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Peter Englund is “an academic historian by training” and the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, which each year awards the Nobel Prize in Literature. In his compelling “intimate history” of the First World War, The Beauty and the Sorrow, Englund purposefully bends toward the literary and away from the academic to focus on the “everyday aspect of the war” and “depict the war as an individual experience.”

To that end, Englund draws from the memoirs, letters and diaries of 20 individuals who wrote about their experiences during the war. These include a former American opera star married to a Polish aristocrat, a 12-year-old German schoolgirl, an Australian ambulance driver in the Serbian army and soldiers and sailors from every theater of the war. Although several of the memoirists were prominent in their day—a Belgian flying ace, a French writer and civil servant—none of the people are well known today, a fact that not only burnishes the book’s luster of authenticity but also allows the details of ordinary lives lived in extraordinary times to surprise and even shock a reader.

In weaving his almost day-by-day narrative, Englund more often summarizes than directly quotes from his sources. The downside of this is that a reader is sometimes uncertain whether the opinions being expressed belong to him or his characters. But this approach enables Englund to create a coherent story and, more importantly, to suffuse that story with the always interesting results of his exacting research. And he manages to do this without obscuring the hearts and souls of his main characters.

Most of these individuals were enthusiastic about the war at the outset, certain of the justice of their cause and confident of victory. By the end, after years of hardship and privation, most were completely disillusioned, both with the war and with those who brought them into the conflict. One German sailor, for instance, a super-patriot at the beginning, joined a widespread rebellion near the end, furious at the arrogance and incompetence of the aristocratic military leadership. Thus The Beauty and the Sorrow begins as a narrative of war as experienced on the battlefield and on the home front, and ends as a remarkable chronicle of the physical and psychic collapse of the Old Order.

Peter Englund is “an academic historian by training” and the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, which each year awards the Nobel Prize in Literature. In his compelling “intimate history” of the First World War, The Beauty and the Sorrow, Englund purposefully bends toward the…

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Joseph Medill was one of the great journalists of 19th-century America. A fervent abolitionist, confidant of Lincoln and mayor of Chicago, his last words were reportedly, “What is the news this morning?” His descendants continued that tradition, playing extraordinary roles in shaping and transforming newspapers and other media well into the 20th century. As Megan McKinney demonstrates in her compulsively readable The Magnificent Medills, their achievements were accompanied by fierce competition, disappointment and tragedy, including alcoholism, drug abuse and suicide.

Joseph Medill moved to Chicago in 1855 to be part owner of the Chicago Daily Tribune and the paper’s managing editor. Many years later, during Franklin D. Roosevelt’s administration, three of his grandchildren, Cissy Patterson, Joseph Patterson and Robert McCormick, controlled the newspapers with the largest circulations in three of the country’s most important markets: New York, Chicago and Washington. They were carrying on their grandfather’s way of personal journalism—although they were leading their readers in different directions.

Joseph Patterson became a socialist, as well as a notable novelist and playwright. At the Tribune, he was responsible for the well-received Sunday edition and the development of the modern comic strip. He went on to create a new kind of newspaper, The New York Daily News, which became the most successful newspaper in the country’s history. He was a rock of support for his sister Cissy throughout her glamorous, though often troubled, life. First widely known as an international socialite, much later she became editor and publisher of the Washington Herald, in a city where she was well connected. Colonel Robert McCormick, meanwhile, remained at the Chicago Tribune. Almost alone, he designed the structure of the Tribune Company of his time, which thrived and allowed him to promote his very conservative political views.

Despite their different paths, the three grandchildren had much in common. McKinney describes each of them as “complex and eccentric, a product of atrocious parenting. The collective childhood of the cousins had created demons that would mature with time, leaving each with an insistent—and ultimately fatal—need for alcohol.”

With its backdrop of wealth and power, The Magnificent Medills reads almost like a rich historical novel. It just happens to be true.

Joseph Medill was one of the great journalists of 19th-century America. A fervent abolitionist, confidant of Lincoln and mayor of Chicago, his last words were reportedly, “What is the news this morning?” His descendants continued that tradition, playing extraordinary roles in shaping and transforming newspapers…

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Sixteen years after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, the president of the United States still strolled around Washington on foot, unaccompanied by security. When he was going on a trip, he casually took a carriage to the railroad station and headed for the platform.

And so, a mentally deranged man who has gone down in history as a “disappointed officer seeker” was able to shoot James Garfield in 1881 without any real hindrance as the president was about to board a train a few months after his inauguration. Bad as that was, it wasn’t the worst of it: The wound should not have been fatal. Garfield died 10 weeks later of an infection caused by bullheaded doctors who actively rejected the landmark medical advance known as antisepsis, already common in Europe.

Most Americans learn something of this in history class, but the compelling details are little remembered. Candice Millard, author of the best-selling River of Doubt about Theodore Roosevelt, revives the story of Garfield’s life and death in The Destiny of the Republic, making a strong case that he was on course to be one of our more notable presidents when Charles Guiteau raised his gun. Millard weaves together the life journeys of Garfield and Guiteau with that of a somewhat unexpected third character: the estimable Alexander Graham Bell, who was already famous for inventing the telephone and labored passionately to build a device that could detect the location of the bullet in Garfield’s body.

Garfield was a remarkable person, who rose from poverty to become a scholar, Civil War hero and respected politician. While his presidency was too short for real achievement, his death did lead to civil service reform, crucial improvements in medicine and the perfection of Bell’s “induction balance” device. Millard’s spirited book helps restore him to an appropriate place in our consciousness.

Sixteen years after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, the president of the United States still strolled around Washington on foot, unaccompanied by security. When he was going on a trip, he casually took a carriage to the railroad station and headed for the platform.

And so, a mentally…

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Mid – April 1961: the Bay of Pigs Invasion. May 5, 1961: Alan Shepard becomes the first American in space. Late May 1961: President and Mrs. Kennedy travel to Paris. Of the three events, the last might seem the least significant, but that visit – of which JFK famously quipped “I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris, and I have enjoyed it” – led to a spectacular feat. The first lady charmed Parisians with her style, grace and fluent French and scored an even bigger coup when the French Minister of Culture promised to loan her the “Mona Lisa,” the most valuable work in the Louvre. Margaret Leslie Davis perfectly captures the magic of the Kennedy White House, behind – the – scenes maneuvering and the stories of the major players on both sides of the Atlantic in Mona Lisa in Camelot.

In the beginning, only Mrs. Kennedy and Andr

Mid - April 1961: the Bay of Pigs Invasion. May 5, 1961: Alan Shepard becomes the first American in space. Late May 1961: President and Mrs. Kennedy travel to Paris. Of the three events, the last might seem the least significant, but that visit -…
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During the 19th century, as the United States developed economically, many people broke family ties, some forever, and headed west or to sea where they could reinvent themselves. A notable exception was the Whitman family of Brooklyn. Walter Sr. was a master carpenter and engaged in building houses. There were nine children in all; at a time of high infant mortality, only one died in infancy. The best known today is the second oldest, Walt, who became perhaps the most original American poet of the century. But his youngest brothers—George, who distinguished himself as an officer in the Union army during the Civil War, and Jeff, who became one of the century’s great engineers—were well-known and admired during their lifetimes. The entire family, and especially these three brothers, remained close throughout their lives.

Robert Roper, award-winning author of works of fiction and nonfiction, explores the brothers’ relationship and, by extension, the many wounded Civil War soldiers Walt visited in hospitals in the superb Now the Drum of War: Walt Whitman and His Brothers in the Civil War. Walt made more than 600 visits and claimed to have tended to 80,000 to 100,000 men in his role as a nurse, or, as he preferred, "visitor and consolatory." His close friend and biographer, John Burroughs, described him as a "great tender mother-man" at a time when most nurses were men. Walt wrote that it was a womanly, indeed a motherly, approach that was most helpful in the hospitals.

Roper shows in detail how crucial his relationship to his family was in this endeavor and in his development as a writer and poet. He also describes how the three Whitman brothers were skillful in dealing with other people, especially other men, good at personal politicking and winning their trust, while advancing their own self-interests. He shows how each brother was always alert to the needs of the others.

A key role in the family was played by their mother, Louisa, who remained Walt’s most intimate correspondent until her death in 1873. After her husband’s death in 1855, her sons, primarily Walt, were responsible for the family income. George, who led soldiers in 21 major battles and was in a Confederate prison camp toward the end of the war, also wrote letters to her that dealt with virtually every aspect of his experience. Roper strongly disagrees with those Whitman biographers who have portrayed her as ignorant and incurious; instead, he demonstrates her ability to understand and appreciate a wide range of experience.

This fine book has several focuses. First, it is a biography of a family, especially during the war years, told in great part with a judicious use of letters. Secondly, Roper details Walt’s work in the hospitals and shows how he was able to write about it at a time when other gifted writers such as Mark Twain, Henry James and William Dean Howells did not write about the war at all. Roper is aware of Walt’s limitations in this regard—he was a knowledgeable noncombatant but never saw a battle in progress and in writing of soldiers’ experiences, he did not get into their complex feelings. And finally, Roper probes Whitman’s thoughts about death, suffering and killing, among other subjects.

Roper’s evocative narrative impressively conveys the life and times of one of America’s greatest writers in a time of the nation’s greatest crisis.

Roger Bishop is a retired Nashville bookseller and a frequent contributor to BookPage.

 

During the 19th century, as the United States developed economically, many people broke family ties, some forever, and headed west or to sea where they could reinvent themselves. A notable exception was the Whitman family of Brooklyn. Walter Sr. was a master carpenter and engaged…

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Nathan Hale is best known for what are reported to have been his last words, often misquoted or paraphrased, before he was hanged by the British as an American spy during the Revolutionary War. The most authoritative source we have puts Hale’s famous last line this way: “I am so satisfied with the cause in which I have engaged that my only regret is that I have not more lives than one to offer in its service.” As M. William Phelps demonstrates in his extensively researched and compellingly written new biography, Nathan Hale: The Life and Death of America’s First Spy, the young man responsible for these last words was a serious scholar and fun – loving patriot, a man of courage and accomplishment. Phelps takes issue with those who see Hale as no more than one of many junior officers who, had he not died as he did, would not have been long remembered.

Phelps goes to great lengths to separate fact from legend or myth; the footnotes alone make for fascinating reading. Drawing on letters to and from Hale and many other sources, Phelps is able to plausibly reconstruct his subject’s life: his youth on a Connecticut farm, his student years at Yale, his time as a teacher, his service as an officer in George Washington’s army and his capture and execution in New York. Phelps also keeps us advised of developments in the Continental Congress in Philadelphia and troop movements in Boston and other places throughout Hale’s life. We get a strong sense of Hale’s growing commitment to the new republic and, from his upbringing in a religious home, his understanding that it was God’s will for him to fight against England.

Based on Hale’s journal during the period when he served in Boston, Phelps shows that he was held to a much higher standard than other captains because he was intelligent, well – educated and well – read. Many others of his rank were illiterate. Also, it is very likely that one of the reasons Hale was chosen for the ill – fated spy mission was his scientific knowledge.

Phelps quotes from the diary of a British officer who heard about the spy’s death from witnesses at the scene. They spoke of Hale’s composure and resolution and reported that Hale said it was the duty of every good officer to obey orders given by his commander – in – chief and “desired the Spectators to be at all times prepared to meet death in whatever shape it might appear.” This extraordinarily well – documented biography brings Hale and his times vividly to life. Roger Bishop is a retired Nashville bookseller and a frequent contributor to BookPage.

Nathan Hale is best known for what are reported to have been his last words, often misquoted or paraphrased, before he was hanged by the British as an American spy during the Revolutionary War. The most authoritative source we have puts Hale's famous last line…
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When Sigmund Freud and William Halsted began experimenting on themselves with cocaine in the 1880s, “addiction” was not yet a medical diagnosis. Yes, people knew about the ravages of “Demon Alcohol” and saw a downside to widely prescribed opiates. But an understanding of the commonalities of something known as “addiction” was not yet documented. Cocaine, a newly popular ingredient in elixirs like Coca-Cola, was promoted as having astonishing medical properties.

In An Anatomy of Addiction, University of Michigan medical historian Howard Markel explores the impact of cocaine use on two of the period’s most prominent medical pioneers. It’s a story that has never before been told in such depth or in so readable a form. Markel, the author of the award-winning Quarantine! and When Germs Travel, has an unrivaled knack for research and narrative. So he is able to paint compelling and nuanced portraits of Freud and Halsted, the foremost surgeon of his day, and to convey the excitement and physical and psychological risk of an era of remarkable medical advances.

Halsted began exploring cocaine’s potential as anesthesia in major surgery by injecting the drug under his skin. A leading exponent of now-discredited forms of radical surgery and a highly influential leader in the adoption of sterile operating procedures, Halsted became addicted. After a number of hospitalizations he was rescued by a colleague and became leading professor at John Hopkins Medical School, which soon became the most influential medical institution in the world. Halsted remained an addict all his life, though a high-performing one, and Markel provocatively suggests that cocaine may have “given rise to the greatest school in surgery this country has ever seen,” though it also grievously stunted Halsted’s personal life.

Sigmund Freud began his self-experimentations with the drug in the dual hope of curing a friend of morphine dependency and writing a groundbreaking research article that would launch his career (and provide him the financial stability he needed to marry his long-enduring fiancée). The influence of cocaine on his early career is more difficult to precisely document, but here, too, based on his research, Markel is wonderfully suggestive.

Yet Freud managed to overcome his drug dependency. How? Markel says that Freud’s driving intellectual ambition demanded the predictable routines and accountability that “served as the ideal therapeutic program.” Soon thereafter, Freud entered the period “when he became one of the greatest intellectuals of his generation and provided a modern language for understanding the unconscious mind.”

“One only wishes,” Markel writes, “that [Freud had] had similar fortitude to put down his addictive and cancer-producing cigars, which, beginning in 1923 . . . robbed him of an intact, functioning mouth and forced him to undergo multiple painful surgeries and wear ill-fitting prostheses.” That addiction finally cost Freud his life.

When Sigmund Freud and William Halsted began experimenting on themselves with cocaine in the 1880s, “addiction” was not yet a medical diagnosis. Yes, people knew about the ravages of “Demon Alcohol” and saw a downside to widely prescribed opiates. But an understanding of the commonalities…

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Jennet Conant’s 109 East Palace told the story of how the atomic bomb was constructed in the "secret city" of Los Alamos, New Mexico. Now in The Irregulars, she uncovers another World War II episode: the invasion of Washington, D.C., by a corps of dashing, well-spoken British spies whose job was to turn the country from isolationism to full-throated support of England’s fight against fascism.

Among this gifted phalanx were the playwright and actor Noël Coward, future James Bond creator Ian Fleming, future advertising genius David Ogilvy, classical scholar Gilbert Highet, the ridiculously rich and handsome Ivar Bryce (of whom it was said, "It’s terrible the advantages he’s had to overcome") and, towering above them all, budding writer and Royal Air Force veteran Roald Dahl. Dahl is the focus of Conant’s breezy (but well-documented) narrative.

Organized under the British Security Coordination by Canadian-born spymaster William Stephenson, these agents planted news stories, sowed suspicion toward England’s perceived enemies, whispered into influential ears at cocktail parties and summer outings, and flattered and romanced America’s most powerful women, from liberal first lady Eleanor Roosevelt to conservative U.S. Rep. Clare Boothe Luce (wife of Time and Life publisher Henry Luce). Through the patronage and close friendship of American newspaper and oil tycoon Charles Marsh, Dahl quickly became a fixture in the Washington social scene. He became a trusted companion of Vice President Henry Wallace, played poker with Missouri Sen. Harry Truman and swapped stories with rising political star Lyndon Johnson. Dahl’s was hardly a furtive cloak-and-dagger operation.

Even after America committed itself wholeheartedly to the war, the "Irregulars" stayed on, monitoring and nudging internal politics and gathering information about the country’s plans for its postwar global dominance. Dahl would go on, of course, to become internationally famous as the writer of adult and children’s fiction (most notably Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) and husband of the actress Patricia Neal.

Edward Morris writes from Nashville.

 

Jennet Conant's 109 East Palace told the story of how the atomic bomb was constructed in the "secret city" of Los Alamos, New Mexico. Now in The Irregulars, she uncovers another World War II episode: the invasion of Washington, D.C., by a corps of dashing,…

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Last year Karl Marlantes published Matterhorn, the best novel to date about American soldiers’ experience of combat in Vietnam. Gritty, gripping and remarkably soulful, it offered readers a profoundly moving picture of what it was like to go to war.

Now Marlantes has written a sparklingly provocative nonfiction book called What It Is Like to Go to War. In it, readers will discover the outlines of some of the events he heightened and fictionalized in Matterhorn. Marlantes is an exceptional writer and his depictions here are vivid. But his purposes in this book are quite different from the purposes of his novel.

Here Marlantes uses his personal experiences as illustrations of the psychological, philosophical and spiritual dilemmas that combat soldiers face—in the field and upon returning home. He reflects with crackling insight on such topics as killing, guilt, lying, loyalty, heroism. He warns of the perils to a culture’s psyche in fighting war at a remove, as we now do with unmanned drones. And he writes of his own experiences with searing honesty, rejecting what he calls “jingoistic clap trap.” In one passage, for example, Marlantes says, “The least acknowledged aspect of war, at least these days, is how exhilarating it is.”

This will be off-putting to some, but Marlantes is not a warmonger. He is a realist. Part of his argument is that, since we will continue to fight wars, we risk damaging both the young warriors and the society that sends them to war if we avoid integrating those experiences into our collective psyche. At its simplest, his idea is that we must create rituals and reflective spaces in which frontline soldiers (usually in their teens and 20s) can care for their spiritual and psychological health. To do so one must be truthful about the full experience of combat, including what Marlantes, borrowing from Carl Jung, calls its shadow side.

Marlantes, a Yale graduate, left a Rhodes scholarship to join a Marine combat unit in Vietnam as a second lieutenant. He won the Navy Cross, two Purple Hearts and numerous other medals. He knows whereof he speaks. What It Is Like to Go to War, Marlantes says, is the product of 30 years of reading, writing and thinking about the meaning of his combat experiences. His reading has been wide, and his thinking deep. In his final chapter, he offers advice on how our society can improve its relationship with the gods of war. It’s advice worth heeding.

Last year Karl Marlantes published Matterhorn, the best novel to date about American soldiers’ experience of combat in Vietnam. Gritty, gripping and remarkably soulful, it offered readers a profoundly moving picture of what it was like to go to war.

Now Marlantes has written a…

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Christopher Columbus and Vasco da Gama had the same goal: a sea route to “the Indies.” Despite our October holiday, it’s abundantly clear who succeeded. The Portuguese da Gama decisively won the contest by rounding Africa’s Cape of Good Hope and finding his way to the wealthy spice port of Calicut in India in 1498. Columbus’ voyages had the greater long-term impact by opening the Americas to European colonization. But historian Nigel Cliff argues in his sweeping Holy War that da Gama’s deeds had a huge influence on the economic and cultural competition between East and West that continues today.

Da Gama’s sea journeys provide the framework for Cliff’s epic, but he is only a symbol of the larger Portuguese imperial effort in the 15th and 16th centuries. Portugal’s royal house had two interwoven objectives: the worldwide spread of Christianity and the acquisition of wealth. Spurred on by their mistaken belief in a nonexistent Eastern Christian king called “Prester John,” they set out to break the Muslim Arab monopoly on the spice trade from India to Europe. Da Gama was the perfect spearhead.

Da Gama’s encounters with Africa and India make a compelling adventure tale, told by Cliff with the right mix of sweep and detail. Cliff portrays da Gama as tough, smart, ruthless and consumed with the hatred of Islam typical of his Iberian crusader background. He was a far better leader than Columbus, and although he certainly made mistakes—for example, he was long under the strange misapprehension that the Hindus were Christians—he got results.

Christianity didn’t triumph throughout the globe, but Cliff argues that the maritime empire created by da Gama and his successors through bloodshed and guile did tip the economic balance of power from the Middle East to Europe. That empire was mismanaged and short-lived, but the Dutch and English followed where the Portuguese led. The consequences linger.

Christopher Columbus and Vasco da Gama had the same goal: a sea route to “the Indies.” Despite our October holiday, it’s abundantly clear who succeeded. The Portuguese da Gama decisively won the contest by rounding Africa’s Cape of Good Hope and finding his way to…

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It would seem a daunting task to write an entire book based on a single photograph, but author Louis P. Masur is equal to the challenge in his latest work, The Soiling of Old Glory. The picture on the cover reveals the book’s focus: A well-dressed black man is being held by an angry white crowd. Facing him is a young white teenager bearing an American flag. He holds the staff like a spear, appearing ready to thrust it into the stomach of the black man.

The photo was taken in Boston on April 5, 1976, during a racially charged protest over school busing. The image was captured by Stanley Forman, a photographer for the Boston Herald American. Forman’s photograph caused a national uproar, not only because of the graphic violence, but also because it occurred during America’s bicentennial year, just steps from the site of the Boston Massacre. Forman won a Pulitzer Prize for the picture.

That single photograph serves as a starting point for Masur to examine a range of themes. First, there are the details leading up to the historic event: How the angry mob marched downtown to protest outside City Hall; how black lawyer Ted Landsmark happened to be walking by on his way to a meeting; and how Forman arrived on the scene to record the assault on film. Additionally, Masur, professor of American Institutions and Values at Trinity College, uses the image to explore a variety of issues, such as racism, school busing and the impact of images of the American flag, from Iwo Jima to 9/11.

Perhaps most fascinating are the author’s interviews with Forman, Landsmark and Joseph Rakes, the teenager holding the flag. Each give their unique account of the event, withespecially poignant testimony from Landsmark, who forgives his attackers, and Rakes, who apologized to Landsmark and spent his life trying to make amends for his actions.

The Soiling of Old Glory is an engaging book for anyone interested in journalism, photography, history or social themes, as – like a photograph – it reflects the actions and attitudes of America at a distinctive place and time.

John T. Slania is a journalism professor at Loyola University in Chicago.

It would seem a daunting task to write an entire book based on a single photograph, but author Louis P. Masur is equal to the challenge in his latest work, The Soiling of Old Glory. The picture on the cover reveals the book's focus: A…
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In his provocative new book, April 4, 1968: Martin Luther King Jr.’s Death and How It Changed America, author, educator and activist Michael Eric Dyson rekindles grim memories for readers who made it through that tough time, while giving needed perspective to those of later generations. Dyson wrests the image of King from that of a conciliatory, peaceful figure, and recasts him as a visionary change agent whose goals weren’t merely to address injustices, but to radically remake American society.

In Dyson’s view, King inspired black Americans to be proud of their heritage, to demand equality rather than ask for it, and to recognize the potential for greatness within their ranks. He also puts King squarely in the forefront of several global struggles: for the recognition of emerging nations in Africa, Asia and Latin America; for acknowledgement of the West’s responsibility toward less fortunate countries; and for the establishment of links between oppressed people regardless of color, gender or sexual preference. April 4, 1968 addresses the conflicts King’s evolving views caused with more traditional elements in both black and white America, and Dyson makes it clear that there were questions about direction, philosophy and viewpoint within the ranks of the civil rights movement.

Dyson faithfully recalls the details of King’s assassination and the atmosphere of genuine despair and anger that followed, one that led to riots in several cities and numerous conspiracy theories. He also covers lingering controversies – for example, whether James Earl Ray acted alone or even fired the fateful shot.

April 4, 1968 is an analysis and examination of the 1960s and black politics, with an occasional side trip into musical dissection and film lore. Dyson, a Georgetown University professor, credibly and effectively ties these subjects together, offering a broad and valuable picture of King’s life and impact.

Ron Wynn writes for the Nashville City Paper and other publications.

In his provocative new book, April 4, 1968: Martin Luther King Jr.'s Death and How It Changed America, author, educator and activist Michael Eric Dyson rekindles grim memories for readers who made it through that tough time, while giving needed perspective to those of later…
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Globalization, according to Charles C. Mann, began in December of 1492, when Christopher Columbus established what he hoped would be a permanent settlement in what is now the Dominican Republic. (It lasted for five years.) Thus began what historian Alfred W. Crosby called the Columbian Exchange. Following Crosby’s lead, noted scientific journalist Mann, using the latest scholarship and his own trips to sites around the world, demonstrates the crucial importance of that exchange in 1493: Uncovering the New World Columbus Created, a follow-up to his critically acclaimed 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus.

Mann shows that globalization was not just economic and cultural, but was also, maybe even primarily, a biological phenomenon. Some biologists say it was the beginning of a new biological era: the Homogenocene, a mixing of new substances to create a uniform blend. Organisms from the separate hemispheres could now travel to, and prosper in, locations halfway around the world. Many historians consider the introduction of the hardy potato (native to the Americas) to Europe as a watershed historical moment. But these exchanges were not always beneficent. Among other things, Columbus brought viruses that caused epidemic diseases such as cholera, typhus and smallpox to the Americas, where they were previously unknown—with catastrophic results. During the 16th and 17th centuries, such diseases were responsible for the deaths of at least three-fourths of the native population of the Americas.

Globalization extended beyond the interchange between Europe and the Americas. In 1570, two Spanish explorers, Miguel Lopez de Legazpi and Andres Ochoa de Urdaneta y Cerain, did what Columbus was unable to do: initiate trade with wealthy China by sailing west. They did for economics what Columbus did for ecology. For 2,000 years the population of China had grown slowly. That changed when American crops were introduced there and the population soared. What became known as the “galleon trade” brought together Asia, Europe, the Americas and, less directly, Africa, in a network of exchange for the first time in history.

Mann’s sweeping overview invites us to interpret history a bit differently than more conventional approaches. One of the most compelling subjects is the crucial role played by the slave trade and the Indians in developing what became the United States. Although textbooks indicate that the Europeans moved into a sparsely populated hemisphere, in fact the hemisphere was already home to millions of inhabitants. And most of the movement into the Americas was by Africans, who easily became the majority population in places not controlled by native tribes. One recent study has calculated that in the period between 1500 and 1840, three Africans were brought to the Americas for every European.

In one fascinating discussion, Mann relates how malaria, to which many in West and Central Africa are largely immune, assisted in slavery’s development. Although it is unlikely that they were conscious of it at first, planters with slaves had an economic advantage over planters who used indentured servants, who were more likely to come down with the disease. As that became apparent, the most successful planters imported additional slaves, and other planters who wished to prosper did the same thing.

There is so much more in Mann’s engaging and well-written book. Information and insight abound on every page. This dazzling display of erudition, theory and insight will help readers to view history in a fresh way.

Globalization, according to Charles C. Mann, began in December of 1492, when Christopher Columbus established what he hoped would be a permanent settlement in what is now the Dominican Republic. (It lasted for five years.) Thus began what historian Alfred W. Crosby called the Columbian…

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