[Paleopsych] Susan Sontag Package No. 2

Premise Checker checker at panix.com
Wed Jan 5 23:22:59 UTC 2005

Susan Sontag Package No. 2

Deliver us from faraway evil
by Alex Beam, Globe Columnist, 5.1.4

     'Susan Sontag died," my mother murmured, not raising her head from the
     two-day-old Financial Times I had bought her in the hangarlike
     room of Juan Santamaria International Airport in San Jose, Costa

     Just the day before, she heard a fellow tourist refer to the ''late"
     actor Jerry Orbach. ''He isn't dead, is he?" she asked me, and I had
     no idea. That evening, I snuck into the VIP enclave (''Servicio
     of our hotel and snitched a day-old Miami Herald. Frazier Moore's
     Associated Press obituary confirmed that the gravel-voiced Orbach,
     famous as detective Lennie Briscoe from ''Law & Order" reruns, had
     died at age 69.

     At 25, Orbach, an up-and-coming song-and-dance man who would later
     a Tony award for his role in the musical ''Promises, Promises,"
     starred in the original ''Fantasticks." Who knew?

     Oh, and 137,000 people died that same week in a tsunami in Southeast

     ''A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic."
     because the famous aphorism is attributed to Joseph Stalin doesn't
     mean it isn't true. It is a commonplace of the pulpit and the
     editorial page that we are all joined in one great brotherhood of
     and woman, that ''each man's joy is joy to me, each man's grief is
     own," to cite a popular hymn. But for many years I have wondered if
     that is true. I think compassion is like a radar signal that loses
     force the further it radiates from our hearts.

     I can easily understand why someone is more affected by the loss of
     favorite actor, of a well-regarded talk-show host -- the circulating
     e-mail tributes to the late David Brudnoy are wonderfully articulate
     and emotional -- or by the death of an author one has enjoyed, than
     the passing of tens of thousands of faraway strangers. In 1994, I
     remember seeing a picture of dozens of bodies washing over a
     during the Rwandan genocide, and reacting with shock and
     Those events seemed to be taking place in a galaxy far, far away.

     Human apathy toward mass deprivation is legendary. Aid organizations
     know this. For decades, the relief organization Save the Children
     urged first-world donors to underwrite the well-being of a specific
     child somewhere in the Third World. Why? Because no one cares about
     saving children in the abstract. But people do care about saving
     Marzina, an 8-year-old from Bangladesh, who is currently seeking a

     The media likewise know that gargantuan disaster stories have to be
     correctly packaged to capture readers' attention. There is an old,
     politically incorrect saying in newsrooms: How do you change a
     front-page story about massive flood devastation into a 50-word news
     brief buried inside the paper? Just add two words: ''In India."

     I was in a remote hotel last week and tripped across a news report
     from Deutsche Welle, Germany's government-supported international
     network. With tens of thousands of Asians already confirmed dead, DW
     headlined the disappearance of four Germans in the tsunami. My
     immediate reaction was: Who cares about four Germans? Answer: The
     Germans care about the Germans. The Americans care about the
     Americans. And so on.

     Europeans and others sometimes dismiss America's ''overreaction" to
     the Sept. 11 attacks. Statistically speaking, the losses on 9/11
     equaled those during a few hours of one of the European continent's
     epic land battles. But the impact was felt all over the Eastern
     seaboard, and all over the country.

     A man who lived a few houses down from me died on one of the
     airliners. Waiting in line to move my son's belongings into his
     college dorm in New York City a year later, I met several families
     from New Jersey for whom the memory of the year-old attacks remained
     painful and dramatic. They hadn't experienced an event, they had
     through a tragedy.

     When my family returned home from our vacation on Saturday, we were
     greeted by a handwritten note from a friend, saying she may have
     cancer. One of my sons burst out crying. Her biopsy was yesterday;
     of this writing we don't know the results. For us, that's a tragedy.
     The rest is news.

     Alex Beam is a Globe columnist. His e-dress is beam at globe.com.


         Susan Sontag: a Prediction
         [Posted 6:17 PM by Roger Kimball]
         When a friend called me this morning with the news that Susan
         Sontag had died at the age 71, just about the first thing I
         thought was, "well, we'll have a huge, hagiographical,
         obituary tomorrow in The New York Times." Check to see if I am
         correct. In the meantime, as you prepare yourself for the
         litany about 1) what a penetrating critical intelligence Sontag
         wielded and 2) what a "courageous" and challenging "dissident"
         voice she provided (those quotation marks are proleptic: let's
         if the Times uses those words), here is another "courageous,"
         "penetratingly intelligent" dissident voice, that of Salman
         Rushdie, who provided this bouquet in his capacity as President
         the PEN American Center:

       Susan Sontag was a great literary artist, a fearless and original
       thinker, ever valiant for truth, and an indefatigable ally in many
       struggles. She set a standard of intellectual rigor to which I and
       her many other admirers continue to aspire, insisting that with
       literary talent came an obligation to speak out on the great
       of the day, and above all to defend the sovereignty of the
       mind and imagination against every kind of tyranny.
         Those with strong stomachs can read all of Mr. Rusdie's encomium
         There can be no doubt that Susan Sontag, the doyenne of (to use
         Tom Wolfe's apposite coinage) radical chic, commanded rare
         celebrity throughout the 1960s and 1970s. Accordingly, her
         influence in those decades and beyond was great. The question
         was it a beneficent or a baneful influence? Sontag has been
         celebrated as a towering intellectual. In fact, though, what she
         offered were not so much arguments or insights as the simulacra
         arguments and the mood or emotion of insights. I wrote at length
         about Sontag in my book [107]The Long March: How the Cultural
         Revoution of the 1960s Changed America. I draw upon that book
         some other writings about her in what follows.
         Sontag burst upon the scene in the early 1960s with a handful of
         precious essays: "Notes on `Camp'" (1964) and "On Style" (1965)
         Partisan Review, "Against Interpretation" (1964) in Evergreen
         Review; "One Culture and the New Sensibility" (1965), an
         version of which first appeared in Mademoiselle; and several
         essays and reviews in the newly launched New York Review of
         Almost overnight these essays electrified intellectual debate
         catapulted their author to celebrity.
         Not that Sontag's efforts were unanimously praised. The critic
         John Simon, to take just one example, wondered in a sharp letter
         to Partisan Review whether Sontag's "Notes on `Camp'" was itself
         "only a piece of `camp.'" No, the important things were the
         attentiveness, speed, and intensity of the response. Pro or con,
         Sontag's essays galvanized debate: indeed, they contributed
         mightily to changing the very climate of intellectual debate.
         demand, at the end of "Against Interpretation," that "in place
         a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art"; her praise of camp,
         "whole point" of which "is to dethrone the serious"; her
         to the "new sensibility" of the Sixties, whose acolytes, she
         observed, "have broken, whether they know it or not, with the
         Matthew Arnold notion of culture, finding it historically and
         humanly obsolescent": in these and other such pronouncements
         Sontag offered not arguments but a mood, a tone, an atmosphere.
         Never mind that a lot of it was literally nonsense: it was
         nevertheless irresistible nonsense. It somehow didn't matter,
         example, that the whole notion of "an erotics of art" was
         ridiculous. Everyone likes sex, and talking about "erotics"
         so much sexier than talking about "sex"; and of course everyone
         likes art: How was it that no one had thought of putting them
         together in this clever way before? Who would bother with
         something so boring as mere "interpretation"--which, Sontag had
         suggested, was these days "reactionary, impertinent, cowardly,
         stifling," "the revenge of the intellect upon art"--when we
         have (or pretend to have) an erotics instead?
         In "Susie Creamcheese Makes Love Not War," a devastating--and
         devastatingly funny--review of the Sontag oeuvre as of 1982, the
         critic Marvin Mudrick noted that Sontag was

       a critic whose every half-baked idea is a reject or thrift-shop
       markdown from the pastry cooks of post-World War II French
       intellectualism. . . . [W]hat matters [to her] isn't truth or
       sincerity or consistency or reality; what matters is "style" or
       getting away with it.
         Mudrick is especially good on Sontag's use of the word
         "exemplary": "Barthes's ideas have an exemplary coherence";
         lives are exemplary, others not"; Rimbaud and Duchamp made
         "exemplary renunciations" in giving up art for, respectively,
         gun-running and chess; "Silence exists as a decision--in the
         exemplary suicide of the artist . . ."; etc. Dilating on
         effusions about silence--"the silence of eternity prepares for a
         thought beyond thought, which must appear from the perspective
         traditional thinking . . . as no thought at all"--Mudrick
         points out the similarity between Sontag and that other sage of
         silence, Kahlil Gibran: "Has silence or talk about it," Mudrick
         asks, "ever anywhere else been so very . . . exemplary?"
         Norman Podhoretz has suggested that the "rapidity" of Sontag's
         rise was due partly to her filling the role of "Dark Lady of
         American Letters," vacated when Mary McCarthy was "promoted to
         more dignified status of Grande Dame as a reward for her years
         brilliant service. The next Dark Lady would have to be, like
         clever, learned, good-looking, capable of writing [New
         York-intellectual] family-type criticism as well as fiction with
         strong trace of naughtiness." The "ante on naughtiness,"
         notes, had gone up since McCarthy's day: "in an era of what
         Abel has called the `fishnet bluestocking,' hints of perversion
         and orgies had to be there."
         In this context, it is worth noting that one of Sontag's
         characteristic productions was "The Pornographic Imagination"
         (1967), which appears in Styles of Radical Will (1969), her
         collection of essays. In essence, it is a defense of
         pornography--though not, of course, as something merely
         Sontag doesn't champion pornography the way its usual clients
         for its content, for the lubricious stimulation it supplies.
         Instead, she champions pornography for its "formal" resources as
         means of "transcendence." (The dancer and connoisseur of sodomy
         [108]Toni Bentley clearly has taken a page from Sontag on the
         issue of sex and transcendence.)
         It is hardly news that sexual ecstasy has often poached on
         religious rhetoric and vice versa; nor is it news that
         often employs religious metaphors. That is part of its
         perversity--indeed its blasphemy. But Sontag decides to take
         pornography seriously as a solution to the spiritual desolations
         of modern secular culture.
         One of Sontag's great gifts has been her ability to enlist her
         politics in the service of her aestheticism. For her, it is the
         work of a moment to move from admiring pornography--or at least
         "the pornographic imagination"--to castigating American
         capitalism. Accordingly, toward the end of her essay she speaks

       the traumatic failure of capitalist society to provide authentic
       outlets for the perennial human flair for high-temperature
       visionary obsession, to satisfy the appetite for exalted
       self-transcending modes of concentration and seriousness. The need
       of human beings to transcend "the person" is no less profound than
       the need to be a person, an individual.
         "The Pornographic Imagination," like most of Sontag's essays, is
         full of powerful phrases, seductive insights, and extraordinary
         balderdash. Sontag dilates on pornography's "peculiar access to
         some truth." What she doesn't say is that The Story of O (for
         example) presents not an instance of mystical fulfillment but a
         graphic depiction of human degradation. Only someone who had
         allowed "form" to triumph over "content" could have ignored
         In a way, "The Pornographic Imagination" is itself the perfect
         camp gesture: for if camp aims to "dethrone the serious" it is
         also, as Sontag points out, "deadly serious" about the demotic
         the trivial. Sontag is a master at both ploys. Having immersed
         herself in the rhetoric of traditional humanistic learning, she
         expert at using it against itself. This of course is a large
         of what has made her writing so successful among would-be
         "avant-garde" intellectuals: playing with the empty forms of
         traditional moral and aesthetic thought, she is able to appear
         simultaneously unsettling and edifying, daringly "beyond good
         evil" and yet passionately engagé. In the long march through the
         institutions, Sontag has been an emissary of trivialization,
         deploying the tools of humanism to sabotage the humanistic
         "The Pornographic Imagination" also exhibits the seductive
         hauteur in full flower. After telling us that pornography can be
         an exciting version of personal transcendence, she immediately
         remarks that "not everyone is in the same condition as knowers
         potential knowers. Perhaps most people don't need `a wider scale
         of experience.' It may be that, without subtle and extensive
         psychic preparation, any widening of experience and
         is destructive for most people." Not for you and me, Dear
         we are among the elect. We deserve that "wider scale of
         experience"; but as for the rest, as for "most people," well . .
         As a writer, Sontag is essentially a coiner of epigrams. At
         best they are witty, well phrased, provocative. A few are even
         true: "Nietzsche was a histrionic thinker but not a lover of the
         histrionic." But Sontag's striving for effect (unlike Nietzsche,
         she is a lover of the histrionic) regularly leads her into
         What, for example, can it mean to say that "the AIDS epidemic
         serves as an ideal projection for First World political
         or that "risk-free sexuality is an inevitable reinvention of the
         culture of capitalism"? Nothing, really, although such
         do communicate an unperturbable aura of left-wing contempt for
         common sense.
         In "One Culture and the New Sensibility" Sontag enthusiastically
         reasons that "if art is understood as a form of discipline of
         feelings and a programming of sensations, then the feeling (or
         sensation) given off by a Rauschenberg painting might be like
         of a song by the Supremes." But of course the idea that art is a
         "programming of the sensations" (a phrase, alas, of which Sontag
         is particularly fond) is wrong, incoherent, or both, as is the
         idea that feelings or sensations might be "given off" by any
         or painting, even one by Rauschenberg (odors, yes; sensations,
         no). As often happens, her passion for synesthesia and effacing
         boundaries leads her into nonsense.
         And then there were Sontag's own political activities. Cuba and
         North Vietnam in 1968, China in 1973, Sarajevo in 1993 (where
         went to direct a production of Waiting for Godot--surely one of
         the consummate radical chic gestures of all time). Few people
         managed to combine naïve idealization of foreign tyranny with
         violent hatred of their own country to such deplorable effect.
         has always talked like a political radical but lived like an
         aesthete. At the annual PEN writers' conference in 1986, Sontag
         declared that "the task of the writer is to promote dissidence."
         But it it turns out that, for her, only dissidence conducted
         against American interests counts. Consider the notorious essay
         she wrote about "the right way" for Americans to "love the Cuban
         revolution." Sontag begins with some ritualistic denunciations
         American culture as "inorganic, dead, coercive, authoritarian."
         Item: "America is a cancerous society with a runaway rate of
         productivity that inundates the country with increasingly
         unnecessary commodities, services, gadgets, images,
         One of the few spots of light, she tells us, is Eldridge
         Soul on Ice, which teaches that "America's psychic survival
         entails her transformation through a political revolution." (It
         also teaches that, for blacks, rape can be a noble
         "insurrectionary act," a "defying and trampling on the white
         laws," but Sontag doesn't bother with that detail.)
         According to her, "the power structure derives its credibility,
         its legitimacy, its energies from the dehumanization of the
         individuals who operate it. The people staffing IBM and General
         Motors, and the Pentagon, and United Fruit are the living dead."
         Since the counterculture is not strong enough to overthrow IBM,
         the Pentagon, etc., it must opt for subversion. "Rock, grass,
         better orgasms, freaky clothes, grooving on nature--really
         grooving on anything--unfits, maladapts a person for the
         way of life." And here is where the Cubans come in: they enjoy
         this desirable "new sensibility" naturally, possessing as they
         a "southern spontaneity which we feel our own too white,
         death-ridden culture denies us. . . . The Cubans know a lot
         spontaneity, gaiety, sensuality and freaking out. They are not
         linear, desiccated creatures of print culture."
         Indeed not: supine, desiccated creatures of a Communist tyranny
         would be more like it, though patronizing honky talk about
         "southern spontaneity" doubtless made things seem much better
         this was written. In the great contest for writing the most
         fatuous line of political drivel, Sontag is always a contender.
         This essay contains at least two gems: after ten years, she
         writes, "the Cuban revolution is astonishingly free of
         and bureaucratization"; even better perhaps, is this passing
         remark delivered in parentheses: "No Cuban writer has been or is
         in jail, or is failing to get his work published." Readers
         to make a reality check should consult Paul Hollander's classic
         study Political Pilgrims: Western Intellectuals in Search of the
         Good Society, which cites Sontag's claim and then lists, in two
         three pages, some of the many writers and artists who have been
         jailed, tortured, or executed by Castro's spontaneous gaiety.
         Sontag concocted a similar fairy tale when she went to Vietnam
         1968 courtesy of the North Vietnamese government. Her long essay
         "Trip to Hanoi" (1968) is another classic in the literature of
         political mendacity. Connoisseurs of the genre will especially
         savor Sontag's observation that the real problem for the North
         Vietnamese is that they "aren't good enough haters." Their
         fondness for Americans, she explains, keeps getting in the way
         the war effort.

       They genuinely care about the welfare of the hundreds of captured
       American pilots and give them bigger rations than the Vietnamese
       population gets, "because they're bigger than we are," as a
       Vietnamese army officer told me, "and they're used to more meat
       than we are." People in North Vietnam really do believe in the
       goodness of man . . . and in the perennial possibility of
       rehabilitating the morally fallen.
         It would be interesting to know what Senator John McCain, a
         prisoner of war who was brutally tortured by the North
         had to say about this little fantasia.
         Sontag acknowledges that her account tended somewhat to idealize
         North Vietnam; but that was only because she "found, through
         direct experience, North Vietnam to to be a place which, in many
         respects, deserves to be idealized." Unlike any country in
         Europe, you understand, and above all unlike the United States.
         "The Vietnamese are `whole' human beings, not `split' as we
         In 1967, shortly before her trip to Hanoi, Sontag had this to
         about the United States:

       A small nation of handsome people . . . is being brutally and
       self-righteously slaughtered . . . by the richest and most
       grotesquely overarmed, most powerful country in the world. America
       has become a criminal, sinister country--swollen with
       numbed by affluence, bemused by the monstrous conceit that it has
       the mandate to dispose of the destiny of the world.
         In "What's Happening in America (1966)," Sontag tells readers
         what America "deserves" is to have its wealth "taken away" by
         Third World. In one particularly notorious passage, she writes
         that "the truth is that Mozart, Pascal, Boolean algebra,
         Shakespeare, parliamentary government, baroque churches, Newton,
         the emancipation of women, Kant, Marx, and Balanchine ballets
         don't redeem what this particular civilization has wrought upon
         the world. The white race is the cancer of human history."
         What can one say? Sontag excoriates American capitalism for its
         "runaway rate of productivity." But she has had no scruples
         enjoying the fruits of that productivity: a Rockefeller
         grant in 1964, a Merrill Foundation grant in 1965, a Guggenheim
         Foundation Fellowship in 1966, etc., etc., culminating in 1990
         with a MacArthur Foundation "genius" award. Sontag preserved her
         radical chic credentials to the end. In the 1960s in was Vietnam
         and Cuba; in the 1990s it was Sarajevo. The one constant was
         unremitting animus against the United States: its culture, its
         politics, its economy, its very being. Following the terrorist
         attacks on New York and Washington in September 2001, Sontag
         to the pages of The New Yorker to explain that the assault of
         September 11 was "not a `cowardly' attack on `civilization' or
         `liberty' or `humanity' or `the free world' [note the scare
         quotes] but an attack on the world's self-proclaimed superpower,
         undertaken as a consequence of specific American alliances and
         actions. . . . [W]hatever may be said of the perpetrators of
         [September 11's] slaughter, they were not cowards." Does she
         then, that they were murderous fanatics? Hardly. Sontag is at
         too ambivalent and too admiring for that: too ambivalent about
         "world's self-proclaimed superpower" and too admiring of the
         murderous Muslim fanatics.
         Sontag enjoyed an extraordinary career. But, pace Salman
         her celebrity was not the gratifying product of intellectual
         distinction but the tawdry coefficient of a lifelong devotion to
         the mendacious and disfiguring imperatives of radical chic.
   106. http://www.pen.org/sontag.html
   107. http://www.newcriterion.com/constant/longmarch.htm
   108. http://www.newcriterion.com/archive/23/dec04/bentley.htm


Susan Sontag - Remembering an intellectual heroine. By Christopher

     Posted Wednesday, Dec. 29, 2004, at 8:37 AM PT

     Between the word "public" and the word "intellectual" there falls,
     ought to fall, a shadow. The life of the cultivated mind should be
     private, reticent, discreet: Most of its celebrations will occur
     no audience, because there can be no applause for that moment when
     solitary reader gets up and paces round the room, having just
     the hidden image in the sonnet, or the profane joke in the
     text, or the secret message in the prison diaries. Individual
     of this kind is only rivaled when the same reader turns into a
     and after a long wrestle until daybreak hits on his or her own
     of the mot juste, or the unmasking of pretension, or the apt, latent
     literary connection, or the satire upon tyranny.

     The 20^th century was perhaps unusual in the ways in which it forced
     such people to quit their desks and their bookshelves and to enter
     agora. Looking over our shoulders, we do not find that we have much
     respect or admiration for those who simply survived, or who kept the
     private life alive. We may owe such people more than we know, but it
     is difficult to view them as exemplary. Our heroes and heroines are
     those who managed, from Orwell through Camus and Solzhenitsyn, to be
     both intellectual and engaged. (This combination of qualities would
     also be true of a good number of our fools and villains, from Celine
     to Shaw, with Sartre perhaps occupying the middle position.)

     Susan Sontag passed an extraordinary amount of her life in the
     of private happiness through reading and through the attempt to
     this delight with others. For her, the act of literary consumption
     the generous parent of the act of literary production. She was so
     impressed by the marvelous people she had read--beginning with Jack
     London and Thomas Mann in her girlhood, and eventually comprising
     almost Borgesian library that was her one prized possession--that
     was almost shy about offering her own prose to the reader. Look at
     output and you will see that she was not at all prolific.

     If it doesn't seem like that--if it seems as if she was always
     somewhere in print--it is because she timed her interventions very
     deftly. By the middle 1960s, someone was surely going to say
     worth noticing about the energy and vitality of American popular
     culture. And it probably wasn't going to be any of the graying manes
     of the old Partisan Review gang. Sontag's sprightly, sympathetic
     essays on the diminishing returns of "high culture" were written by
     someone who nonetheless had a sense of tradition and who took that
     high culture seriously (and who was smart enough to be published in
     Partisan Review). Her acute appreciation of the importance of
     photography is something that now seems uncontroversial (the sure
     of the authentic pioneer), and her "Notes on 'Camp' " were dedicated
     to the memory of Oscar Wilde, whose fusion of the serious and the
     subversive was always an inspiration to her, as it is, I can't
     adding, to too few female writers.

     In a somewhat parochial time, furthermore, she was an
     internationalist. I once heard her rather sourly described as
     culture's "official greeter," for her role in presenting and
     introducing the writers of other scenes and societies. There was no
     shame in that charge: She--and Philip Roth--did a very great deal to
     familiarize Americans with the work of Czeslaw Milosz and Danilo
     Milan Kundera and György Konrád. In Against Interpretation,
     in 1966, she saw more clearly than most that the future defeat of
     official Communism was inscribed in its negation of literature. When
     Arpad Goncz, the novelist who eventually became a post-Communist
     president of Hungary, was invited to the White House, he requested
     that Susan be placed on his guest list. It's hard to think of any
     other American author or intellectual who would be as sincerely
     mourned as Susan will be this week, from Berlin to Prague to
     (Updated, Dec. 31: On Thursday, Mayor Muhidin Hamamdzic of Sarajevo
     announced that the city will name a street after her, and the city's
     Youth Theater said that it would mount a plaque for her on its

     Mention of that last place name impels me to say another thing: this
     time about moral and physical courage. It took a certain amount of
     nerve for her to stand up on stage, in early 1982 in New York, and
     denounce martial law in Poland as "fascism with a human face."
     Intended as ironic, this remark empurpled the anti-anti-Communists
     predominated on the intellectual left. But when Slobodan Milosevic
     adopted full-out national socialism after 1989, it took real guts to
     go and live under the bombardment in Sarajevo and to help organize
     Bosnian civic resistance. She did not do this as a "tourist," as
     sneering conservative bystanders like Hilton Kramer claimed. She
     real time there and endured genuine danger. I know, because I saw
     in Bosnia and had felt faint-hearted long before she did.

     Her fortitude was demonstrated to all who knew her, and it was often
     the cause of fortitude in others. She had a long running battle with
     successive tumors and sarcomas and was always in the front line for
     any daring new treatment. Her books on illness and fatalism, and her
     stout refusal to accept defeat, were an inspiration. So were the
     anonymous hours and days she spent in encouraging and advising
     sufferers. But best of all, I felt, was the moment when, as
     of American PEN, she had to confront the Rushdie affair in 1989.

     It's easy enough to see, now, that the offer of murder for cash,
     by a depraved theocratic despot and directed at a novelist, was a
     warning of the Islamist intoxication that was to come. But at the
     time, many of the usual "signers" of petitions were distinctly shaky
     and nervous, as were the publishers and booksellers who felt
     themselves under threat and sought to back away. Susan Sontag
     mobilized a tremendous campaign of solidarity that dispelled all
     masochism and capitulation. I remember her saying hotly of our
     persecuted and hidden friend: "You know, I think about Salman every
     second. It's as if he was a lover." I would have done anything for
     at that moment, not that she asked or noticed.

     With that signature black-on-white swoosh in her hair, and her
     charismatic and hard-traveling style, she achieved something else
     worthy of note--the status of celebrity without any of the attendant
     tedium and squalor. She resolutely declined to say anything about
     private life or to indulge those who wanted to speculate. The
     to an indiscretion she ever came was an allusion to Middlemarch in
     opening of her 1999 novel In America, where she seems to say that
     one and only marriage was a mistake because she swiftly realized
     only that I was Dorothea but that, a few months earlier, I had
     Mr. Casaubon.")

     A man is not on his oath, said Samuel Johnson, when he gives a
     oration. One ought to try and contest the underlying assumption
     which condescendingly excuses those who write nil nisi bonum of the
     dead. Could Susan Sontag be irritating, or hectoring, or righteous?
     She most certainly could. She said and did her own share of foolish
     things during the 1960s, later retracting her notorious remark about
     the white "race" being a "cancer" by saying that it slandered cancer
     patients. In what I thought was an astonishing lapse, she attempted
     diagnose the assault of Sept. 11, 2001, as the one thing it most
     obviously was not: "a consequence of specific [sic] American
     and actions." Even the word "general" would have been worse in that
     sentence, but she had to know better. She said that she didn't read
     reviews of her work, when she obviously did. It could sometimes be
     very difficult to tell her anything or to have her admit that there
     was something she didn't know or hadn't read.

     But even this insecurity had its affirmative side. If she was
     sometimes a little permissive, launching a trial balloon only to
     deflate it later (as with her change of heart on the filmic
     of Leni Riefenstahl) this promiscuity was founded in curiosity and
     liveliness. About 20 years ago, I watched her having an on-stage
     discussion with Umberto Eco in downtown New York. Eco was a bit
     galumphing--he declared that his favorite novel was Lolita because
     could picture himself in the part of Umberto Umberto. Susan, pressed
     to define the word "polymath," was both sweet and solemn. "To be a
     polymath," she declared, "is to be interested in everything--and in
     nothing else." She was always trying to do too much and square the
     circle: to stay up late debating and discussing and have the last
     word, then get a really early night, then stay up reading, and then
     make an early start. She adored trying new restaurants and new
     She couldn't stand affectless or bored or cynical people, of any
     She only ventured into full-length fiction when she was almost 60,
     then discovered that she had a whole new life. And she resisted the
     last malady with terrific force and resource, so that to describe
     as life-affirming now seems to me suddenly weak. Anyway--death be

     Christopher Hitchens is a columnist for Vanity Fair and a regular
     contributor to Slate. His most recent book is [30]Love, Poverty and
     War. He is also the author of [31]A Long Short War: The Postponed
     Liberation of Iraq and of [32]Blood, Class and Empire.

Susan Sontag (1933-2004): Remembering the voice of moral
responsibilityand unembarrassed

by Gary Indiana

     Like Maria Callas's voice, Susan Sontag's mind, to borrow a phrase
     from the great filmmaker Werner Schroeter (one of countless
     underappreciated artists Sontag championed), was "a comet passing
     in a hundred years." In a dauntingly, often viciously
     anti-intellectual society, Sontag made being an intellectual

     She was the indispensible voice of moral responsibility, perceptual
     clarity, passionate (and passionately reasonable) advocacy: for
     aesthetic pleasure, for social justice, for unembarrassed hedonism,
     for life against death. Sontag took it as a given that our duty as
     sentient beings is to rescue the world. She knew that empathy can
     change history.

     She set the bar of skepticism as high as it would go. Allergic to
     received ideas and their hypnotic blandishments, she was often
     startled to discover how devalued the ethical sense, and the courage
     to exercise it, had become in American consumer culture.

     Sontag had impeccable instincts for saying and doing what needed to
     said and done while too many others scrambled for the safety of
     consensus. Hence the uproar when she declared, at the height of
     Solidarity's epochal crisis in 1982, that "communism . . . is
     with a human face." Hence also the depressingly rote indignation
     mobilized against her response to a New Yorker survey about the 9-11
     attacks, published on September 24, 2001a survey that most
     used to promote themselves, their latest books, the depth of their

     Of course it was, and still is, easier for many Americans to pretend
     the events of 9-11 were inexplicable eruptions of violence against
     American virtuousness, perpetrated by people who "hate us for our
     freedoms." Indeed, the habitual assertion of the American way of
     life's superiority is probably what persuades supposedly serious
     writers to weigh in on a civil catastrophe by promoting their own
     narrow interests, dropping in news of their current travel
     itineraries, their marriages, their kidsoh, and how shaken they were
     by the tragic events.

     It takes unusual bravery to cite, in a large media venue, cause and
     effect as operant elements in a man-made emergencyespecially when
     programmed pieties and entrenched denial mechanisms of society run
     the opposite direction.

     Sontag drew her own better-than-well-informed conclusions about what
     happened on 9-11. The habit of independent thought has so little
     currency in 21st-century America that dissent is the last thing most
     Americans consider worth protecting.

     What Jean Genet referred to as "the far Right and its imbecilic
     mythology" have already been activated in several "obituary" pieces,
     including one fulminating, hateful dismissal of Sontag's entire
     lifework. It's lowering to realize how terminally bitter the
     right really is: Even in its current triumphal micro-epoch, it needs
     to demonize somebody.

     Sontag's political "lapses," cited even in sympathetic articles, are
     in fact the public moments one should most admire her for. She was
     usually right, and when she hadn't been, she said so. It's customary
     these days to damn people for "inconsistency," as if it's somehow
     virtuous to persist forever in being wrong. Sontag interrogated her
     own ideas with merciless rigor, and when she discovered they no
     applied, or were defectively inadequate or just plain bad, she never
     hesitated to change her mind in public.

     Certainly she felt the same revulsion and horror at the atrocity of
     9-11 that any New Yorker, any citizen of the world, did. But she
     had the moral scruple to connect the attacks to generally
     lethal American actions abroad, to the indiscriminate carnage that
     typified both state policy and terrorist violence in the new
     Where, exactly, does the difference lie?

     Unlike our government's loudest warmongers and their media
     cheerleaders, Sontag put her own life on the line, many times, in
     defense of her principlesin Israel during the Six Day War, in Hanoi
     during the American bombardment, in Sarajevo throughout much of the
     conflict there. Like Genet, she was willing to go anywhere, at a
     moment's notice, out of solidarity with people on the receiving end
     contemporary barbarism.

     The range of her talents and interests was no less impressive than
     moral instincts. She once told me that "every good book is worth
     reading at least once" (in her case, it was usually at least twice).
     Her appetite for cultural provenderopera, avant-garde theater, film,
     dance, travel, historical inquiry, cuisine of any kind,
     the history of ideaswas inexhaustible. If you told her about
     she didn't know, she soon knew more about it than you did. She
     routinely went directly from a museum to a screening, then to a
     concert; and if there was a kung fu movie playing somewhere after
     that, off she went, whether you were still ambulatory or not.

     I know I'm in a minority, but I remain a fan of Sontag's early
     The Benefactor and Death KitSontag herself cared little for them in
     later years. Not enough people have seen the films she directed:
     for Cannibals and Brother Carl in Sweden, Promised Lands in Israel,
     Unguided Tour in Venice. These early and middle works could be
     considered noble experiments, operating on a high level of fluency

     None of these works are as sumptuously realized as her best essays,
     her later novels The Volcano Lover and In America. At times, her
     reverence for the European modernists who influenced her eclipses
     own seldom mentioned, American gift for absurdist black humor.
     Kit has anything but a reputation for hilarity, but it's one of the
     most darkly funny narratives written in America during the Vietnam
     War.) Many of Sontag's essays, for that matter, have threads of
     Firbankian whimsy and manic satire running through themand no, I'm
     referring to "Notes on Camp."

     There's no way to summarize her restless cultural itinerary and her
     immense services to "the republic of letters" in the space of an
     obituary. What I can speak of, here, again, is the indelible example
     she set as a moral being, citizen, and writer. She sedulously
     distinguished between the merely personal and the insights personal
     experience generated. "I" appears less frequently in her writings
     in those of any other significant American writer I can think of. If
     Sontag was less averse, in recent times, to saying "I," it could be
     that she at last realized she'd earned the authority for "I" to mean
     more, coming from her, than it does coming from most people. (In
     America, "I" isn't simply a pronoun, but a way of life.)

     It's my guess that growing up in Arizona and Southern California,
     among people who placed no special value on intelligence and none at
     all on its cultivation, Sontag's first line of defense against being
     hurt by other people was the same thing (aside from physical beauty)
     that distinguished her from ordinary peoplethat awesome intellect.
     could be ferociously assertive, and at times even hurtful, without
     all realizing the tremendous effect she had on people. In some ways,
     like any American intellectual, she often felt slighted or
     underappreciated, even when people were actually paying keen
     to her.

     Her personal magnetism was legendary. Even in later times, she had
     glamour of a film star. She almost never wore makeup (though she
     finally, find a shade of lipstick she could stand), and usually wore
     black slacks, black sweaters, and sometimes a black leather jacket,
     though occasionally the jacket would be brown. She had the body
     language of a young person: She once explained to me that people get
     old when they started acting like old people.

     I never heard her say a dumb word, even in moments of evident
     distress. She did, from time to time, do things that seemed quite
     but then, who doesn't? Her will to keep experiencing, learning, and
     feeling "the old emotions"and, sometimes, to make herself empty,
     restock her interiority, break with old ideascame with a project of
     self-transcendence that Sontag shouldered, like Sisyphus's stone,
     cheerfully, "with fervor."

     She once told Dick Cavett, after the first of her struggles with
     cancer, that she didn't find her own illness interesting. She
     stipulated that it was moving to her, but not interesting. To be
     interesting, experience has to yield a harvest of ideas, which her
     illness certainly didbut she communicated them in a form useful to
     others in ways a conventional memoir couldn't be. (To be useful, one
     has to reach others on the level of thought, not only feelingthough
     the two are inseparable.)

     In light of her own illness, she set about removing the stigma then
     attached to cancer, dismantling the punitive myths this fearsome
     illness generated at the time. We don't look at illness in the same
     way we did before Illness as Metaphor and the widespread examination
     of our relationship to medicine that it triggered.

     Her detachment in this regard was a powerful asset. Many years ago,
     went with her one morning to her radiologist. The radiologist had
     gotten back some complicated X-rays and wanted to discuss them. On
     way uptown, Susan was incredibly composed, long resigned to
     hyper-vigilance as the price of staying alive.

     At the clinic, she disappeared into the doctor's office for a
     worryingly long time. When she came out, finally, she was laughing.

     "She put the X-rays up," Susan told me, "and said, 'This really
     doesn't look good.' So I looked them over, and thought about it.
     I said, 'You're right. These don't look good. But you know
     these aren't my X-rays.' "

     They weren't her X-rays. Her most recent procedure had left a
     temporary, subcutaneous line of staple sutures running from her
     to her abdomen. The tiny metal clamps she knew were there would have
     glowed on an X-ray.

     For some reason this was the first memory that flashed to mind when
     the sad news came that she was gone.


Notes on Camp Sontag

     by Sheelah Kolhatkar

     "I can remember going to some very, very high-powered and glamorous
     parties, with her or because of her, at, say, Roger Straus,"
     the writer Stephen Koch, who became friends with Susan Sontag in
     when she was in her early 30s. "And you would walk in, and it was
     wall-to-wall Nobel Prize winners and Mikhail Baryshnikov and George
     Balanchine and Richard Avedon it was like walking into a Hirschfeld
     cartoon. And she flourished there. She was Susan Sontag, and it was
     just part of that. There was a certain high-gloss celebrity thing
     would occasionally do."

     Indeed, there were many other things that Sontag did in addition to
     being a glamorous intellectual superstara role she played well until
     her death last week of leukemia at age 71. She wrote books, both
     provocative essays and novels; read some of the 15,000 volumes of
     fiction and philosophy she said were stashed in her Chelsea
     traveled to war-torn countries; attended the ballet; and obsessively
     watched films. She created ideological enemies as swiftly as she did
     allies. But perhaps its the 1975 black-and-white photograph, taken
     her friend, Peter Hujarof her reclining on a bed, staring off into
     middle distance, perhaps contemplating Artaudthat most captures how
     like to remember her: young, sultry, brilliant, precocious. It was
     1960s that, in many ways, Susan Sontag represented besta time in
     America when it was fun to be an intellectual, when the worlds of
     and low culture were converging and it was cool to be provocatively
     outspoken, intimidatingly well-read, the smartest one at the party.
     Perhaps she made it so.

     After all, as her friend, Mr. Koch, and countless others since her
     death have observed, Sontag was more than a witty, attractive brain.
     She was a starsomething that has much to do with the intellectual
     climate of the 60s, but mostly to do with Sontag herself.

     "For one, she was glamorous-looking. One ought not to ignore that,
     if it had nothing to do with Susans celebrity," said Robert Boyers,
     professor at Skidmore College and the editor of the literary journal
     Salmagundi, who got to know Sontag in the late 1960s and became
     friends with her in the 70s. "Susan knew that she was very beautiful
     and very photogenic, and she always liked to have her photograph
     by first-rate photographers.

     "I remember the first time in the 70s," he continued, "when I went
     a poster shop in Paris, and I saw all these racks of postcards of
     movie stars, and was astonished to see the numbers of postcard
     of Susan Sontag on those racks. There was Grace Kelly, and Susan

     "Somehow in the 60s, she had become an icon, like Twiggy or
     something," said Jim Miller, the chair of the liberal-studies
     at the New School, who occasionally crossed paths with Sontag and
     looked up to her as a student in the 60s. "Thats what made it
     You know, in France, intellectuals are celebrities all the time. In
     America, its quite unusual but not unheard of. You know, you get a
     chick at a party full of frumpy professors and people go, Whoa!"

     Although Sontag was schooled in the 1950s, first at the rigorous
     mental training ground that was the University of Chicago and later
     Harvard, with sojourns to Oxford and the Sorbonne, she produced the
     work that would make her known in the 1960s. She moved to New York,
     the city of her birth, on Jan. 1, 1959, freshly divorced and with a
     young son, and into a tiny apartment on West End Avenue. She taught
     the religion department at Columbia University and contributed to
     publications like the Partisan Review; the essay "Notes on Camp,"
     which sparked her notoriety, was published there in 1964. She was
     absorbed into the fold of Farrar, Straus (later "and Giroux"), which
     would become her lifelong publishing house, in 1961, when she signed
     contract for her first novel, The Benefactor. Her essay collection,
     Against Interpretation, was published in 1966.

     It was a moment when the division between elite culture and mass
     culture was quickly collapsing, and Sontag was a primary figure in
     both causing and explaining it; her "Notes on Camp" addressed gay
     popular culture through an academic lens, and was permission for the
     cultural elite to delve into "lowbrow" fields such as film and rock

     "Being an intellectual used to mean, until the mid-1960s, attempting
     in ones work and ones posture to uphold that distinction between
     and low, and basically to resist the efforts to erode it, whereas in
     the 60s it came to seem impossible to do that any longer," said Mr.
     Boyers. "The 1960s was a time in which many intellectuals, who had
     largely been absorbed in their own work and in finding niches in the
     academy, suddenly felt called upon to take positions and put
     themselves on the line."

     Sontag had a sharp sense of what was about to prove riveting to the
     types of people she viewed as her peersputting herself at the front
     edge of trends, or at least capitalizing effectively on what was
     already happening. (She could explain Jean-Luc Godard movies to
     who were going to see them but still hadnt a clue what they were.)

     Mr. Koch first came to know Ms. Sontag in 1965, when he was 24 and
     about 32, after he reviewed The Benefactor in the Antioch Review and
     sent her a copy. The two struck up a friendship over a Chinese
     around 114th Street and Broadway.

     "I even remember what we ate: smoked fish," recalled Mr. Koch. "She
     was wearing a car coat. She was very friendly. I was filled with
     of what I wanted to do and where I wanted to publish, and she said,
     Oh, dont publish there. Ill show you where to publish." She was a
     worthwhile ally to cultivate.

     Sontag led Mr. Koch around town, introducing him to Richard Kluger,
     then the books editor at the New York Herald Tribune, and to the
     literary editor at The Nation. She read his manuscripts and
     him to editors, taking him under her wing, as she is known to have
     done for many (mostly male) young thinkers throughout her career. He
     visited her apartment, then a tiny two-bedroom she shared with her
     David, with a living room lined with framed movie stills. "She was
     very girlish, smiled a lot, and had a very radiant glow," said Mr.

     "She understood about how she was becoming famous. It was extremely
     interesting to watch," he continued. "She once said, I was at a
     screening of a movie last night, and a lot of people were interested
     in the fact that I was there. It bothered her. But on the whole, she
     carried herself with her gathering celebrity very well. The talent
     being famous, Hemingway had to a world-class degree. Susan had it to
     remarkable degree. She had an innate talent for being well-known.
     People say, Oh, well, she went after celebrity. She was a natural
     celebrityit came to her like breathing in and breathing out."

     "She was a very young, beautiful woman," recalled the poet Richard
     Howard, a close friend of Sontags who sometimes accompanied her to
     literary salons and occasionally baby-sat her sonwhen she wasnt
     bringing the youngster along with her to parties and readings. "She
     went out a lot and saw a lot of people and stayed up late. She was
     interested in everything that people did late at night. She was open
     to almost anything. She was a very exciting and open friend, very
     frank and direct. She was around; she was everywhere."

     Sontag was often compared to Mary McCarthy, the reigning
     smart-girl-about-town of her day, which didnt necessarily thrill

     "Mary McCarthy once told Susan, I hear youre the new me," said
     Dickstein, a professor of literature and film at the CUNY graduate
     school, who sat in on some classes with Sontag while an
     at Columbia in the 1960s. "Mary McCarthy was then the reigning woman
     intellectual. Its absurd to think there had to be only one woman
     intellectual, but its clear that Camille Paglia had that same All
     About Eve feeling toward Susan Sontag that Susan Sontag had toward
     Mary McCarthy. Of course theres room for more than one, but somehow
     there was this idea that there had to be only one star with a kind
     queen-bee quality. I guess its men who created that feelingthat
     has to be this one mesmerizing woman who combines brains and beauty,
     intellect and sensuality."

     Still, friends maintain that whether or not Sontag sought fame, most
     of it, from the glamour to the intellectual prowess, came naturally
     her. Mr. Koch described her as an "innate highbrow."

     "She was someone looking up to the greats," said Mr. Koch. "She
     trying to be like Mary McCarthy. She was trying to be like Gide. She
     was trying to be like Henry James. Not in imitating their work, but
     moving toward what she would call seriousness."

     Ms. Paglia, a professor of humanities and media studies at the
     University of the Arts in Philadelphia, said that despite their
     disagreements (and Ms. Paglias repeated dissing of her predecessors
     work in print), she looked up to Sontag.

     "When I was young, I was looking for role models for a life as a
     thinking woman," said Ms. Paglia. "She was a rigorous female thinker
     at a time when careers for women were not encouraged at all. Our
     self-conception is parallel. This is an American model of a woman
     intellectual who is not afraid of pop culture, who is not afraid of
     the media. That is what I admire about her in the 1960s."

     You may reach Sheelah Kolhatkar via email at:
     [9]skolhatkar at observer.com.

More information about the paleopsych mailing list