Cassandra complex | The Spectator

My New York City survival guide

It’s September in New York City. Mercifully, the sweltering heat is abating. The putrid smell of trash is lifting ever so slightly and the kids are back at school after what feels like 100 years of overpriced summer camps with mortgage-worthy price tags. For me, it also means swapping my usual attire – best described as “I’m a freelance writer and can therefore wear whatever the hell I want” for the more publicly appropriate slacks and a nice shirt as I head back to the classroom to teach graduate students about the art and absurdities of communication. I’ve been co-teaching two of these classes every fall for the past five years and enjoy the structure they bring to my otherwise higgledy-piggledy week.

Chilton Williamson, Jr.

Technology is crowding out the arts

From the beginning of human history until the day, relatively speaking, before yesterday, every civilization has given scope to, and thus been the product of, human genius in every one of its manifestations including the representative, the literary, the musical, the architectural, the mechanical and technical arts and the sciences. Naturally, each of them had its special characteristics and talents with which it became associated and for which it became known: in the case of China, her bureaucratic and military sophistication; in that of Japan, her refined aestheticism and grace of living.

Bill Kauffman

Pale Dread is the next great Washington novel

My only novel, Every Man a King (published in 1989), included a caricature of a famous political figure for whom I worked – and whom I might treat more kindly today, for as the years melt away so do the harsh judgments. As Babs Streisand sang, what’s too painful to remember we simply choose to forget. Judging by A.G. Doran’s new novel, Pale Dread, set in the State Department during the chaotic first Trump administration, its author has chosen to forget nothing of his sentence in our nation’s capital.

Lloyd Evans

Never trust a happy jogger

What is it for? Jogging means being in a hurry to get nowhere in particular as fast as possible. And it qualifies as certifiable behavior. The madman can see the purpose of his actions but the sane man can’t. City-dwellers are more prone to this mental abnormality than rural folk, who prefer not to go loping through fields of wheat or scampering over the muddied divots of an open moor. In cities, the lunatics are -everywhere, which makes it tricky for the authorities to detain them under the Mental Health Act. Some joggers know that chasing around their neighborhood like a hamster on a wheel is a little crazy. Hence “jogger’s face,” the anguished expression worn by many of the semi-athletes as they galumph along the streets. “Why am I doing this?” they cry inwardly.

Sophia Money-Coutts

Does a dog-friendly car exist?

The valet parking man at Gatwick climbed out of my car with an expression that suggested he’d just driven a Panzer at the Russian border as opposed to bringing a very underpowered VW Polo around from the car park. “Madam,” he began, unsteadily. “I need to have a word with you about the state of your car.” I apologized. My Polo is an abysmal state. Empty coffee cups, paper napkins, crinkled bags that once contained sandwiches or donuts, plastic water bottles, 58 hair ties, decaying dog biscuits and poo bags (albeit unused) all litter the floor. It’s also disgracefully muddy because Dennis doesn’t go in the boot. He either sits beside me in the front, or lies along the back seat as if I am his chauffeur and he is a debutante who’s overdone it at The 400.

Life