asked her whether she meant I hope or in a hopeful frame of mind
The first time we heard the word “hopefully” used to mean something it doesn’t mean was from the lips of a pretty woman whom we were wining and dining in a restaurant.
We asked her when she expected to move into her apartment, and she answered, “Hopefully on Tuesday.” We laid down our fork and asked her whether she meant “I hope on Tuesday” or whether she meant “On Tuesday in a hopeful frame of mind.”
She then laid down her fork and wanted to know what the hell we were driving at.
She confessed that she saw nothing wrong with “Hopefully on Tuesday.”
Rather than labor the thing, we shifted subjects; it is not our policy to badger pretty women. Since that memorable occasion, we have encountered this use of “hopefully” at every turn.
It is all over the place and has, we suspect, come into the language.
Time, always elegant in its rhetoric, appeared not long ago with this sobering sentence: “The Government would like to bring the case to a quick trial, hopefully before the end of January.”
Lacking a fork to lay down, we simply laid down the magazine.
EB White in Notes and Comment, The New Yorker Magazine, March 27, 1965.
Not sure about but lunch with EB White and his wife, Katherine Angell White, the editor who made the New Yorker Magazine into the New Yorker Magazine … sounds terrifying.
I am full of hope not to ever have to explain these essays to them.
disdain for questions about war, no coherent rationale for it
Over the past two and half months, Mr. Trump has ordered thousands of strikes against another country and killed its leader.
The war has roiled global energy markets and drained American munitions stockpiles.
Yet despite its scope and stakes, the president continues to show disdain for members of Congress who ask questions about the war and has not even provided a coherent rationale for it.
Congressional Republicans deserve significant responsibility for the situation. They could and should do much more to constrain him.
Congress could pass a resolution expressing its disapproval of the war and hold hearings investigating it, raising the political pressure on the White House.
It could refuse to confirm nominees or fund Mr. Trump’s military priorities until he adheres to his constitutional duty to work with the legislature.
Otherwise, members of Congress are participating in America’s slide from democracy.
According to the NYT, The editorial board is a group of opinion journalists whose views are informed by expertise, research, debate and certain longstanding values. It is separate from the newsroom.
I am reminded of the author Garrison Keillor who wrote about life in a small town and in discussing the life of one person in this small town, related how the mother of this person would say over and over … why don’t you DO something with your life?
This went on for years.
Then one day, Mom said something different.
Mom asked, why DIDN’T you do something with your life?
This piece isn’t warning that American Democracy could be in trouble.
This piece isn’t warning that American Democracy could be seeing some issues.
This piece pointed out that American Democracy is already in its slide and sliders, if you didn’t know, always take you down.
doing the small things trivial matters of heart, near things of this living
In a letter to his brother, EB White wrote, “I discovered a long time ago that writing of the small things of the day, the trivial matters of the heart, the inconsequential but near things of this living, was the only kind of creative work which I could accomplish with any sincerity or grace.” (Letters of EB White, New York: Harper and Row, 1976).
And I thought, if I changed just a few words …
I discovered a long time ago that doing small things of the day,
the trivial matters of the heart,
the inconsequential but near things of this living, was the best kind of creative work which she could accomplish with sincerity and grace.
Would be a fitting description of the role my wife has played in the kaleidoscopic lives we live with the kaleidoscopic lives of our children and grand children.
Because she does for me, the kids and the grand kids, the small things of the day.
The trivial matters of the heart.
The inconsequential but near things of this living.
The best kind of creative work which she accomplishes with sincerity and grace.
an ugly era of ugly choices that is … all I am saying
Adapted from the New York Times Joint Opinion piece, Graham Platner Is a Rorschach Test, by Frank Bruni and Bret Stephens where Mr. Bruni writes:
… an election is a binary, and, yes, Bret, I would choose him over Collins, who voted to confirm Robert F. Kennedy Jr., Tulsi Gabbard and Russell Vought and whose vaunted moderation doesn’t match her fear of President Trump’s supporters.
You think that the guardrails are mostly containing Trump, and I think that he’s showing us how fragile they are and what peril we’re in. To believe as I do is to root for the candidate less likely to rubber-stamp his agenda. It’s that simple.
I don’t think we have the luxury of such big-picture, long-term philosophizing. Democratically speaking, it’s do-or-die time, and it’s essential that Trump not have a Congress under Republican control for the final two years of his current term. Sure, Democrats are favored as of now to win the House, but they might not: Look at all the gerrymandering still going on. So they must do everything possible to win the Senate. The Republican Party — to which Collins belongs, no matter her discrete and admirable rebellions — has shown that it cannot be trusted to stand up to Trump. So my relentlessly practical, far-from-jubilant take is that Platner is the better choice.
When I say I’d vote for him, Bret, that’s not “giving him a pass.” That phrase — that concept — doesn’t really apply. This is an ugly era of ugly choices. I’m saying that I’m less scared of Platner than of a Congress under Trump’s thumb. That’s really all I’m saying. But if we’re going to talk passes, it’s Trump I refuse to give one.
The Scotty Who Knew Too Much
Several summers ago there was a Scotty who went to the country for a visit. He decided that all the farm dogs were cowards, because they were afraid of a certain animal that had a white stripe down its back. “You are a pussy-cat and I can lick you,” the Scotty said to the farm dog who lived in the house where the Scotty was visiting. “I can lick the little animal with the white stripe, too. Show him to me.” “Don’t you want to ask any questions about him?” said the farm dog. “Naw,” said the Scotty. “You ask the questions.”
So the farm dog took the Scotty into the woods and showed him the white-striped animal and the Scotty closed in on him, growling and slashing. It was all over in a moment and the Scotty lay on his back. When he came to, the farm dog said, “What happened?” “He threw vitriol,” said the Scotty, “but he never laid a glove on me.”
A few days later the farm dog told the Scotty there was another animal all the farm dogs were afraid of. “Lead me to him,” said the Scotty. “I can lick anything that doesn’t wear horseshoes.” “Don’t you want to ask any questions about him?” said the farm dog. “Naw,” said the Scotty. “Just show me where he hangs out.” So the farm dog led him to a place in the woods and pointed out the little animal when he came along. “A clown,” said the Scotty, “a pushover,” and he closed in, leading with his left and exhibiting some mighty fancy footwork. In less than a second the Scotty was flat on his back, and when he woke up the farm dog was pulling quills out of him. “What happened?” said the farm dog. “He pulled a knife on me,” said the Scotty, “but at least I have learned how you fight out here in the country, and now I am going to beat you up.” So he closed in on the farm dog, holding his nose with one front paw to ward off the vitriol and covering his eyes with the other front paw to keep out the knives. The Scotty couldn’t see his opponent and he couldn’t smell his opponent and he was so badly beaten that he had to be taken back to the city and put in a nursing home.
Moral: It is better to ask some of the questions than to know all the answers.
By James Thurber in Fables for For Our Time as published in The Thurber Carnival (Modern Library Edition, 1957).
