FinermanWorks

EGYPT SEEKS LOANS OF OVERSEAS ARTIFACTS
 
Egypt said Sunday it would seek the temporary return of some of its most precious artifacts from museums abroad, including the Rosetta Stone and a bust of Nefertiti.

The country’s chief archaeologist, Zahi Hawass, said the Foreign Ministry would send letters this week to France, Germany, the United States and Great Britain requesting that the ancient artifacts be loaned to Egypt.

The Egyptian request did include a self-addressed stamped envelope.  Unfortunately, the responses were not encouraging.   

Britain offered the DVD of “Caesar and Cleopatra” in return for a temporary loan of the Suez Canal.  A spokesman for the Bush Administration explained America’s refusal:  transporting the murals of scantily-clad ancient Egyptians might violate postal regulations against pornography.  France refused, dismissing the Egyptians as aesthetic inferiors who would not appreciate their own art.  Germany found it pleasantly surprising to have “borrowed” anything without having caused a war.

In a related development, Egypt’s Treasury Department has asked to borrow the syndication rights to “Seinfeld.”  Filing a lien on intellectual property rights, Egypt has identified Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David as escaped Hebrew slaves.

On this day in 1945, a focus group chose a new and more casual look for Benito Mussolini.  No more Gucci for him! His new style lent itself to such sporty, theatrical activities as hanging upside from a lamppost outside the Milan train station.  So, even if Il Duce did not quite revive the Roman Empire, he could be considered the pioneer of bungee jumping.

Among its most shameless literary traditions, England has the grate Briton, that unsparing malicious wit, the mean for all seasons, whose jaundice is not merely infectious but irresistible.  Waugh, Wilde and Thackeray used venom to etch the telling portraits of their times.

This pedigree of cantankerous brilliance might be tenuously traced as far back as Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey (1517-1547).  A gifted poet and an acerbic wit, the cousin of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard probably did not find an appreciative audience with Henry VIII.  Surrey’s decapitation might be regarded as a hint.  In fact, it was a setback from which Catholic humor has never recovered.

Another putative ancestor of this morbid mirth would be John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680).  The court wit, playwright and human spirochete proved to be too disreputable even for Charles II.  The Earl was exiled from Court, although that was as much a matter of aesthetics as morals. Rochester’s nose was rotting away from syphilis.       

Neither Surrey nor Rochester lived long enough to be a curmudgeon, so perhaps the real father of Grand Old British Grouches was Edward Gibbon.  Being a historian–the author of the intimidating “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire“–one might presume that Gibbon was a stupefying bore.  In fact, he was biliously funny.  “The Decline and Fall…” proves him to be an equal-opportunity misanthrope.  With a droll contempt, he denounced the Romans, Christians, Jews, barbarians, and Byzantines.  He only seemed to approve of a few pagan Greek intellectuals.

Here is a sampling of his acidic wit and scathing perspective: 

“We are always prone to impute our own sentiments and passions to the Deity.”

“The acquisition of knowledge seldom engages the curiosity of the nobles, who abhor the fatigue and disdain the advantages of study.”  

“The vices of the Byzantine armies were inherent, their victories accidental.”

Modern research has disproved many of Gibbon’s contentions, and he is much too interesting by current scholastic standards.  If he has been forsaken by today’s historians, however, he still is cherished by curmudgeons.

And today is his 270th birthday: Happy, no make that Dyspeptic Birthday Mr. Gibbon!

Today is the birthday of the great French painter Eugene Delacroix.  His “Liberty Leading the People” was a long-time favorite of teenage boys in sophomore history; they had an aesthetic appreciation of France as a topless woman.  If only our Statue of Liberty lacked such inhibitions….

And in honor of Delacroix’s birthday, let’s discuss Talleyrand.   

Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord (1754-1838) was a brilliant statesman and a shameless rogue: no wonder Alexander Hamilton admired him. Talleyrand was born with every advantage, but he continually reinvented himself: a liberal bishop, a revolutionary politician, a suave diplomat, a royalist conspirator. His politics were just as flexible: revolutionary, Bonapartist, and royalist (for competing dynasties.)

His remarkable life was shaped–actually misshaped–by a childhood accident that left him permanently lame. Rather than have their line represented by a cripple, his parents dispossessed him of his rights as the eldest son. He was relegated to a career in the clergy. Of course, it was a luxurious version of the clerical life–lush sinecures, no clothes drives or bingo nights for him. He had been an excellent student at the seminary/college except that he was reading distinctly unclerical works: Montaigne, Montesquieu, Voltaire. Young Bishop Talleyrand was a radical.

Although an aristocrat and a cleric, Talleyrand supported the French Revolution. In the Estate Generals of 1789, he persuaded the more sensible aristocrats and clerics to join with the Bourgeoisie in their demands for reforms. In 1791, he was one of the leaders of the National Assembly’s drive to extend full civil liberties to Protestants and Jews in France.

The same year he began his career in the foreign service. The suave aristocrat first represented revolutionary France in Britain and then in the United States. (It was at that time that Hamilton would have met the Frenchman.) During the Reign of Terror, when aristocrats and bishops–no matter how liberal–were executed for their pedigrees, Talleyrand was safely abroad. Eventually, France sickened of the Terror and turned on the Radicals; they had their turn with the guillotine. Then France was governed by a moderate oligarchy called the Directory; Talleyrand became the Foreign Minister. However, he sensed that the dull, corrupt Directory would not last long, and in 1797 Talleyrand started cultivating the friendship of an ambitious, stellar young general named Bonaparte.

In two years, Bonaparte was the Dictator of France. In six years, he crowned himself Emperor. And guess who remained Foreign Minister. In that position, Talleyrand was implicated in the XYZ Affair: he was the one whom the American diplomats were expected to bribe. Surprisingly, Talleyrand was not instrumental in the Louisiana Purchase; in fact, he opposed it but Napoleon disregarded his advice. Napoleon frequently disregarded the the more moderate and less martial recommendations of Talleyrand.  So the French Minister began conducting his own Foreign Policy: first with the Austrians, then with the Russians and finally with the exiled Royal Family, the Bourbons.

With the defeat of Napoleon in 1814, Talleyrand manipulated the Restoration of the Bourbons. Louis XVIII made Talleyrand his Foreign Minister. In that role, Talleyrand represented France at the Congress of Vienna and managed to get the victorious allies to agree to lenient peace terms and support the Bourbons. Once Talleyrand accomplished that miracle, he found himself pensioned off. It was a nice pension (100,000 Francs a year and honorary positions of the royal council) but it was the equivalent of professional exile. Noting that the Bourbons were governing as if 1789 had never occurred, Talleyrand quipped, “They have forgotten nothing and learned nothing.”

Ousting the Bourbons would be the elderly Talleyrand’s last political effort; in 1830 he personally corresponded with the Duke of Orleans, encouraging the liberal aristocrat to replace the reactionary on the throne.

But what has Talleyrand got to do with Eugene Delacroix?  Well…the Bishop was rather lax regarding celibacy. In 1797, he was on especially good terms with a Madame Delacroix, keeping her company while Monsieur Delacroix was serving on military campaigns. Madame Delacroix had a son the following year. Eugene Delacroix was to be a great painter but he didn’t have the usual struggles of a young artist. Talleyrand showed remarkable interest in him and saw that he had ample and lucrative patronage.

And what is the Latin root of “patronage”?

I wonder whether my wife gets more satisfaction from making our yard bloom or making me work.  Over the last weekend Karen fully exploited my vanity, docility and cheapness.  Even at 57, I still have delusions of virility, which I manifest by mowing the lawn.  In the suburbs, any status-conscious homeowner is expected to delegate that chore to a lawn service. While I have a liberal’s sense of shame over the Mexican War (and since the 2000 election would gladly return Texas to its original owners), I don’t intend to pay $50 a week merely to atone for the Treaty of Guadeloupe-Hidalgo.

I now get dirty looks from the passing lawn crews and my neighbors regard me as subversive.  Indeed, some of the local children can’t believe that a homeowner would mow the lawn.  Once, teenagers were going door-to-door to raise money for a high school methadone clinic or some other fringe benefit that my exorbitant property taxes don’t completely subsidize.  I was toiling in the yard, pushing the mower.  The teenagers walked past me and rang the front door.  I didn’t say a word; after all, I wasn’t presumed to speak English.  If someone should ever address the mowing peasant in Spanish, I am ready with this reply, “I am sorry, but I had to read Cervantes in translation.”

My husbandry is not limited to mowing because my wifery is not limited to lawncare. Karen is an obsessed gardener.  I imagine that she read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” only for landscaping hints.  Of course, in creating a garden Karen needs to cultivate me. She cannot simply order me to rake, dig and lug; I am too fond of the French Revolution to tolerate that.  No, Karen’s stratagem is to ask my opinion. “Do you think that we need to dig up this flower bed?  Do you think that we should weed the lawn?” My opinion invariably is that I have no choice, but serfdom always is more cheerful when you pretend to volunteer.

I must confess to an embarrassing relationship with weeds.  One of them seduced me. Several years ago, I noticed a pretty plant with a brocade of white flowers growing in our lawn.  Karen identified it as Queen Anne’s Lace and she must have assumed that I would mow the weed to oblivion.  However, I let it survive.  More than the plant’s charming look, I felt such sympathy for the original Queen Anne. The Stuarts usually were stupid but attractive: imagine a dynasty cast by Aaron Spelling.  Anne, however, was begrudged the good looks and cheated in every other way too.  The dull, miserable woman outlived her children, was exploited by politicians and betrayed by every friend but her brandy.  I could not remedy 18th century medicine, politics or morality, but I could spare the plant that bore Anne’s name.  Unfortunately, in a month, Anne had spread throughout our lawn.  Her namesake had never been that prolific.  I found myself yanking two-foot stalks to atone for my knowledge of history and ignorance of weeds.

My compassion has never extended to dandelions and, like any other homeowner, I wage eternal jihad against the yellow intruders.  The war has steadily escalated.  I began with personal combat, using a knife to dig up each weed.  The sight of me squatting on the grass and stabbing the lawn may not been a testimonial to my sanity.  I ended up with a lawn pitted with knife wounds, but it was dandelion-free.  Of course, my morbid satisfaction didn’t last.  Any surviving tendrils would resurrect the weed, and the dandelions would sprout back, thicker and surlier. 

In the next phase of the war, I resorted to a socially responsible herbicide.  Its all-natural, biodegradable, holistic ingredients were supposed to persuade or shame the dandelions into leaving our lawn.  Tibet has used the same approach in dealing with China, and with the same results.  So, this year I abandoned all regard for the Geneva Convention and bought a 48-pound bag of death.  Its advertising could have been translated from a Nuremberg Rally, promising me a solution to all alien seeds while nourishing a race of super-grass. 

My herbicidal euphoria ended when I took the time to read the back of the bag.  The warnings were much longer than the instructions.  Skin grafts and amputations were possible consequences, and users should expect to remove dead pets from the lawn.  Karen began to think that the lawn was not worth the dangers; where is Lady Macbeth when I need her?  According to the warnings, the herbicide was dangerous to touch or smell, and it could corrode metal and concrete; yet, it was also good for grass.  How could it be, unless it was grass’ vengeance on mankind? 

Of course, I still used the herbicide.  Captain Ahab would have understood.  I did make a few concessions to survival by wearing a safety mask, gloves suitable for handling uranium, and two sets of work clothes. For all these precautions, the product may still kill me, but at least it will get the dandelions first.  While awaiting my demise, I can keep busy with pruning, raking, digging and more mowing.  And Karen has been asking my opinion about the mildew in a shower stall.  Husbandry is not limited to yardwork.

Happy Birthday William Shakespeare!  Instead of blowing out candles, however, the fashion is to try snuffing out his reputation.

Among the cultural arbiters of Western Civilization, Shakespeare’s birthday is now celebrated by denouncing him as merely the front for an aristocratic, university-educated but evidently shy author. (Haven’t you noticed how shy the New York Times’ writers are?) The graduates of Real Cambridge and Nouveau Cambridge insist that a mere yeoman would be incapable of such creativity.

Yet, I cannot imagine that the Earl of Oxford, Christopher Marlowe or Francis Bacon would want to claim credit for “Titus Andronicus.”  Who would?  And all three parts of “Henry VI” do not add up to one good play.   The trilogy is a mess, a slapdash concoction of convoluted history and overripe melodrama. Its plot is virtually impenetrable. There are moments of great theater and traces of brilliant language but they merely glint in the din and confusion of these chaotic plays.

These plays clearly are not the works of a polished aristocrat. On the contrary, they are the early works of a very undisciplined writer who is eager to ingratiate himself to the public. True, these plays were popular, perhaps for the same reasons that movies about mad slashers and flatulence jokes are popular today.

By the time that Shakespeare wrote “Richard III”, he had developed some discipline. The play may still be an overripe melodrama but it is well-done.  If you believe in creative evolution, it is possible that the perpetrator of “Titus Andronicus” would eventually write “Hamlet” and “The Tempest.” 

But who am I am to disagree with “The New York Times”?  Let me concede by offering this possible solution for the real identity of William Shakespeare.  I call it the legend of the lost English class at the University of Chicago.

A graduate seminar, led by teaching assistant Harry Sheinlach, was situated over the nuclear reactor when the first chain reaction occurred. Years passed before anyone noticed four English majors were missing. We can surmised that they were transported back to 16th century England. You’d think that the intrusion of five time-travelers from the 20th century would have had revolutionary effects on Elizabethan science and technology. However, being English majors, they didn’t know any science. There was a case of a man who proposed the replacement of codpieces with two strips of interlocking metal teeth; of course, he was publicly burned.

The three survivors– Sheinlach, Bertha Krubowski and Vince Pucci–remained discreet and made a living writing plays. Sheinlach, a New York boy, was the primary author of The Merchant of Venice; it is obvious that the play’s Jessica is based on a 20th century JAP who refused to go out with Harry. Sheinlach also wrote a play based about the street gangs of his old neighborhood; in a way, “West Side Story” does predate “Romeo and Juliet”. Bertha wrote most of the romances and chose all the names of the female characters; Portia, Olivia and Rosamund were evidently Bertha’s way of compensating. Vince, embarrassed about being a 4-F in World War II, wrote “Titus Andronicus” and contributed all of the battles and murders in the plays. It should be noted that Vince was “the Shakespeare” who had the affair with the Earl of Southampton; now, you know why he was 4-F. William Shakespeare was the group’s front and business manager.

George III had just as much trouble with his children as with his colonies. He was a good husband (a first in his dynasty) and was a well-meaning father, but there was inherent dysfunction in the family. Hanoverian fathers and sons tended to hate each other; George I vs. George II, George II vs. Prince Frederick. Once again, George III was the exception. He didn’t know his father well enough to loathe him–but everyone else did. And the feud resumed with George III and his sons. For some reason, the exemplary family man produced nothing but cads and rascals.

The future George IV was a bigamist. That would seem a promising opportunity for heirs, but the Prince of Wales was a consistent underachiever. With his adored wife (a Catholic widow whom the royal family and Parliament refused to acknowledge) he had no children. He also had an official wife, Princess Caroline, but couldn’t stand her. In fact, when he became King, he had her locked out of the coronation. Yet somehow, a heir was produced: Princess Charlotte. The succession was secured.

Princess Charlotte married and in 1817, with the assistance of 19th century medicine, died in childbirth as did her heir. The succession was unsecured.

Suddenly, the younger sons of George III–who were well into their middle-ages–found themselves imminent to the royal succession. William Duke of Clarence, and Edward Duke of Kent now were obliged to do something that they had managed to avoid: find suitable wives and produce legitimate children. Both the Dukes married in 1818.

William, who had a long-standing mistress and a resultant family of FitzClarences, married a nice, young German aristocrat named Adelaide. The Ducal couple certainly tried to have children. Unfortunately, they had a series of miscarriages and two little girls who died in infancy. (The kind-hearted Adelaide loved children and found solace in helping raise her husband’s illegitimate grandchildren.)

Edward, Duke of Kent, married an ill-tempered German aristocratic widow named Victoria. She even had children from her previous marriage–but for Edward that only proved her a sound breeder. And indeed she was. In 1819, she gave birth to a daughter who would also be called Victoria. The Duke of Kent, unaccustomed to diligence and probably exhausted by it, died in 1820. So, his infant daughter became the Duchess of Kent.

George III finally died in 1820. His rotten son became George IV; he died in 1830. The affable and now elderly Duke of Clarence became William IV; Adelaide was a popular queen and would have a city in Australia named for her. Having no surviving children of their own, their heir was the Duchess of Kent. William IV died in 1837 and was succeeded by his niece.

As for the Hanoverian habit of fathers-hating sons, and vice versa, you will be relieved to know that it survives. Edward VII resented Prince Albert, George V disapproved of Edward VII, George VI was terrified of George V, and you know how Prince Philip and Prince Charles feel about each other.

The French have a genius for farce, as is evident in their films and their last five wars.  If you want risque satire at its best, be sure to see “L’Election.”  Who but the heirs of Moliere and Feydeau would imagine such ludicrous, dreadful candidates dueling and undercutting each other? 

There is Nicolas (played by Daniel Auteuil) the human ferret.  He campaigns on being loathsome:  “Anyone this despicable has to be competent!”  Imagine a less likable Dick Cheney.  Vying for the right wing vote, he brags that he read selections from “Mein Kampf” at his bar mitzvah.  No one blames his wife (Isabelle Huppert) for periodically running off with any ambulatory male. 

There is Segolene (Carole Bouquet) who finds that charm is an ample substitute for intelligence.  (And male voters do seem to agree, but Segolene thinks that she can appeal to females by discussing the price of strawberries.)  She claims to be a Socialist because she never bothered to marry the father of her children.

There is Jean-Marie (Jean Paul Belmondo), the reactionary’s reactionary.  Blaming the last two centuries on the Jews and Free Masons, he demands the return of Algeria but without the Arabs.

Finally, there is Francois (Gerard Depardieu) who has more to shrug than say, but he does have the virtue of being neither Nicolas, Segolene nor Jean-Marie.  If less is more, then nothing may be perfect.    

Yes, it’s laughs galore…oh, wait:  there has been a change in the cast.

Nicolas will be perpetrated by Nicolas Sarkozy, Segolene will be posed by Segolene Royal, Jean-Marie will be ranted by Jean-Marie Le Pen, and Francois will be meandered by Francois Bayrou. 

And it is really is L’Election for the Presidency of France.  Be grateful that you are in the audience and not the voting booth. 

If cake sales are up today in Idaho and Austria, the reason would be the birthday of Adolf Hitler.  According to “Entertainment Tonight“, Adolf Hitler was the celebrity spokesman for Mercedes-Benz.  At his nursing home in Argentina, the 124-year-old former fuhrer will be celebrating with a marzipan cake, shaped like the Bismarck, and Mel Gibson movies.

Not wanting to make too big a fuss over “just another birthday”, the music-loving Adolf requests that well-wishers sing either “The Ring Cycle” or this old Mercedes ad jingle:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzCjrZ4lF5I

Today, the Senate Judiciary Committee will hear Alberto Gonzales try to explain what he does for a living. Here is a likely transcript.

Sen. Leahy: In your unique performance as Attorney General of the United States, do you find that you are more often a contemptible toady or a nauseating sycophant?

Attorney General Gonzales: Is that a math question? I wasn’t prepared for one.

Leahy: If it is too difficult a question, would like you to “ask the audience”, “pick 50/50” or “call a friend”?

Gonzales: You’re under arrest.

Leahy: You can’t do that.

Gonzales: The President says I can.

Sen. Specter: We will let the Courts decide that. In the meantime, I will take over the hearings. As a cost-savings measure, we have turned off the microphones for the Democratic senators. The money will be donated for the Katrina Flood victims, so if anyone is so heartless and unpatriotic to object….In any case, I will be happy to read some of the questions by my Democratic colleagues.

I will begin. Attorney General Gonzales, could you explain your role in the events leading up to the rather brusque dismissal of those eight federal prosecutors.

Gonzales: I am told that I don’t remember.

Specter: Drat, I can’t read Sen. Feinstein’s handwriting. Next.

Sen. Hatch: If the President wants our Attorney General to be a sociopath posing as a moron, I think that you have done an outstanding job. My only question for this exemplary partriot is this: what’s the President nickname for you?

Gonzales: He calls me “Alburito.”

Specter: Drat, I can’t read Sen. Schumer’s handwriting.

Sen. Schumer:Oh, you never had trouble reading Rick Santorum’s handwriting.

Specter: His spelling was the challenge. All right, if you insist on squandering the taxpayers’ money, please look directly into the camera for Fox News and ask your pointless question.

Schumer: Did you fire those federal prosecutors because they were not fabricating voter fraud cases with the intent of harassing Democratic candidates and voters?

Sen. Sessions: You see. This administration is still committed to having elections.

Gonzales: I am told that I don’t remember. And Schumer is under arrest.

Specter: Sen. Kennedy has the following question: Ginger or Mary Ann?

Gonzales: Neither. As a Republican, I would marry Mrs. Howell for her money.