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Alice Munro Wins Again

It could be the time of year, which for my team is unfortunately the busiest, or it may have been the sourness this week of the Oxford Poetry scandal, but I was completely caught unawares when the world media announced that Alice Munro had won the 2009 Man Booker International.   The reaction of the pundits seems to be a happy, calm unanimity.  Or not (hello Canada!).

That Last Infirmity of Noble Mind

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights, and live laborious days.

– John Milton, Lycidas

I guess it must have been my Dad who once told me that one of the problems with academics is that they have no outlets for normal, human politics — no budget, no staff, no real paths for promotion or channels for their conflict. Consequently, you see them scrap over substitute prizes: Corner offices, seminar courses, sabbaticals. The chance to introduce some celebrity at a dinner, the ability to travel in the Summer months and unwind. Too much of that seems true from my own experiences, but I sort of thought that by now — as far as I am from Undergrad as my Dad is from teaching — that things might have changed. Students, of course, get exposed to a lot of poor behaviors from people who are paid — or should be paid primarily — to teach, but again I figured with the rise of the management culture and the death of collegiality we would’ve seen a lot less of the high table chicanery. Not so.

[...]

On Privacy — Introduction

In October of 2003, Canada had the inconvenient fun of having to compare two competing indulgences.  On the one hand, there was the right of Parliamentary committees to summon and investigate all Federal organizations, whether they reported to Parliament directly or not.  And on the other, the right of the then Privacy Commissioner to keep his discretionary spending of public funds private.  Absurdity won.  But curiously, it was the Commissioner’s perverse spending that rankled Canadians.  His chicanery to deny the public the right to review the office of their own privacy ombudsman seemed overlooked. 

This reaction nicely typifies the confusion surrounding the concept of privacy, but it also damages the case that it ought to be esteemed as a fundamental freedom.  The scandal encourages the prejudice that privacy is something more synonymous with guile than personal freedom; namely, if there’s nothing to hide, why not provide?  Unfortunately, there seems to be few alternatives, since the dominant opposing argument can be found in the rebuttal of the ersatz Commissioner to Parliament; that is, there’s nothing to provide, since it’s the individual’s right to hide. 

“Higher in Canada”

About three years ago I had a bad moment in one of Canada’s largest book chains.  I was trying to find a Graham Greene novel, and the price of the only copy available was almost two and a half times that of the listed US sales price.  Even more expensive after the probable conversion from Euros, which was also listed.  To be clear, this was the price on the text itself, printed on the back, not the sticker price.  The publisher printed this amount.  The book wasn’t a special edition, or particularly unique, it was just a new reprint of an old paperback and I wanted to read it.  But I couldn’t afford it.  In retrospect I should’ve tried to find the work at a used book store. But I think it’s important to note that it wouldn’t have mattered if I tried an independent bookseller — the cost of this new book would’ve still been the same.

Popular vs. Substantial

Many years ago when I was an undergraduate, in a townie bar that was so small and spare it could have fitted easily into any airport lounge, I had an argument that I could not win.  The friend I was chatting with enjoyed tugging on my academic roots, and although his father was a GP and he himself has become a family lawyer near his Dad’s former practice, my drinking pal had a “working class” streak he liked to pull out occasionally.  It was a terrible conversation and I only remember the following: “There is no difference,” my friend avowed, “between Dickens and Stephen King.  Refute!”