“To be young is to be constantly on the precipice of perfection”
In this edition of the Weekender: The new White Lotus theme song, adventures in dog parenting, and a cold-weather cocktail
This week, we’re aging out of the wunderkind bracket, resisting a new theme song, grappling with dog ownership, and appreciating “Barry Lyndon.”
AGE
A portrait of the artist as a middle-aged man
Jared Young—an apt name, though perhaps a little cruel in this context—writes about aging past your idols, fighting the passage of time, and continuing to write regardless.
Youth
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inWhen he was in his early 20s, he hung a timeline above his desk. He had drawn it himself, meticulously, with a ruler and professional illustration pen. It spanned from 18 to 30, and he glue-sticked little pictures of his favorite authors next to the age at which they’d published their first novels. At 21, Bret Easton Ellis. At 24, Martin Amis. At 25, Michael Chabon and Zadie Smith. At 26, Philip Roth. At 27, John Updike. He cut out a picture of his own face and stuck it to the timeline among them. Every year, on his birthday, he moved his face one spot forward. Every year, he passed another one of his idols.
All of the writers he admired were considered (at one time, at least) exceptional young writers, and he wanted nothing more than to be like them: an exceptional young writer. Writing a book, in and of itself, mattered less to him than doing it at a supernaturally young age. To be a prodigy, a wunderkind—that’s what aroused his ambitions. From the blurry vantage of Youth, failing to publish a novel before his 30th birthday would be his life’s ultimate failure.
And, ultimately, he failed. He turned 30, then 31, and had nowhere to stick his cut-out face.
To do a thing young is a shortcut to greatness. Everything you do right is evidence of your great potential, and all your mistakes are the mistakes of inexperience, which will be corrected, surely, by the passing of time. To write a poor sentence at the age of nineteen is expected (and quickly forgiven). To write a poor sentence at the age of forty-five—shouldn’t you know better by now? In this manner, being a not-young writer is a lose-lose proposition, because this principle applies to brilliant sentences, too. In youth, they are a marvel; later, they’re table stakes. Couples, which John Updike wrote when he was thirty-six, is considered one of his great accomplishments. But Villages, which he wrote at the age of seventy-two, is just as good. But of course it’s good—it was written by the guy who wrote Couples!
The years that pass eat up your margin for error until there is no margin left. The mistakes you make are no longer flaws of inexperience, they are flaws of character. To be young is to be constantly on the precipice of perfection—just a little further and you’ll get there—but you never get there, and suddenly you’re old, and find yourself in a permanent state of imperfection, which you must reckon with.
PORTRAIT
TELEVISION
TV drama
Sean Ross and Evan Ross Katz review the first episode of season 3 of The White Lotus, starting with the most shocking twist yet: a new theme song.
The White Lotus, Season 3 Episode 1 “Same Spirits, New Forms” Recap
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and inAnd for good measure, here’s the new theme song:
PHOTOGRAPHY
PETS
Bad dog
Father Karine on the trials and tribulations of coexisting with man’s best friend.
An open letter to my dog who, if I’m being completely honest, lowkey kinda sucks
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inYour name was Pablo or Toby. You were originally from Mexico, Brazil, or Florida. You were only 6 months or maybe 2 years old. You were found tied to a pole, trapped under burning rubble, or floating alone on a solitary iceberg off the east coast of Greenland. You were a husky mix, a pure-bred Labrador, or some made-up breed called a “black mouth cur.” You were a big loverboy, a snugglepuss, good in small apartments with even smaller children. Also good with: other dogs, cats, sassy parrots, loud noises, thin walls, and low-hanging chandeliers. “The only thing this big guy doesn’t do is stairs,” said the weird dog rescue guy. “I’m sure he has his reasons,” I replied. It wasn’t a problem for me. I lived on the ground floor. It was kismet.
The dog rescue had curiously reduced your adoption fee from the standard $300 to $100, which was good because I love a sale. When I asked whether a home visit was necessary to make sure I was a suitable candidate to adopt you, the guy said, “Nah, we good.” As soon as I completed the adoption forms, a foghorn played over the loudspeakers and everyone at the expo center cheered for us, which is what happened each time one of these pitiable orphans found “their forever home.” Your adoption took less time than an episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond.” I’ve taken shits longer than the time I spent acquiring you. Within minutes, I became your legal owner and our lives would be connected until the end of time.
[...]
Once comfortable in your new home, you immediately destroyed all my things. You had a vendetta against electronics of any sort, so much so that I wondered if you might be an Amish dog that found your way here on Rumspringa. You chewed my laptop, TV wires, remote controls with the batteries inside them. The first time you ate some triple A batteries, I immediately rushed you to the vet and asked if we needed to pump your stomach. The vet said, “Nah, he good,” handed me a $300 bill, and sent us home.
I bought a very large cage to “crate train” you because the internet said I had to do that. I watched a ton of videos on how to do it right. I placed the crate in the room I had been using as an office so you could have some peace and quiet. The internet—that lying, manipulative bitch—led me to believe that most dogs enjoy being crated. “Aw my dog loves hanging out in his crate, it gives him a sense of security :)” typed bigpawmama69. But you hated the crate more than any living thing has hated anything ever. As you violently scratched at the latch, the static energy from your polyester dog bed against the metal shot huge, demonic sparks into the air. You yelped and howled like your very soul was in pain every moment you were confined to the crate. It was just a prison to you.
I crated you for a full month with little improvement. One time I left you crated while I ran errands, I came home to find you lying calmly on the living room sofa. The floor was covered in wood chips. You had somehow escaped and shawshank’d right through the wooden office door completely. That was the end of the crate and also the end of my security deposit. You won this round.
ART
POETRY
Almonds
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FILM
Ahead of its time
JC considers one of Stanley Kubrick’s most stunning—and entertaining! really!—films.
Barry Lyndon
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inI’m used to thinking of Barry Lyndon as both my favorite film and the Kubrick movie nobody else was willing to sit through, but by now, 50 years after its release, only one of these things is true. Kubrick’s historical masterpiece is no longer neglected. It’s all over Twitter, it’s shown every year at art theaters here in New York, and it ranks high in directors’ and critics’ polls of greatest movies ever made. This took a while. When it came out, the movie was, by Kubrick’s standards, a flop. The director promised the producers that it would make nine figures. It barely made eight. It won a few Oscars but not the big ones, and the ones it did win—for art direction, cinematography, costume design, and music—seemed to underscore critics’ appraisal of the movie as a set piece, well-made but basically unengaging.
What happened over the years to cause the critics to change their minds? I don’t really know, but my guess is: nothing, actually. In 1975, criticizing the film, Pauline Kael called it “a coffee-table movie.” In 2022, praising it, Jerry Saltz said, “Nothing happens.” Back then, critics found the movie beautiful but cold. Now they’re so grateful for the beauty that they don’t mind the cold. Meanwhile the public hasn’t changed its verdict at all: the vast majority of people didn’t see it then and still haven’t. But movie lovers see it, and for them the film’s obscurity has been a gift. They get to see it fresh, without the baggage of famous quotations and iconic images. Unlike Kubrick’s other movies, it isn’t required viewing—it’s a treat.
The treat, contrary to the movie’s reputation, is not just the gorgeous photography and sets. The film is ridiculously entertaining. When it begins, Barry, a very silly young country would-be gentleman, is in love with his cousin. She rejects him for a British officer, Quinn, and Barry throws a fit and challenges the older man to a duel. When he shows up to fight, the grown-ups try patronizingly to dissuade him.
QUINN: If Mr. Barry will apologize and go to Dublin, I will consider the whole affair honorably settled.
BARRY’S FRIEND GROGAN: Say you’re sorry, Redmond.
QUINN’S SECOND: Go on. You can easily say that.
BARRY: I’m not sorry, and I’ll not apologize, and I’d as soon go to Dublin as to hell.
It’s really no different from the part in Scarface when the penniless Tony Montana, after a coke dealer offers him $500 to do a pickup, shoots back, “500? Who do you think we are, baggage handlers?” It’s where the hero shows he’s made of different stuff than you expect. The plot of Barry Lyndon is basically the same as a mob movie: a ruthless young man rises from obscurity to the heights of success before losing it all and going to his ruin.
PAINTING
COCKTAIL HOUR
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I’d have to say no. Maybe physically youth is on the precipice of perfection. But that’s awfully impermanent. Emotionally and intellectually it’s more of a nightmare for them, isn’t it? All the confidence in the world but making terrible decisions, off-reads on situations that lead to regrettable outcomes and permanent cringe memories. Youths a tough run, brother!
To be young is a choice of mindset. Also a great way to stay mentally fit ✌️