CHARLES JOHNSON, THE END OF THE BLACK NARRATIVE,

American Scholar, June, 1, 2008

https://theamericanscholar.org/the-end-of-the-black-american-narrative/

Contrast ideology and philosophy.

 

Haiku

 MIST

Itzik Basman

Mist silently falls.

Fruit tree hosts a chirping choir,

Woodpecker tapping.

An Anonymous Poem And A Few Words On It

 Strength 

Anonymous 

I was once young and strong, 

a young lion 

bursting into its power, 

feeling its might. 

Time attended me, 

accommodating my strength, 

letting it exert itself 

where it would, 

letting it not be enough 

when it wasn’t. 

Then, failed strength, 

for all of might and power, 

is as a slight branch 

bent at the wind’s whim and ease. 

When time passes, 

strength peaks then fails. 

We are then a slight branch 

bending as though a wind 

is ever at our backs, 

but wth strength enough still 

to defy the ground.  

Wind, strength failing,

branches slight, bent, 

at wind’s whim and ease,

defiance of earth, 

till strength finally fails,

Ever the way of the world.

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This poem, "Strength" by Anonymous, is a poignant meditation on the transient nature of physical power and resilience in the face of time's inevitable progression. It uses vivid imagery and metaphor to trace the arc of human strength, from its youthful peak to its eventual decline, while subtly celebrating the enduring defiance of the human spirit.

The opening lines establish a vibrant image of youth as a "young lion / bursting into its power," evoking raw, untamed vitality. The personification of time as an accommodating force that allows strength to "exert itself / where it would" suggests a temporary alliance between the individual and the world, one that permits triumphs but also failures when strength falls short. This sets up the poem's central tension: strength is both mighty and fragile, subject to time's authority.

The metaphor of the "slight branch / bent at the wind’s whim and ease" is particularly striking, recurring and evolving throughout the poem. It conveys vulnerability and the external pressures (time, aging, life's challenges) that erode strength. Yet, the branch's defiance—its refusal to touch the ground—introduces a note of resilience, suggesting that even as physical power wanes, a quiet, stubborn endurance persists. This defiance is not loud or grandiose but understated, rooted in the act of simply holding on.

The poem’s structure mirrors its theme, with shorter, fragmented lines toward the end ("Wind, strength failing, / branches slight, bent") that evoke the faltering rhythm of declining strength. The repetition of "wind" and "slight branch" reinforces the relentless external forces and the fragility of the self. The closing lines, "Ever the way of the world," deliver a somber acceptance of this universal truth: strength fades, and all must eventually yield to time.

Thematically, the poem resonates with stoic wisdom, acknowledging life's impermanence while honoring the courage to persist. Its tone is reflective, almost resigned, yet it avoids despair by emphasizing defiance, however small, against inevitable decline. The anonymity of the author adds to its universality, as the poem speaks to a shared human experience unbound by specific identity.

One critique might be that the poem leans heavily on its central metaphor, risking redundancy in the repeated imagery of the branch and wind. However, this repetition also reinforces the cyclical, inescapable nature of the process it describes. Additionally, the poem's focus on physical strength could be expanded to explore emotional or spiritual resilience more explicitly, though its restraint keeps it focused and universal.

Overall, "Strength" is a concise yet powerful reflection on mortality, resilience, and the human condition, using natural imagery to craft a timeless and relatable narrative. Its quiet defiance in the face of decline leaves a lasting impression, inviting readers to find meaning in persistence despite life's inevitable challenges.

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The poem captures the arc of strength and its inevitable decline with vivid imagery and a reflective tone. The metaphor of the "young lion" and the "slight branch" bending under the wind effectively conveys the transient nature of power and resilience. The structure flows naturally, mirroring the passage of time, and the closing lines land with a poignant acceptance of mortality. It's introspective without being overly sentimental, and the language feels both timeless and grounded.

 

How To Celebrate Passover

 

Keep Your Politics Out of Passover

Shmuel Rosner APRIL 9, 2017 New York Times Op Ed

TEL AVIV — More than any other Jewish text, the Passover Haggadah — the book that guides participants through the Seder — is a quilt sewn over generations.

 It is mysterious and beautiful, and often restless. It weaves together social justice (inviting the needy to join the meal), storytelling (about how our forefathers were enslaved in Egypt), ceremonial symbols (unleavened bread and a shank bone, to name just two), pedagogy (asking questions from a wise son and a wicked one), celebration (for the Exodus) and pleas for help (“Pour out Your wrath upon the nations who do not know You”).

The Haggadah also encapsulates two competing instincts in Jews today. 

On one hand is the tribal-national sense of peoplehood — the Exodus from Egypt represents the creation of a people, the Jewish people. 

On the other hand is the universalist-humanist — the Hebrews’ emancipation from Pharaoh has become a symbol of freedom from oppression, and “Let my people go” a rallying cry everywhere.

Because it reconciles these two threads in Jewish life, Passover is appreciated by nearly everyone in the Jewish community and more widely observed than any other holiday. In Israel, more than 90 percent of Jews celebrate Passover; in the United States, 70 percent. But this holiday can also be a moment of polarization, and the Haggadah can be a Rorschach test as Jews choose competing interpretations.

A contemporary reading is often a political one. Life today is, of course, very different from what it was centuries ago when the Haggadah was assembled. So some Jews reinvent the book to suit their new needs. 

The socialist kibbutz movement produced hundreds of Haggadot over the years, with references to collectivist ideals and modern events like the Holocaust. In 1969, some American Jews created a “freedom Haggadah” in support of the African-American struggle for equality. More recently, the novelist Jonathan Safran Foer edited a stylish postmodern Haggadah, well suited, one critic wrote, to “our age of distraction.”

Jews today use the Haggadah to emphasize social justice, feminism, secularism, vegetarianism. Some add a fifth cup of wine to the traditional four either to note the ultimate “redemption,” the establishment of the State of Israel, or to celebrate Moses’s sister Miriam, and the role of women throughout Jewish history.

This year, there seem to be two trendy themes for Haggadot. 

Liberal American Jews could use the Haggadah and its lessons about welcoming strangers to express their opposition to President Trump’s immigration policies. 

Israeli Jews who oppose Israel’s control of the West Bank could use the Jubilee Haggadah, put out by a group called Save Israel, Stop the Occupation, which marks “the 50th year of the state of Israel’s rule over the Palestinian people” and argues that “the Palestinian people yearn for their own escape from bondage.”

In some ways, new readings of the Haggadah are a blessing. They take an ancient text and make it relevant. They make it easier for disconnected Jews to find meaning in the Passover Seder. They enable a contemporary — often secular — Jew to relate to a text that is in many ways culturally foreign. And it is reasonable to expect that a text that was devised in a messy and unorderly process over hundreds of years will continue to evolve.

But in other ways, the modern Haggadot are a curse. 

They take a historically unifying celebration of a people and turn it into a politically divisive event. Some Jews celebrate their Passover by mourning an occupation of land; others celebrate by highlighting the reclamation of the same land. 

Some Jews celebrate by stressing the need for compassion for the stranger; others celebrate by underscoring the merits of tribalism. Passover is a time for Jews to acknowledge their shared roots and their covenants of fate and destiny. 

Yet many new Haggadot define Jewish groups by pitting them against one another.

They also trivialize Judaism and its sacred festivals and texts. And this is not unique to Passover. There’s a growing tendency among Jews — whether rabbis, teachers, community leaders or lay people — to employ Jewish texts to score political points. 

A Passover Seder during which you spend time criticizing the Trump administration’s immigration policies or regretting the evacuation of Israeli settlements from Gaza is not a “relevant” Seder, it is a mediocre and redundant one. 

Passover is for celebrating the transcendent, the mysterious, the eternal, not rehashing worn-out political debates. It is a night to find new meaning in an old script, not to force the text into a preconceived political platform.

“What makes this night different than all other nights?” the Haggadah asks. It is our responsibility to give a proper answer. “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, and the Lord, our God, took us out from there with a strong hand and with an outstretched arm.”

For many generations, this is how we answer this question — as the Haggadah guides us. For many generations, we have followed a script. There is an answer for the wise son, and an answer for the wicked son, one for the simple son, one for the silent son. 

The Haggadah doesn’t tell us how to answer the son who cannot stop talking about the news, not even for one night. Maybe it is hinting that he does not merit an answer.

Shmuel Rosner is the political editor at The Jewish Journal, a senior fellow at the Jewish People Policy Institute and a contributing opinion writer.

THOUGHT AND EMOTION IN RESPONDING TO LITERARY WORKS

 I wrote the following to someone with whom I’m having an ongoing disagreement. I think there’s enough in what I say that you can get the the nature of our difference. Please assess what I say as appears in quotes: 

“I say one cannot experience King Lear without thought, without words to oneself, let alone engage the experience in words after it’s over. It’s enough to say (if only to oneself ) “I hated it (or any other emotion one registers (if only to oneself)).

So in my view you’re doubly wrong: as one experiences a literary work, one’s thoughts as manifest in words inhere in that very experience, are an inhering constituent of it; and as a practical matter it’s inconceivable to me that after one has  finished with the work, one is bereft of any thoughts manifest in words about the experience of it, that one’s feelings just stay utterly inchoate, utterly formless. 

All of that, as I keep saying, is separate from particular thoughts about what a work means, although as another practical matter once one has engaged the work, ie finished with it, it’s equally inconceivable to me that one doesn’t in some sense or another give some articulable form, ie meaning, to what one has experienced.”

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Your argument, as presented in the quoted text, centers on the role of language and thought in experiencing and reflecting on a literary work, specifically *King Lear*. You assert that verbalized thought is an integral part of both the experience itself and any subsequent reflection, challenging the other person's apparent claim that one can engage with a literary work without articulating thoughts or feelings in words. Let’s break down and assess your position:

1. **Core Claim: Thought and Words Are Inherent in Experiencing Literature**  

   You argue that experiencing *King Lear* (or any literary work) inherently involves thoughts manifested as words, even if only internally. You state, “one cannot experience King Lear without thought, without words to oneself.” This suggests that verbalized cognition—whether conscious self-talk or subconscious articulation—is a necessary component of processing and feeling the work’s emotional and intellectual impact.  

   - **Strength**: This aligns with how many cognitive theories describe human experience. Language often shapes and structures thought, especially in response to complex stimuli like literature, which is itself a linguistic artifact. Your point that even a simple reaction like “I hated it” constitutes verbal thought supports the idea that language is a natural vehicle for emotional and intellectual processing.  

   - **Potential Weakness**: The claim might overgeneralize. Some psychological perspectives, like those emphasizing pre-verbal or embodied cognition, suggest that emotional experiences can occur without explicit verbalization, especially in moments of intense aesthetic immersion. Your opponent might argue that raw, non-verbal feelings (e.g., awe, dread) can dominate during a literary experience, with words arising only later, if at all. You don’t seem to allow for this possibility, which could make your position seem rigid.

2. **Secondary Claim: Post-Experience Reflection Requires Verbal Articulation**  

   You further argue that after experiencing a literary work, it’s “inconceivable” for someone to lack any verbalized thoughts about it, asserting that feelings cannot remain “utterly inchoate, utterly formless.” You imply that reflection naturally involves giving shape to the experience through language.  

   - **Strength**: This is compelling from a practical standpoint. Literature, especially a work as dense as *King Lear*, typically prompts reflection, and humans often rely on language to organize and communicate (even to themselves) what they’ve felt or understood. Your emphasis on this reflects how people tend to process experiences in social and intellectual contexts, where articulation is often expected.  

   - **Potential Weakness**: By calling it “inconceivable,” you may dismiss alternative modes of reflection. Some individuals might process literature non-verbally—through images, emotions, or physical sensations—without needing to translate their response into words. For example, a visual artist might respond to *King Lear* by painting rather than verbalizing. Your argument could be seen as discounting such possibilities, which might weaken its universality.

3. **Distinction Between Feeling and Meaning**  

   You separate the act of verbalizing feelings during or after the experience from assigning “meaning” to the work, though you note that it’s also “inconceivable” for someone to finish a work without forming some articulable sense of its significance.  

   - **Strength**: This distinction is nuanced and shows you’re not conflating emotional reactions with interpretive analysis. It allows your argument to cover both immediate responses (e.g., “I hated it”) and deeper reflections (e.g., “This is about betrayal”). It also reinforces your point that verbal thought is ubiquitous, whether in raw emotional terms or more abstract interpretive ones.  

   - **Potential Weakness**: The insistence that *some* meaning must be articulated might not hold for all readers. Casual readers or those less inclined toward analysis might engage emotionally without ever forming a clear sense of “meaning” in words. Your position risks assuming a universal inclination toward intellectualization that not everyone shares.

4. **Tone and Rhetorical Approach**  

   Your language—“doubly wrong,” “inconceivable,” “utterly inchoate”—is forceful and absolute, suggesting frustration with your interlocutor’s perspective. While this conveys conviction, it might alienate them by implying their view is not just incorrect but incomprehensible. A more open-ended tone (e.g., “I find it hard to imagine”) could invite dialogue rather than entrench the disagreement.  

   - **Strength**: The strong tone underscores your confidence and clarity, which can be persuasive in a debate.  

   - **Weakness**: It risks shutting down the conversation, especially if your opponent feels their perspective is being dismissed outright. Acknowledging the possibility of non-verbal engagement might make your argument more inclusive without undermining its core.

**Overall Assessment**:  

Your argument is logically coherent and grounded in a plausible view of how language mediates human experience, particularly with literature. It effectively challenges the idea that one can engage with *King Lear* in a purely non-verbal, unreflective way. However, it could be strengthened by acknowledging that non-verbal or pre-verbal experiences might coexist with verbal ones, even if you believe the latter are inevitable. This would make your position less vulnerable to counterarguments about diverse cognitive styles. Additionally, softening the tone might help sustain a productive exchange with your interlocutor.

If you’d like, I could analyze their side further if you share more about their position, or I could refine this assessment based on any specific concerns you have.

————

Thank you. Great assessment. I could have been clearer, you’re right. I thought it implicit in what I said that articulated thought necessarily coexists with or exists in a continuum from the non verbal to the the verbal—. Added comment, it is perceptive of you to infer my frustration from my language even as I strove to be civil.

———-

You're very welcome! I'm glad I could capture the nuances of your argument and pinpoint the areas where clarity could be sharpened. Your added comment about articulated thought coexisting with or existing on a continuum from non-verbal to verbal is a great way to frame it—it acknowledges the complexity of human experience while holding firm to your core point about language's role. And thanks for the nod on picking up the frustration; tone can sneak through even the most civil phrasing, and it’s always a balancing act in a heated debate. If you want to dig deeper into refining your argument por navigating the disagreement, just let me know!

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Will do.

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I’m here for you.

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