Read Paul Krugman. Not on today’s topic but every day. Even when I’m too busy, I’m not too busy for Krugman. No writer in this evil hour is more necessary for my survival. If you must choose between reading me and reading Krugman, read Krugman.
Why this plea? Krugman is not my pal. I’m not scratching his back because he scratches mine. I open his more than daily dispatches with the eager urgency of an undergraduate heeding a revered professor. Many are writing well in this scary hour; I want to hear them. Krugman I need to hear. Why this distinction?
We read for different reasons – education, inspiration, consolation, relaxation; to alleviate loneliness or beguile the time. I read literature to know its maker, feel her or his presence and define myself by the contrast. I know few people better than Shakespeare, for example, whom I hardly know.
We read to find ourselves when lost. Never in memory have I felt more lost at home. In a foreign city you expect bewilderment and muggings, but at home you’re sufficiently defended not to panic. Security is notional.
I used to feel confident about America. I took pride in predicting our behavior. I knew where I fit in the social order, my obligations, how I might help. My ignorance was infinite, of course, but when stumped I knew whom to ask.
The election and reelection of the Nameless One changed that. Suddenly, I was a stranger in a strange land. Fellow citizens perplexed me. So did our misleaders, who took to lying without remission or remorse. What I thought was happening was never what was happening. We were not one nation but two, which made us all enemy combatants.
I’d read Krugman in The New York Times regularly but not fanatically. Economics, to put it mildly, was never my thing. Econ 10 was the only college course I barely passed. My cell in hell will be papered with graphs and cosines.
Idiotically, the editors at the Times alienated their most valuable contributor (and a Nobel laureate). As a lifelong editor, I know editorial malpractice when I see it; I’d have garroted whoever was responsible for that colossal goof. The Times’ loss proved readers’ – and, I’ll wager, Krugman’s – gain. Publishing independently – on Substack, which is my home too – Krugman felt less need to be polite or to restrain his rage. He could also publish when and how he pleased – long, short, frantic or breezy, frequently or more frequently – with no editor dictating length or corporate conditions.
His newfound freedom graduated him from welcome to essential among my teachers. Using economics as his magnifying glass, he looks past the headlines to disclose what’s really transpiring. This morning’s quickie about the Japanese tariff deal is typical. I was disappointed in the news of that “deal” because I begrudge the despised Nameless One the least success. Turns out – surprise! – our leaders were lying and the so-called deal is a calamity on three fronts. Krugman’s funny, acerbic, crystal-clear prose sliced away the lies like Zorro’s sword. I felt better knowing where I was.
Ezra Pound defined literature as “news that stays news.” That’s my beat, the eternity in today. My words aim to delight, not educate. I have no expertise except experience.
Krugman’s beat is our present emergency, seeing past the bother and blather of battle into startling truth. He’s not flaunting or daunting or recruiting but teaching us – fervently – what we need to know. I look forward to a day when I’m less desperate for guidance, but for now Krugman’s my man.