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With the news that Apple founder Steve Jobs will be taking another medical leave of absence, I, like many, recalled his company’s famous “think different” ad campaign, whose narrator hailed “the crazy ones” including Albert Einstein, Bob Dylan and the Rev. Martin Luther King.
The Apple commercial might also have cited Wordsworth, Coleridge, Van Gogh and any number of other writers, artists, scientists and political leaders who suffered from severe mental illness yet who dared to think differently, who charted new terrain in poetry, painting, physics and governance.
As Kay Redfield Jamison wrote in Touched with Fire, “Most people find the thought that a destructive, often psychotic, and frequently lethal disease such as manic-depressive illness might convey certain advantages (such as heightened imaginative powers, intensified emotional responses, and increased energy) counterintuitive.”
Yet it is undoubtedly true that some of the world’s greatest geniuses were and are mentally ill.
Consider Abraham, David and Jesus, three of the most sublime figures in history. All of them either heard voices or saw visions that no one else heard or saw. Would anyone doubt that Abraham, founder of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, was a schizophrenic? How else can we characterize a man who hears a voice telling him that his people will be as numerous as the stars if he uproots his family from the town of Ur, travels for weeks through the desert, all in the pursuit of the promised land, a land unknown to him?
Then there is David, who writes in the Psalms, “All that hate me whisper together against me: against me do they devise my hurt.”
With Saul’s army chasing after David, it is no wonder that the future king is deeply

I just saw Manhattan again at the Music Box for the first time in twenty years.
It was magnificent.
Not as much for the story, which is a little creepy at the fringes: a 17-year-old girl having an affair with a 42-year-old man, but for how the movie literally vibrates with the vitality of New York, of America, of the American experience.
It depicts a New York to be missed. Manhattan, triumphantly glowing in the night’s sky, magnificent in Gordon Parke’s soft black and white cinematography that caresses every panoramic view of bridges and buildings as if by a lover, all backed by the sheer exuberance of George Gershwin’s music. Big cars, people wandering past emporiums clearly selling food made with trans fats, people smoking in bars and restaurants, I sat in the Music Box and ticked off what behaviors have been regulated or made illegal these days, or what would now be subject to citations and fines.
The movie shows a vibrant city on the make in a country where anything was

A couple of years ago, in that rosy flush of a little success and a whole lot of dreams (and fueled, I must admit, by a few too many margaritas), I did something stupid.
I had just sold my book to a big time publisher. I had been published before, to little acclaim, and had spent a lot of years writing and wondering if I’d ever be published again. Turned out, I would be, and this was nothing short of a miracle on the Lourdes scale to me. So a little celebration was in order.
On a neon-lit street in South Beach, standing — all right, swaying — in a tattoo parlor, I promised my husband, myself, a taxi driver and several bemused bystanders that I would get a tattoo — an Alice in Wonderland themed tattoo — if (not when) my novel, Alice I Have Been, hit the New York Times Bestseller list.
Flash forward a couple of

Even with major changes in publishing, far too many reviewers still focus on books published by major houses. It’s a sort of default position, possibly due to unconscious prejudice against independent publishers, or maybe even laziness. Who knows? But independent and university presses have been putting out books every bit as good as those published by New York’s major houses. They typically don’t get the same media attention or the same space in bookstores, so here are some of the best small press books of the decade.
An Unfinished Score by Elise Blackwell. Making music and making a life out of making music are two completely different things. This gorgeous novel explores the mysteries and joys as well as the brutal business realities of a musical life, focusing on a woman violist’s grief when her secret lover dies. News of that death leads her and readers along surprising paths to a splendid resolution.
Made for Each Other by Meg Daley Olmert. The bond between humans and dogs isn’t just thousands of years old, it echoes the one between humans because of oxytocin, a hormone released when mothers nurse babies and when people pet or even look at their dogs. Engaging and witty, Olmert explores the latest neuroscience on this dynamic in a deft mix of science and speculation, anecdote and analysis.
The General of the Dead Army by Ismail Kadare. In this short, stunning novel, an Italian general travels to Albania two decades after World War Two to harvest a terrible crop: the remains of Italian soldiers buried in unmarked graveyards across the country. Public pressure back home has forced this mission into being. It’s a grim task, dogged by miserable weather, the hatred of the people he meets, and the heavy weight of history.
A Skeptic’s Guide to Writers’ Houses by Anne Trubek. Why do people visit writer’s homes? What are they looking for and what do they hope to take away that isn’t sold in the gift shop? This memoir-travelogue takes you from Thoreau’s Concord to Hemingway’s Key West, exploring the tracks authors and their fans have laid down over the years. Trubek is a sharp-eyed observer, and you’ll wish you could have been her travel companion.
The Jerusalem File by Joel Stone. Mystery and murder combine with Jerusalem’s violent ethnic politics for a gripping new take on the classic pattern of PI + femme fatale = nothing but trouble. This is a model of what a thriller writer can do without having to produce the bloated “big book” too typical of American crime fiction, and it’s one of my favorite thrillers of the decade.
Waiting on a Train by James McCommons. If you’ve ever wondered why our train system doesn’t even measure up to that of some Third World countries, this is your book. The Michigan author spent a year taking trains in every part of America to interview passengers, bureaucrats, politicians, and everyone involved in a system not remotely living up to its potential. A fascinating, must-read journey for the next decade.
Every Man Dies Alone by Hans Fallada. Based on the true story of an ordinary Berlin couple suddenly launching anti-Nazi resistance, this novel was published right after WWII and feels as if it were written in a white heat. I can’t recall any novel that gives such a vivid feel for life inside the Nazi whirlwind. Melville House deserves kudos for being the first publisher to translate this novel by a popular German author who ended up hounded by the Gestapo.
For more terrific small press books, check out another one of my Huffington Post blogs.

This Blogger’s Books from
My Germany: A Jewish Writer Returns to the World His Parents Escaped
by Lev Raphael
The German Money
by Lev Raphael

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The southernmost tip of the United States is Key West, Florida. Straight out from Key West, a mere 90 miles away, is the island of Cuba. The two countries are geographically so close. This short distance has been noted as significant on several occasions, including President John F. Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis. For Cubans that closeness to the United States has been bittersweet and often the focus of their rage. In the past few weeks I have come to understand why.
I was lucky enough to participate in a humanitarian effort last week to Havana, Cuba. It’s a trip I have dreamed about for many years. Perhaps I have always been partial to the Caribbean because I visited many of the islands with my family growing up. In my late teens, I worked for Carnival Cruise lines as a childrens activity director throughout the Caribbean. So it was with much excitement that I decided to join this trip and visit part of the world that I was largely familiar with.
I always imagined that visiting the island of Cuba would be like a leap back in time to the 1950′s and perhaps a simpler way of life.
When we landed on the island, in the capital city of Havana, the first thing that I noticed were the cars. Classic vintage American cars were everywhere. Whether it was the 1954 Chevy Bel-Air Convertible or the 1956 Nash Ambassador, these historic automobiles crooked their steel-bodied chrome my way, and I was a goner.
Growing up in Detroit, I saw many of these cars being revamped and cruising the famed Woodward Boulevard. In Havana (Habana), it was like a profusion of trademark fins and classic colors that blasted my vision. Remarkable. When some sleek new import from Asia or Russia zipped up to the Hotel National to taxi us to our next location, we quickly shook our heads “no” and pointed to the line of old-fashioned cars parked at the curb.
Truly it was like reaching into a box of candy, trying to figure out which one you wanted to taste next. I wanted to try them all.
Before my trip, I delved into the history of Cuba, of U.S.-Cuba relations and the battles and embargoes that ensued. “The US embargo is a commercial, economic, and financial prohibition that began October 1960. It was enacted after Cuba nationalized the properties of United States citizens and corporations and it was strengthened to a near-total embargo since February 7, 1962. ” This embargo has been the longest standing in the history of our country.
While we traveled the balmy weathered island, we interacted with many Cuban people. We quickly realized that the embargo did little damage to the Cuban government, but had a dramatic effect on the inhabitants of Cuba — on their lives, on their available products and their standard of living.
In 1999, U.S. President Bill Clinton expanded the trade embargo even further by ending the practice of foreign subsidiaries of U.S. companies trading with Cuba. In 2000, Clinton authorized the sale of certain “humanitarian” US products to Cuba. Then, President George W. Bush made restrictions for Cuba tighter, I didn’t realize why until someone on our trip pointed out to me that at the time of the election, President Bush’s brother ran Florida — and in order to win in Florida (and consequentially in the entire country), you have to keep the U.S.-Cuban population happy. Many of them adamantly want the embargo to continue.
That may seem rather strange as many of these people fled when the revolution happened and they are well aware of the dire living standards of the average Cuban. The average monthly wage on the island is $18, which translates to a yearly salary of $216. Each individual has a food ration card and the government owns everything.
After being on the ground in Cuba, and listening to Cubans, I still don’t understand the full scope of the embargo and the United States’ reasoning for enacting it. But I do understand enough to ask — “do we think it time to lift the embargo against Cuba?” I proclaim a resounding yes!
The Cuban people have a love/hate relationship with Americans — a hate for what they consider our “actions” that have contributed to their suffering, and yet a love, an almost pining for a bridge to be built across those 90 miles to a neighboring country that would offer relief from the dictatorship of Fidel Castro.
The beauty of the island and its richness of culture and charm make the grim circumstances of the Cuban people even more stunning. Legendary writer Ernest Hemingway kept a home in Cuba and he was sometimes asked why he chose to live there. Late in 1948 he responded with an article, his tribute to the island, called “The Great Blue River.” Hemingway poetically noted many reasons he adored Cuba, most emphatically the great marlin fishing in the Gulf Stream. The author’s partiality to Cuba also comes through in his later novels. When he won the Pulitzer Prize for The Old Man and the Sea, Hemingway left this great prize at Madonna Del Cobre, and dedicated it to the Cuban people. (As of late, the Pulitzer Prize is locked away in a safe. )
Havana is incredibly rich in history and beauty. The remarkable architecture has led some to dub Cuba “The Paris of the West”. As much as this diamond in the rough is breathtaking, the very foundations of its buildings are crumbling. For every building that is being revitalized there are a dozen more crumbling. It’s hard not to see this historical loss without weeping.
Yes, Cuba’s beauty is achingly devastating. The feeling of nostalgia there comes not only from the classic cars, the friendly happy Cubans, but also from a lingering, distant memory of a better life before the embargo.
After six days of visiting a number of charities in the country and experiencing the many sites in Havana, I have left a piece of my heart at Madonna Del Cobre feet. I also struggle with anger at my own country and its effect on these 11 million inhabitants and being frightened of how we might further mess things up with the introduction of “our” capitalism.
The Cuban people could use our help to lift the embargo. Both countries could benefit from free trade and travel. Whether it’s through the Cuban Americans in Florida, the U.S. Government, or Castro and his regime, it’s time to create a way to travel those simple 90 miles.

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In his poignant memoir, A Moveable Feast (1964), Ernest Hemingway wrote that, “There is never any ending to Paris.” He was referring specifically to the way the magical city stays with you, even after you’ve gone, but it’s also true that Paris is very much the same city that it was in Hemingway’s time. In fact, a friend of mine living in Paris recently found herself sitting in a caf reading the novel as Hemingway described his visit to the exact same caf. She looked at the menu and found the precise meal he had and ordered as well — in what other city could you faithfully replicate the experience of someone more than half a century ago? Only in Paris.
In a world that seems to be changing at the speed of light, there’s something magical about a city that is steadfast in its traditions and immersed in its history. However, it’s not surprising that a city whose identity is so inextricably linked with the past would have a tumultuous relationship with the avant-garde, and this has been acutely true for contemporary art. This contentious relationship has a historical precedent: in 1863 Manet’s masterpiece Le djeuner sur l’herbe was rejected from the official Salon and derisively exhibited at the Salon des Refuss (it’s now given pride of place at the Muse d’Orsay). Even Monet, who is currently enjoying a hugely successful retrospective at the Grand Palais, was forced to exhibit outside the Academy and its official salons because critics dismissed him as a painter of “mere impressions.”
More than 150 years later, is contemporary art — which is inherently and purposefully impolitic and provocative — welcome in the city of lights? Following a successful iteration of Frieze in London, the art world descended upon Paris in search of an answer to that question, with all eyes on Foire Internationale d’Art Contemporain (FIAC), a major contemporary art fair held in the Grand Palais, Cour Carre du Louvre, and the Tuileries.
The Grand Palais houses the blue-chip galleries — Gagosian (Beverly Hills, London, New York, Paris), David Zwirner (New York), Paula Cooper (New York), Isabella Bortolozzi (Berlin), Thaddaeus Ropac (Paris, Salzburg), Spruth Magers (Berlin, London), Perrotin (Paris), Blum & Poe (Los Angeles) — while the Cour Carre du Louvre hosts the younger/trendier galleries — Nyehaus (New York), GDM (Paris), Monitor (Rome) — with a special section dedicated to galleries in business for 10 years or less, such as Silverman Gallery (San Francisco), Hotel (London), and Labor (Mexico City).
The Grand Palais is a renowned space, built for the Universal Exhibition in 1900, with a highly recognizable (and visible from much of Paris) glass roof. The dome drenches the space in sunlight and imbues the work (which otherwise might feel like a rehang of the “usual suspects”) with a freshness. One hurries through a convention center, but can’t help but leisurely stroll through the Grand Palais. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, the crowd was quite conservative and business proliferated across the aisles in an array of European languages. The fair was indisputably gorgeous, not an adjective one usually ascribes to a commercial venture of this sort, but the venue couldn’t be characterized in any other way. The only critique would be that the work all felt quite safe — blue chip all the way. The more provocative work and the exploration of media were to be found a few metro stops away at the Cour Carre du Louvre, where seemingly everything goes except the traditional painting and sculpture. This area of the fair exuded a fantastic energy and excitement and provided an opportunity to discover new artists from Mexico, Montevideo, Tel Aviv, Dsseldorf, and other cities neglected by the “Grand Tour” circuit.
In my mind, the fair had succeeded in its displays of contemporary art, but how would it fare in the institutions? Judging by two thematic exhibitions “Let’s Dance” at Muse d’art contemporain du Val-de-Marne (MAC/VAL) and “Fresh Hell” at Palais de Tokyo, the answer is very well. Both venues reject the “white cube” aesthetic in favor of a raw, warehouse environ that is fitting of the chaotic, discordant works installed there. “Let’s Dance” is a group show of 40 artists whose work explores the themes of movement, dance, or celebration. Artist Bernhard Martin invites you to a party for one (Single Disco, 1999); Pierre Huyghe inaugurates 48 new holidays conceived of by artists, curators architects, musicians, and others (One Year Celebration, 2006); Elmgreen & Dragset invite exhibition visitors to enter the VIP room through an ajar door that then rebuffs your entry (But I’m on the Guest List!, 2007); and Walead Beshty’s thrashed FedEx boxes forever bear the evidence of their travels to the exhibition. The exhibition is an artistic joy ride for both the mind and the soul like nothing I’ve experienced since LA MOCA’s brilliant Ecstasy: In and About Altered States exhibition in 2005.
Meanwhile, at the Palais de Tokyo, New York-based artist Adam McEwen was invited to play curator and he conceived of an exhibition whereby the rooms are emblematic of the artist’s studio, which for McEwen is a metaphor for the artist’s mind and the landscape in which they exist. McEwen’s “Fresh Hell” is a gnarled, complicated mess — not unlike the convoluted world in which we currently live — whereby the artists are trying to decipher their own creative constructs from the chaos. Jonathan Borofsky reminds us You are Alone Slow Down There is No One to Please but Yourself (1975-76) while Sarah Lucas’s burnt chair with cigarettes poses the horrifying question, Is suicide genetic? (1996). Even more apocalyptic, Jessica Diamond’s world map in miniature is accompanied by all block letters discouragingly asks, IS THAT ALL THERE IS? (1984 – 2010). The exhibition is powerful, provocative, and not to be missed.
Dare I say that if “Fresh Hell” and “Let’s Dance” are any indication, the city of Paris will be of increasing import for groundbreaking contemporary art exhibitions, which is good news for FIAC and the quixotic Parisian inside all of us.

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Source:www.huffingtonpost.com