can get rich honestly,
and you are gracious to guests,
and there is respect for the gods in your home,
there’s nothing better than a householder’s life. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 202]

Prof. Narayanarao was in the Bay area earlier this week and gave a delightful talk at Berkeley. His presence was one more reminder of what a stupendous achievement this anthology of Telugu poetry is. There is nothing comparable for any other South Asian language.

Gandhi in popular culture

PDCS — Thu, 26 Oct 2006 16:57:22 +0000

From Munnabhai to Kris Kristofferson, Gandhi seems to be the flavor of the times. Here is a song by Kristofferson (thanks Rajeev for the link) for your viewing pleasure.

Mahatma Gandhi - music video

Is any commentary necessary?

Shakespeare and Love in Farmer’s Market

PDCS — Tue, 26 Sep 2006 05:03:03 +0000

Last saturday, I finally succumbed to the ultimate California attraction: the farmer’s market on Grand and Lake in Oakland. You know the deal. Support the local growers and buy the imperfectly formed, organic vegetables and fruits. Nice food and good music. What more could one ask for? According to reports, I didn’t even notice friends, as I soaked in the new experience and bought enormous quantities of vegetables, fruits and cheese.

I did make a new friend though: Chef Dennis Bell, who runs Shakespearean Sweets. His brochures as well as pastry stand are filled with sonnets from the old master himself! Pastries are named after Shakespearean plays. Needless to add, I didn’t expect to run into a Shakespearean chef in a farmer’s market. Let us sample Dennis’ wares.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING is wine poached pear with pastry cream, promogranate seed sauce set in a tuile cup on a bed of sweet shredded Greek pilo dough.

ROMEO & JULIET’S ADDICTION is a flourless chocolate cake with a minted strawberry sauce, tuile butterfly and dark chocolate cigarette.

TAMING OF THE SHREW, LITTLE EGYPT, OTHELLO & DESDEMONA’S PASSION are the other appealing options while THREE WITCHES is among coming attractions.

You buy a box of truffles or a dessert, Dennis will throw in a love sonnet quote from Shakespeare, which he guarantees will ‘impress the one you love’.

As I rode back home, charting a course avoiding the steepest of Oakland hills, here is what I wished: chef Dennis would assure us that his pastries would impress the ones we love.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the written word as much as anyone who has ever breathed. Still, on occasions I suspect I want to take refuge in chef Dennis, than in the master poet.

My favorite poet, W. B. Yeats, the hopeless romantic and ferocious humanist, would have approved my sentiments. Oakland sure is filled with cool poets, as I have noted in the past. Dennis too makes it a cool place to be.

In Praise of Zinedine Zidane

PDCS — Fri, 07 Jul 2006 10:16:20 +0000

Sweat pours over his pink, granite face. That severe, austere, commanding, carved face, which houses a shy, quiet and reticent persona. He resembles a monk, not the greatest football player since Diego Maradona.

He runs like a bull in the midfield and charges occasionally when the ball is in sight. But with the ball at his feet, he turns into a ballerina. Feet dance over the ball. Now he goes left, then right, right again. Sleight feint of body. Multiple converging opponents are left in his heels. He sees passing lanes and open spaces that others don’t. He sees everything in front of him and behind him too. Teammates and opponents. Like a Chess grandmaster, he sees what might happen four moves later. Like a conductor, he orchestrates the French symphony on a football field.

Then more magic happens. The (foot)ball listens to the dictates of his feet like it has of few others. As he runs with the ball, it sticks to his feet. When he passes, it runs with precision to the feet of his obliging teammates. The last of the Classical No 10s masterminds the game peerlessly.

Zinedine Zidane is back. What’s more he is smiling and having a ball. Let the obituaries Rest In Peace. All reports of erosion of skills, extra pounds, loss of a step are all but a lie. Zizou has turned time back one last time, as World Cup 2006 turns into his swan song, his retirement party. Soccer Gods surely haven’t lost their sense of justice and fairness. Zizou couldn’t and ought not to have suffered the fate of Maradona of 1994. He hasn’t abused his skills and made unfair demands on the world. He has conducted himself with decency and dignity. Over the years, he has let his sublime skills and performances speak. And not personal excesses, advertising campaigns or metrosexuality.

Zidane has won them all. For his national team and his club teams. World Cup. European Cup. Champions League. French, Spanish and Italian leagues. What’s more? He has scored astonishing goals at critical moments and commanded the game from his customary midfield position. Recall the 1998 finals against Brazil. European Cup in 2000. Champions Leagure finals in 2002. The game against England in 2004 European Cup, when he scored those astonishing goals in the final minutes to destroy English hopes of a major championship. Zizou’s legacy as an all time great is secure.

He needn’t have done more. His teammates too. They are mostly old, over the hill and out of form grumpy old men of France, who had won everything and weren’t supposed to make any noise at this World Cup. The coach, Roger Domenech didn’t control the team. Reports of internal strife abounded. When Zidane, Lilian Thuram, Makelele and Barthez unretired from international competition and came back to the national team, they apparently exercised undue influence in team composition and strategy. Questions and criticism persisted. Zizou, that soccer god he is, was himself above all criticism even by the notorious French Press and fickle French public.

Should the team be built around the sublime skills of Zidane or Theirry Henry? True, they are both creators as well as proved goal scorers but with their contrasting styles, can and will they coexist together? Henry likes an open and fast paced attacking game, whereas the presence of Zidane slows down the team. Zizou needs the ball, is good at creating and exploiting openings and sending precise passes. Henry runs like gazelle with or without the ball and with his sublime ball control can create chances for others or clinically finish as well as anyone else. They both need to be main men in a team but can they complement one another? In nearly a decade, the master passer Zidane had never assisted in a Henry goal. As the World Cup began and in the first two weeks, the question wasn’t whether France could perform creditably. We simply wanted to know whether they could score a goal. The old guard was too old and the young weren’t good enough to pull France to its rightful place among the comity of great soccer playing nations.

This wasn’t their time. Other countries and stars were supposed to shine. Ronalidnho was expected to join the ranks of the greats. Ballack and Gerrard/Lampard were to bring glory to their countries. This was to be the coming out party for youthful stars such as Wayne Rooney, Kaka, Lionel Messi, Maxi Rodriguez, Michael Essien and Christiano Ronaldo. Even a fat Ronaldo was expected to prove himself as the greatest goal scorer of all time. Beckham would redeem himself. They all had their moments. Their teams - Spain, Netherlands, Argentina, Brazil, Ghana - enthralled us all. Yet, what separates the talented and petulant from the ranks of the truly great is the capacity of a Zidane to string together a series of performances.

One moment of magic. One game controlling performance. A series, a season, a tournament. Zizou has done it all. So what do the games against Spain, Brazil and Portugal mean then? Do they elevate him to the ranks of Pele and Maradona, as the greatest winners of all time?

Ever the most influential player on the field whenever he played, Zidane was never known as a vocal leader. He had never even captained at any level, before he pulled on the armband for France. Never demonstrative or outspoken, he didn’t seem to enjoy the attention that his success brought from fans and especially, from the Press. But as the captain of his national team upon his return a year ago, he has begun to slowly assert himself as a leader of men. He is more demonstrative on the field and often admonishes his team mates publicly. At this World Cup, both his new found leadership and superb display of soccer elevate him to the realm of best that ever played the game. Pele. Maradona. Zidane. His legacy is complete, with or without winning the finals.

There is more to Zidane.

Even when he didn’t aspire for a public role, for over a decade now, Zidane has stood for something larger than his on field performances. Son of Algerian immigrants, he is often seen as the symbol of a new multicultural France. In the face of Le Pen’s (and French Right’s) repeated denunciation of the French national team, the colored faces of the French team led by Zidane stand for something more than a limited (and perhaps even bankrupt) vision of multiculturalism. Sure, Theirry Henry, Patrick Vierra and even Zidane, the multimillionaires who have benefited from a capitalist, free market Europe don’t represent the oppressed former French colonies or their people. Senegalese and Algerians have to fight their own battles with their unenviable past and present.

But for the French themselves, their soccer team offers an opportunity for atonement for their past. As they celebrate the success of their national team, they could also embark on a path of self examination. The self absorbed (radical-rioting?) youth of France don’t demonstrate that promise. In an era of jingoistic nationalism and exclusivism, I am pragmatic enough to realize this is a bit much to expect. World Cup and such events turn into moments of obscene national celebration. Waving national flags, violent and obscene behavior. You don’t need anything else to turn the biggest sporting spectacle into a petty, reprehensible occasion.

Still, we hope. We hope for a Gandhian moment. Recall, when asked to sign the team sheets of Indian and a visiting English team in the early 1930s, Gandhi signed himself as the 17^th member of a Jardine-led British team. We hope that the French gain the capacity to see the Other within Themselves. Let us not forget there is no other team like France at this World Cup. Especially from Europe and the Americas. Algerians, Martiniquans and Senegalese dominate the team much to the regret of Le Pen and his cronies. Zidane’s France isn’t Platini’s France. Zidane and Henry, Vierra and Makelele, Thuram and Gallas with their contrasting skills and pasts offer a compelling political and aesthetic experience, as we watch the French take the field against Italians on Sunday.

But on Sunday, GOLI MARO to all this political and ethical crap.

I just want to watch the master play his final game. We could all catch on Google Video all the astonishing goals Zidane scored over the years. Ah, that superb volley from the edge of the box in the 2002 Champion’s Leage finals that’s etched in my mind! There are so many more.

Come Sunday, the final ninety minutes of the master on a soccer field would be all about controlling the game from the midfield, with some help from his adjutants, Vierra and Makelele. It will be about seeing two feet of gap that others don’t and sending one magical pass to the waiting feet of Henry or Ribery. It will be about running with the ball, slight feint, now to the left and then to the right, deceive two or three defenders and shoot past a hapless goalkeeper. It will be about a free kick from the edge of the box past waves of defenders. Or a free kick from thirty-forty yards away or a corner kick to the waiting head of Henry, Thuram or Vierra. It will be about raising above the heads of his team mates and opponents, to guide home a corner kick from the right.

It will be about a moment of magic and then ninety minutes of commanding men.

Then that chiseled pink granite face will be gone.

No other face was meant to be carved from a stone.

Then, like the kids in those cute Adidas ads, we, young and old, will have to recall Zidane to our fantasy games and play with him.

In the meanwhile, let us enjoy the finals and Zinedine Zidane.

At Powells

PDCS — Fri, 02 Jun 2006 15:14:23 +0000

In Chicago, the first of every month is a special day. No, not because it’s pay day. Powells book store, the finest second hand book store I have ever been in, offers twenty percent discount. So off we go, on the first of every month, to enact the ‘first’ ritual. Even on January 1st, when the store is open between 9 AM and 3 PM.

Buying a book is as much a ritual as reading it. Perhaps, it is more elaborate. As in all second hand bookstores, one doesn’t get all one needs. But in these days of Amazon and online book buying, when we could buy books for a dollar, if we are willing to pay $3.99 for postage and handling, Powells still makes it possible to browse through the stacks and find books that we always wanted to read and own. Do we not want to hold a book, feel it and experience its mateirality, before buying it? Indeed, we build special relationships with our bookstores and get to know them intimately.

Although, it has a huge online presence and a bigger store in Portland, our Powells is a Hyde Park and University of Chicago institution. Regulars are mostly philosophy, social theory and theory nuts. But it also has a pretty good collection of literature, history and social sciences too. In fact, it reflects the intellectual interests primarily of the University of Chicago students and teachers. Not surprising. Me and my friends have bought more books there than in any other bookstore.

Rows and rows of high shelves, stacked with books, organized according to subject and then alphabetically. We know every single shelf intimately. Some books have been there for years. After a while, we learn to spot the presence of a new book quickly and efficiently. New arrivals are piled up on the front desk. We perfect the art of pouncing on those yet to be priced books, keep on them on hold and return on the first to claim our discounted bounty. In fact, after the fifteenth of each month, we visit Powells several times, to browse our shelves quickly, scan the new arrivals, build our pile and put them on hold for two weeks. Only ten books can be kept on hold for a maximum of two weeks, but occasionally, as our stash grows, we are bound by our book love to assume multiple identities. This week, I was myself and my housemate, who indeed is a real living person. It’s a tricky business though, and the assumption of new identity can only be practiced when an unsuspecting new clerk is manning the cash register.

It’s not only for the discount that we keep books on hold, but to postpone a dilemma. The prospect of 20% discount on a half priced book also makes it psychologically easier to buy a non-essential book on the first of every month. Indeed, that moment of deciding on what to buy is a major part of the ‘first’ ritual. The question ‘what should I buy’ is always governed by a well worked out book buying philosophy. OK. No need to laugh at the nerdiness of the University of Chicago graduate students. We are simply too poor to buy all we covet. The bottomline for many of us has always been texts of philosophy and social theory. Books we shall read again and again, for the rest of our lives. Plato to Foucault, if you will. Then literary classics. Books on South Asian history and civilization. Texts necessary for classroom teaching. At the end of the list, cookbooks, books on music, sports and such.

Still once all the classics are bought, which you will, if you spend enough time in graduate school and live in the same apartment for several years (remember, moving apartments frequently prevents book buying), then one begins to look at other works. Yesterday, I was debating: should I buy Joseph Franks’ classic biography of my main man, Dostoevsky? How about David Levering Lewis’s superb biography of W E B Dubois? I didn’t buy either of them, which means I revisit the question again next month.

The ‘first’ ritual is both personal and collective. Bonds of friendship and love are forged and strengthened by the hours spent at Powells than at the Pub. Finding a book and keeping it on hold is perhaps more significant an act of friendship than buying a glass of beer. We never go alone to Powells. We don’t buy books just for ourselves. The joy of discovering and buying books is always shared. But even when we go there alone, we always think of absent friends, who would have liked a book that we discover. If they are in Chicago, we keep those books on hold. If they are elsewhere, we simply buy and send it to them. Yesterday, I came across Henry Petroski’s ‘The Pencil - A History of Design and Circumstance‘ that Krishna Prasad would love to read.

If I miss anything of Chicago, this ritual will probably be it. Yesterday, I made good though. Sepoy overslept and bailed out on me but my stash got replineshed. Anthologies of Bedouin poetry, Japanese literature, African American slave narratives, Civil Rights movement documents. Simone Weil, Proust, Arendt, Paul Valery, Neruda, Vico, Spinoza, Soyinka. Then, I went back with friends again, late at night for a second time, thinking this might one of the last opportunities for me to stock up, before I leave Chicago for good.

Submitting a dissertation

PDCS — Wed, 17 May 2006 16:09:35 +0000

If you thought writing and defending a dissertation was hard, there are more difficult rituals associated with this process. First, to get your dissertation committee to read your dissertation. Approval is easy, since you could argue, reason with your committee but getting it read isn’t. You have no agency in this matter. But in the dissertation office, the process gets reversed and creates the second major hurdle. It’s easy to get the folks there to look at your draft but their approval is very, very hard to achieve. I have come to realize that they are better at finding faults and keeping accounts than even Chitragupta, the legendary accountant of Yama, the god of death. They even find faults in drafts that they have already approved and in copies which they have accepted. You are asked to bring fresh printouts mercilessly and with a stern face.

The right paper. Margins. Footnotes which spill over. Set schemes for table of contents and list of tables. Pagination. Consistency in everything, formating and fonts, numbering schemes. They are very, very good at finding inconsistencies and mistakes. You can’t reason with them. It’s their way or NO WAY.

When I was revising and formating my dissertation, a friend told me that one needs all the help to submit / deposit a dissertation. She wasn’t way off the mark. If researching in the archives and then especially writing (on the obscure topics) is a lonely process, formating and preparing the manuscript for submission requires as many pairs of ‘volunteer’ eyes as one can bully into action. There are no professional editors to rely on, as is the case when one publishes. One gets sick of the sentences and paragraphs one has stared at forever and even to do a quick spell check or formating consistency. So the trick is to blackmail enough friends to help us with proofreading.

Over the years, I have ‘volunteered’ many times to have developed a historical perspective on this process. True, it isn’t as bad as in the days of manual typewriter and yes, recent versions of MS Word have made it easy to do formating compared to even late 1990s and up to about 2003. If you use LATEX, then all is nice and dandy. Not so, in times past or with folks who are still using Word 98. In the late 1990s, I was ‘interfacing’ for a friend who had to leave for India; a particularly nasty dissertation office Chitragupta made me resubmit the same page three times. Each time he found a new error. But by that time, between the two of us, me and my friend had already made over 25 visits to the dissertation office and met all his demands. He still wasn’t satisfied.

I can recount horror stories of dissertation submission all night long. Days spent editing and proofreading drafts, one’s own and of other people. Finding errors and then frantically making phone calls or sending emails to the authors, since they have the right font and diacritics to make corrections. Waiting for them to send a PDF version back, since Word won’t display properly on my machine. Printing all night long, on an Inkjet printer.

And then I have my own horror stories of roaming in the streets of Mysore, trying to find computers with USB ports in the cybercafes of Mysore or WIFI hotspots, so that I could send chapters back to Chicago for submission.

I just deposited my friend Ajay Rao’s dissertation, which made me remember fondly experiences of the past. Last summer, Ajay printed out my dissertation and deposited. This time around, it took us less than six hours on four different days to print out a draft, get it reviewed by Colleen (who is extraordinarily helpful and kind, an angel, if there ever was one) at the dissertation office, make a list of corrections needed, print the final draft, get the paperwork done at the Dean’s office and deposit it in the dissertation office. Not bad, given how much time we would have spent in the past. Of course, I am not taking into account the time Ajay had to spend to format and proofread his draft; that’s his karma!

Good job, mon. Congratulations. Let us hope our ritual has ended and the Diss office won’t email us again, ever.

Ajay makes an important argument about the theologization of a literary epic, Ramayana. Look forward to reading it closely and then in true Chicago fashion, raise hell.

For others, clock is ticking. They who know who they are shall plunge into action, like battle scarred veteran epic heroes and then demand that we ‘volunteer’ to be fresh pairs of eyes. I await that fate eagerly.

Foucault in the Oval!

PDCS — Mon, 15 May 2006 01:37:04 +0000

Just watched the final episode of the West Wing. In contrast to the pilot episode, this was a let down and had no great lines. Remember the Lincolnisque lines with which Bartlett characterizes those Cuban refugees who braved a storm and came to America:

With the clothes on their back, they came through a storm. Those who didn’t die want a better life for their children. …. Talk about being impressive.

Given the ER-ification of the West Wing under John Wells, I am glad that the series ended. Still, we all enjoyed watching a President, even a fictional one, who read a book.

In that spirit, here is a tidbit that some of you might enjoy. In the final episode, among Bartlett’s personal belongings being packed up in the oval office was a book by Michel Foucault. In fact, it was the only book that was shown in today’s episode. Outside of the academy, all things French are resented in America. And the real West Wing seems to show no interest in the written word, as it continues to obsess over who Americans might be talking to. So seeing Foucault even in a fictional West Wing made me feel hopeful.

Soon, on the many moments and episodes that I really liked and watched many, many times.

Postscript: I didn’t get a good look at the book Bartlett was presumably reading but Nation reports that book was indeed ‘SOCIETY MUST BE DEFENDED‘. How apt!

For the West Wing nuts, Westwingnews offers a pretty good wrapup.