Authors did not include fantastic machines in their tales of tomorrow just for their novelty value. The machines demonstrated human control of the natural world, something writers did not hesitate to point out. “So many new inventions had been struck out,” wrote Webb of her future England, “so many wonderful discoveries made, and so many ingenious contrivances put into execution, that poor Nature seemed to be degraded from her throne, and usurping man to have stepped up to supply her place.” The fiction of the future was in general agreement that machines would transform dreams of growth and progress into reality.
Whenever I encounter the story of a purportedly genius (and inevitably male) artist, I am drawn principally to his (inevitably female) muse, in part because I aspire to her station (if only temporarily) and in part because I’m interested in the muse-artist relationship and all its thorniness. I get the allure of that sort of artist, and particularly one who gives himself so fully to his work that he cannot give himself to anyone else. But I wonder what it would really be like to live inside an arrangement marked by such stark power differentials.
But don’t for one second confuse the Smithsonian with your grandmother’s attic. Meticulously organised and surprisingly selective, the museum’s archives are an essential resource in its mission to explore and preserve the natural and cultural wonders of America and the world.
When we were all shipwrecked by a pandemic-induced quarantine, the headlines rightly covered the craven politics, the coronavirus mismanagement, the lies, the hate, and the death and despair that marked our lost year. But there was another side to the story: big acts of heroism and small acts of kindness, from hospital employees willing to live apart from their families to neighbors sharing supplies and checking in on one another. The daily headlines reminded us of the failings of our fellow Americans. But our daily interactions revealed a bottomless supply of caring and giving.
Recipes scribbled on a scrap of paper that has faded over time and held together with a prayer. A cookbook with notes in the margins for additions or changes that worked better. That intuitive sense that you’re getting closer to making Big Mama’s oyster dressing because the smells transport you back to being a child, peering in curiosity on your tippy toes as you were shooed away to go play with your cousins. This sense of connectedness settling in on your chest means you’ve invoked them in the room with you.
“Small Things Like These” is an ideal title for this exquisite novella in which Claire Keegan closely attends to the daily life of a modest County Wexford coal vendor. In very little space, Keegan distills the texture of village life during Ireland’s devastating 1980s recession. While the novella is a sharp critique of Catholic institutions, it’s also a bold examination of Christian charity.