I had the good luck to come across three separate pieces of writing this week that described quite clearly, I thought, how it feels to be alive at this moment. Together, these pieces reminded me of some of the primary sources professors carefully chose for me as a history undergraduate; they were such clear-eyed assessments and resonated so deeply that they seemed like they were written about 2010 by historians from many years in the future.
Anyway, I thought I’d share. If you’re going to read one, set aside 30 minutes and read all three.
“Steve Martin Isn’t Predictable Enough!: This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things,” Linda Holmes, about Steve Martin’s recent, traumatic event at the 92nd St. Y and the “entitlement of the incurious.”
Midway through the interview, a Y representative brought a note to Solomon — on stage! — telling her to talk more about his career. Presumably, she was supposed to ask more stuff about what it was like making Three Amigos and The Jerk. In other words, stop talking about the things people aren’t used to hearing Steve Martin talk about, and get back to having him answer questions people could easily find the answers to if they cared to use Google.
“I, Reader,” Alexander Chee, on technology, attention, and reading. There is, appropriately, nothing easy to quote here. But the essay unfolds beautifully and offers a profound conclusion.
“RE HIPSTER RUNOFF’S ANIMAL COLLECTIVE POST,” Nick Sylvester, on my generation’s hesitation to love what we love. This is the most challenging read of the three, but also the most passionate. It offers a stark, concrete, and, in my opinion, ultimately truthful assessment of how people my age are often cowardly in the face of ignorance.
Mark is older than me, much taller and handsomer and kinder and so on, but at that time I was in most awe how confident he seemed as a critic. Not that he knew where he stood on everything, so much as he wasn’t afraid to admit his ignorance. In a car full of critics, in the company of our driver boss and his iPod on shuffle, Mark was the one who asked the names of the songs he didn’t know, while the rest of us tried to catch the chorus so we could google afterwards. It was some song by Jim O’Rourke. Was this part of the Pitchfork canon that we all were just supposed to know? Was this some kind of pop quiz? I’ll speak for the back seat: The relief was palpable.
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