It’s going to take a huge investment to bring the property up to Trump standards.
I was 11 years old when I read the New York Daily News account of William Alexander Morgan’s execution. Morgan was an American adventurer who had gone to Cuba in 1958 to join the fight against Fulgencio Batista. A brave and resourceful soldier, he became a comandante in Castro’s army—the only foreigner to attain that rank apart from Che Guevara. Yet, just three years after he arrived, Castro denounced him as a traitor and ordered him shot.
Jack London, who died one hundred years ago on November 22, is the patron saint of struggling writers.
I’ve spent a lot of the last few days comforting family members, friends, and many of my students who were feeling traumatized. And in comforting them, I’ve realized that I have a small sliver of hope about our future. Perhaps it’s pure naïveté, but I have hope that there’s at least one person in the Republican leadership with a bit of common sense. And I hope this person will be able to slow the knee-jerk agenda of the alt-right or the Freedom Caucus.
I didn’t vote for Donald Trump. As those who have read my posts during this campaign are aware, I have criticized Mr. Trump in the strongest terms, comparing him to Joe McCarthy, Heinrich Himmler, Benito Mussolini and Lonesome Rhodes—a populist demagogue played by Andy Griffith in the film, A Face In the Crowd.
I retract nothing; I apologize for nothing. So why was I curiously elated on election night when Trump was declared the winner? Simple. It was a purely visceral reaction: I was tired of being condescended to by smug liberals.