I recently reread the two-volume graphic novel Maus, by Art Spiegelman. It struck me once again, as it did the first time I read these books, that they should not work on any level. And yet, against all odds, they constitute a bona fide masterpiece.

Why should they fail? Let me count the ways. Because of our over-familiarity with the genre, as well as the risk of trivialization, Holocaust stories are inherently difficult to write, especially by people such as Spiegelman who did not directly experience the horrors. He chooses to write in the form of the graphic novel—in other words, a lengthy cartoon. This genre should be especially offensive as a medium for telling so deeply horrific and monumental a tale.

What’s more, Spiegelman decides to depict the protagonists as various animals, which might have served to underline the cartoon aspects as well as dehumanizing the story: the hunted Jews are mice, the Nazis are cats, Poles are pigs, Russians bears, Americans dogs. And he intersperses his own experience of typical and somewhat pedestrian intergenerational angst and parent-child strife with the searing Holocaust sufferings of his parents.

How is it that Spiegelman manages to succeed? He begins slowly, by introducing his father Vladek but concentrating on their present-day post-Holocaust American life (the book was first published in the mid-80s). The man is so crotchety and annoying, so stingy and testy, that the reader shares Spiegelman’s frustration with him. And then the son gets the idea of interviewing his father about his experiences during the war, and the story begins to shift gear into a very different time and place.

Part of the power of the book comes from the idiosyncratic, colorful, and yet laconic way Vladek expresses himself, in accented English that conveys his practical and canny nature. The use of animals to portray the different ethnic and national groups stops seeming strange and becomes powerfully symbolic, keeping the reader from ever forgetting for a moment that these identities were the most salient characteristics of the world in which Vladek and his fellows lived, marking him and his fellow Jews as hunted prey and others as predators, helpers, or neutrals.

The reader learns at the outset that Spiegelman’s mother is dead. Although she came through the Holocaust seemingly intact, she committed suicide when Art was a young adult. As Vladek’s story introduces the reader slowly to the person she was, it becomes more and more apparent that the love between the two was an extraordinarily powerful force, and largely responsible for her wartime survival. Vladek was able to at least temporarily transfer some of his own remarkable gift for endurance to his wife. He was very clever and resourceful. But “clever” and “resourceful” are mild words to describe his stunning ability to find a way out of almost any situation.

Virtually all Holocaust survivor stories involve large elements of both luck and skill. But, having read many such tales, I think I can safely say that Vladek’s history involves more of the latter than any other such story I have read. He is always planning ahead, always thinking, always ingratiating himself with those who might be able to help him in the future. He pretends to have knowledge and training he lacks, and then he makes it his business to learn those skills and to learn them quickly and well (shoemaking, tinsmithing). Although starving, he manages the extraordinary feat of controlling his hunger in order to save food to use as bribes or gifts in ways that can help him in the future.

As Vladek’s past emerges in his own words, the reader—and his son Art—learn the source of many of the man’s maddening quirks. What appears from the perspective of the bountiful America of the 1980s to be a miserly and rather nasty need on the old man’s part to save and hoard seemingly useless things is revealed to be the same impulse that allowed him to live while so many others died. The angry Vladek who is so mean to his second wife (another Holocaust survivor) still mourns the first wife he loved so deeply. The man who maddens son Art with his clinginess and demands is the same person who lost almost every member of his large family, including his first child, in ways that retain their power to horrify even those who are familiar with the Holocaust.

It is said that to know all is to understand all. By the time Art has finished interviewing his father and writing the book, he has come to understand as best he (or any other person who did not directly experience the Holocaust) can what motivates the man, and to respect those very traits of his that originally drove the son nearly crazy. In one of the final panels of the book, Vladek, now very ill and lying in bed, sleepily addresses Art by the name of his deceased first son Richieu who died as a young child in the war. This especially moving moment demonstrates the fusion of the past with the present, and the fact that the dead still exist in the mind, untethered to time.

The strength of Maus is that it tells two tales simultaneously: an almost unimaginably terrifying story of suffering and heroic survival is interspersed with the story of the ordinary middle class life of an American family in which Old World parents give birth to a New World son. No one is spared and no one is glorified, and yet the final message amidst the horror and cynicism is of the power and depth of love.

The Necco Smoothie is a revolting impostor.

The other day it sucked me in with its colorful wrapper, its Necco pedigree, and its resemblance to the original (and still champion) Necco wafer. And so I tried it.

Once. Never again.

Here’s Necco’s own description of the product:

Necco ‘Smoothies’ Wafer Roll
Combining the Classic Necco Wafers® formula with the taste of a Smoothie drink. With their smooth texture and unique recipe, NECCO Wafers® Smoothies will have candy lovers everywhere falling for the five tempting fruit flavors—Blueberry, Banana Caramel, Tropical, Peach and Strawberry Crème.

Beware. Despite the continental sophistication of the cute little French accent mark above the first “e” in “Creme,” these things are dreadful: cloying and artificial-tasting in a way that the original Necco wafers never are.

Why try to improve on an already perfect thing? It reminds me of remakes of classic and beloved movies. Has a remake ever, ever, ever been an improvement on the original? I can’t think of one offhand.

I came across this the other day: a description of an archaic eighteenth/nineteenth century British substitute for the income tax, which was considered an invasion of privacy and intrusion on liberty. Still is, I’d wager.

The window tax was a supposedly easier way to create a progressive tax because the richer a person was, the more windows the house owned by that person tended to have. Some very rich people practiced a sort of flamboyant conspicuous consumption in which they purposely built houses filled with lots of windows to show how much money they had.

It’s not easy creating a tax that puts the proper burden (whatever that might be) on both rich and poor, and is simple to figure and administer. We don’t seem to succeed, but the window tax clearly (pun intended) didn’t, either.

I’m rather fond of dogs. But I can’t quite imagine cloning a beloved pet to the tune of $155,000.

Some people can, though. And not only can they imagine it, but they’ve paid to have it done.

Is this the height of decadence, denial of death, or devotion? You be the judge; I personally think it’s a bit of all three, including a hefty dose of the demented.

After all, a dog is—like most living creatures of any complexity—not a mere function of heredity. Environment plays a role, and so even by cloning you won’t necessarily get old Fido back, as some have already learned who’ve tried. There are also minor cosmetic variations that represent the result of characteristics of the uterine environment.

Lou Hawthorne is in charge of the San Francisco-based (where else?) endeavor, which he claims is the first to commercially clone dogs. The trailblazer was Missy, his mother’s beloved border collie/husky mix, from whom four clones have been produced.

Hawthorne’s 8-year old son Skye has gotten a pretty nice science project out of the process. But strangely enough, Hawthorne’s mother isn’t impressed with the results of the cloning:

“They’re not at all alike,” Ms. Hawthorne said of the old Missy and the new one. “In looks, they are a little bit, of course. But, I mean, the puppy is delicate and aggressive. Missy was robust and completely calm.” She added, “Missy wouldn’t come through my home and knock over every wineglass.”

Besides, she adopted another puppy not long after Missy died. “I already have a dog — a real dog.”

Ms. Hawthorne is mistaken about one thing: Missy’s clones are as “real” as any other dogs, despite their odd origins. But she’s not the only one who’s a bit confused. A Florida man who paid $155,000 for the thrill of having a clone of his deceased canine companion Lancelot had this to say about it:

Cloning means you could have the opportunity to have the same dog with you for your entire life.

No, Mr. Otto, just ask Ms. Hawthorne. It’s not the same dog over and over, any more than identical twins are the same person. Otto may be in for a few disappointments if he thinks otherwise.

Even though there are waiting lists of citizens eager for a spot in public housing, some spaces are occupied by illegal immigrants. It’s a small percentage, to be sure; estimates are .4% of units, although it is admitted that authorities are unaware of the true number, which could be higher.

Most of the known illegal immigrants in public housing are the relatives of citizens or legal immigrants with whom they live. A typical grouping will be illegal parents living with children who have been born in this country—once this happens, the parents are home free, as it were.

But sometimes the illegal alien is not part of a family unit in which some of the relatives are citizens or legal residents, and yet still qualifies for public housing. How can such a thing occur? Here’s one way:

Massachusetts, where Obama’s aunt occupied one of about 50,000 state-funded units, doesn’t ask immigration status under a 1977 federal consent decree in a class-action lawsuit that prohibits the state from denying the benefit to illegal immigrants.

The article is mum about the details of the class-action lawsuit and how such a bizarre ruling came to be. But it does offer the following clarification about the legal situation of Obama’s aunt Onyango, although whether her story is typical is unclear:

…[she] applied for public housing in 2002 while she was in the country legally seeking asylum from her native Kenya…Onyango moved into federally funded housing in 2003 and stayed there after 2004, when, The Associated Press learned, an immigration judge denied her asylum application and ordered her to leave the country.

Onyango transferred to an apartment funded only by the state, which cannot ask about immigration status under the court order.

The issue seems to be whether the public housing is federally funded or state funded. It is not disclosed how Onyango was able to make this all-important transfer from a federal to a state-funded site in a city such as Boston, where there is a substantial waiting list for public housing. My guess would be that, as a person already residing in a federal project, she may have had some sort of priority if she wanted to move, and might have been able to bypass a waiting list.

However it was done, immigration attorneys are no doubt well aware of such loopholes in the law, and most likely advise their clients accordingly. The taxpayer, of course, is the one picking up the tab—for the housing itself, and probably also for the attorneys who advise their illegal immigrant clients as to how best to game the system.

…nails the current Palestinian/Israeli conflict with absolute clarity.

Just in case you thought the AP had turned over a new leaf, here’s its current take on the Israel/Palestine conflict. It’s titled, “Israel kills top Hamas figure, escalating campaign.”

True to form, the AP takes its time in divulging how the whole thing began (Hamas-launched rockets into Israel at the end of a cease-fire), not making any mention of such a thing until paragraph eight. Perhaps it’s surprising that it’s mentioned at all, and that when it is, it’s done in terms that are relatively harsh.

The Hamas “figure” (the AP’s rather neutral term; he’s also a “militant”) who was killed, Nizar Rayan, sounds like a lovely guy indeed. He was even a professor of Islamic law; what’s not to like? He also “was respected in Gaza for donning combat fatigues and personally participating in clashes against Israeli forces.” And then there’s this little detail, “He sent one of his sons on an October 2001 suicide mission that killed two Israeli settlers in Gaza.”

Some of his other children died in the blast on the apartment in which Rayan lived with his family. That explosion was augmented by the fact that the apartment—with all these innocent civilians living there—seems to have been a weapons storage facility as well.

[NOTE: For a previous in-depth discussion of the killlng of children in the Palestinian/Israeli conflict, and the strategy of the Palestinians to sacrifice said children rather than protect them, please see this.]

Happy New Year to all!

Anyone out there with the traditional hangover? It puzzled me, however, when I checked Google’s top searches for today, to see “hangover remedies” only ranked at number 80. Far earlier came Rose Bowl information, mummers parades, stores open New Years Day, and a curious desire to cook cabbage. There were several versions of recipe searches for that particular vegetable, including one for sauerkraut.

That gave me an idea: could it be that cabbage and/or sauerkraut is itself a hangover remedy? Aha! It turns out that my supposition was correct:

Casey reckons “I know only a few people who will try this hangover remedy but those who do it swear by it, sauerkraut. It makes some sense - the acid/nadh balance and the nutritional value - but from first hand experience it works rediculously well. I’ve seen it work in the most extreme cases.” If you can’t bring yourself to eat the actually chunky bits, try sauerkraut juice (out of the sauerkraut bottle) mixed with tomato juice, or a good helping of Sauerkraut Hangover Soup (recipe below). Actually while doing a bit of poking around checking out the vailidity of this claim, it appears that eating raw cabbage has been used right through history for preventing as well as curing hangovers, so Casey could well be onto something here.

Google, ain’t it wonderful? And here’s the recipe, for those so inclined. Hangover or no, it sounds pretty tasty:

Sauerkraut Hangover Soup

To serve, ladle into soup bowls and serve immediately. Pass a bowl of sour cream.

And here you thought this was the Year of the Ox? Well, it is. But far more important, it is the year of the neo-neocon and Tammy Bruce Co-Regency in the Grande Conservative Blogress Diva contest.

Yes, that’s a mouthful. I felt the need to look up the definition of the word “regent” myself to ascertain just what my duties might be, since my previous association with the term involved the dread exams we New York students used to be required to take at the end of every high school course:

(1) One who rules during the minority, absence, or disability of a monarch.
(2) One acting as a ruler or governor.
(3) A member of a board that governs an institution, such as a state university

Somehow I don’t think any of that will be coming into play. However, at some point I will be getting an exceptionally nifty eagle/high-heel logo to display on this blog. Every time you gaze on it, you can have the satisfaction of knowing you had some small part in making it all happen. My heartfelt thanks.

You can celebrate by voting once again for neo-neocon for Diva. Remember, one vote a day is allowed, until 5 PM EST today. I am very close to my stated goal of second place. Just think, you could be the very one to put me over the top!

[ADDENDUM: I seem to have tied for second place with my illustrious co-Regent Tammy Bruce. Couldn’t have done it without you!]

i just thought I’d be contrarian with the title above, because all over the MSM and the blogosphere one can read lamentations about the terrible year that’s ending.

Yes, of course, the economy is bad. But it’s nothing compared to the 1930s—at least not yet, and hopefully not ever.

Otherwise, I don’t quite see the awful awfulness of it all. We’ve had our usual peaceful transition of power, or are about to. The Iraq War is no longer a war, and signs there are relatively good. Israel and Palestine are not at peace—and just how does that differ from any other year? Most of us are hardly starving, although we’ve had to cut back. And for those who hate President Bush, he’s finally on the way out!

So, be of good cheer, folks. Jules Crittenden is.

…like a fox.

I noted before that Blagojevich was once a prizefighter. If he’s going to go down, it’ll be with a flurry of punches.