It has come to my attention that a strange rash of pre-election depression is afflicting a good number of my friends and acquaintances. Most of them (well, nearly all of them) hope to hell that John Kerry will be our next Commander-in-Chief. And even then, such wishes are expressed with a specifically punctuated “Anybody but Bush” stipulation. Despite their decisions, they have their doubts. They see the polls and remain convinced that the world is going to hell in a handbasket. And there have been strange behavioral consequences.

Couples are breaking up. There’s a good deal of drinking going on. Effortless smiles are harder to form People look at how overworked they are and how penurious their companies are about hiring more people to assist with the rampant overflow and they ask themselves when the hell it’s all going to end. A strange sense of doom suspends in the air. And I’ve had to remind several people I love and admire that, all things considered, life is good and that it is their obligation to treat themselves well, so that the grand happiness cycle can continue and affect others within respective circles in similar fashion. And, by “grand happiness,” I don’t mean treacly Hallmark cards or bogus affirmation seminars. I mean, just looking at the damn crazy world around us and not giving into the idea that it will be bombed or turned into a totalitarian nightmare. I’m talking about doing something, dammit. I’m talking about a general sense of decency that most humans employed in a governmental capacity seem incapable of. I’m talking about standing up for yourself and looking out for others. I’m talking about ignoring the fuck out of those who would deliberately harm, maim or mock, and doing your own thing, dammit. Do I have to remind you that Roberto Rossellini gathered together strips of film and made Open City under Mussolini, dammit? Do I have to remind you that the Marquis de Sade continued to create in prison? Life’s too short. Magic is too often squandered by the damned unimaginative madmen who would point to the pony slightly straying off the concourse and declare “Enemy.” Well, fuck them. It is often the ignoble scaredycat who would willingly immolate himself because the world presents him with no other option. To the afraid, I reply: Do your own thing anyway.

And while I have strayed significantly off course, I should point out that the friends who call in with these concerns are often oblivious of the fact that my own heart was broken recently. I don’t hold this against them at all. Because I’m determined to forge ahead and I encourage them to do so likewise. (In fact, Chic plays while I type these words. I suggest that all others aspiring to exist in a moribund state play the same. It helps, believe it or not.)

Sure, you can buy into this unfortunate reality, among others. But you can also remind yourself that others are fighting the good fight. And where one is taken away, there will be hundreds to take the place.

The point is this: When the Towers were knocked down, citizens, irrespective of government, gathered together to see what the hell they can do. It was their generosity and bonhomie that got us through that fateful day, not the sham rulers or the opportunists. Why is it that we so frequently forget this? So long as artists and painters and writers and crazed speakers and determined protestors and giddy bastards continue to fight the good fight, we’re going to be okay.

Because the plain truth is that the human spirit in all of its omnifarious forms cannot be quashed. Even with a second Bush term. If those in power are to declare that certain sectors of the vox populi are to be denied basic liberties, then it is your responsibility to not only take the power away from them, but to point the middle finger in their faces. And you can do that first and foremost by heading to the polls on November 2. But beyond that, inhabit who you are and damn the consequences. The rest will follow and the world will be all right.

We would have ignored this silly Toni Bentley profile altogether, but we were inexplicably drawn to Chip McGrath’s willingness to confess his own embarassment. This sort of thing amuses us. We’re not sure why. Perhaps because it reminds us so much of the randy balderdash that often passes for “criticism” in London newspapers. Even so, Chip McGrath strikes us as a man who should know better. Strike one was his out-of-touch comics novel. This Bentley profile is strike two. We’re hoping that McGrath will prove us wrong and not falter like an unfortunate Sox player that you don’t want to see go down. But it’s looking likelier that we’ll soon have two NYTBR editors to look out for.

“a must-discuss among the sorts of people who would never let themselves be seen hanging around the porn shelf.” Wake up, Chip. You can download pornography or get it through mail order.

“No less a highbrow than Leon Wieseltier.” Oh, he’s lesser. And randier.

“an extremely graphic memoir.” Does sodomy translate into “extremely graphic” for you? What does it take for you to be truly shocked, Chip? A man tied up naked in hemp? That’s so…1968.

“We have the more clinical term ‘anal intercourse.’” No, most folks call it “ass-fucking.” Wake up and smell the vox populi.

“The subject is still not so embarrassment-free.” Maybe in upstate New York, but in most major metropolitan areas, it’s peachy keen, thankya.

“Ms. Bentley hits the grand rhapsodic note, as when she writes, ‘I became an archetype, a myth, a Joseph Campbell goddess spreading my legs for the benefit of all mankind for all time.'” And I suppose George Lucas is Zeus by way of throwing in Campbell every time he talks about his flaacid space operas? Come on, Chip. Don’t tell us you weren’t so easily suckered.

[Incidentally, in all fairness to Ms. Bentley, we should confess that we read and enjoyed Sisters of Salome. But enough already!]

Edinburgh is to be named the City of Literature. New York, Berlin, Paris and London expressed jealousy and planned to “put the little Scottish upstart in its place.”

Catherine Zeta-Jones, one of the most important minds of our time, has thrown her, uh, support into a literary award devoted to memory of Dylan Thomas. The big question is whether the prize will be awarded for the quality of a writer’s writing or the quality of a writer’s drinking. Whatever the case, this new Dylan Thomas bauble outstrips the Booker in the moolah department.

Stephen King, The Dark Tower: So this is it, eh? You’ve conned me out of $35 twice and this time I don’t feel as bad. But what’s with the artless offing of random pivotal characters? Why don’t these deaths mean anything? And if I have to read one more extended palaver or endure some deus ex machina scene momentum involving mental telepathy, I’m going to scream. Even so, I remain hooked, if only because I’ve read thousands of your pages and I’m too far in to quit. And even I have to confess that you’ve been a steady steed, soldier.

Richard Powers, The Time of Our Singing: I bow to your erudition and beauty! I’ve read the seven books before this and you seem to me the best of Powers’ oeuvre. How were you neglected so long? I’ll tell you why, padre. You’re a bit overwhelming sometimes. Sure, you’re not as much of a cerebral blitzkrieg as your bro, Operation Wandering Soul. But I find myself in a strange predicament. I’m drawn to your bright bulb like a steadfast moth, savoring your language and feeling my heart palpitate when you put the Emmett Till incident into context. Still, with all the musical terminology and digressions into relativity, I get the distinct sensation that I should stop and possibly apply a hacksaw to my skull to let some of the air out. You’re getting better at this thing called plot, Time, but a little more narrative momentum would obviate me contemplating the hacksaw, no?

Rachel Seiffert, The Dark Room: You talk the talk. You walk the walk. The principle behind your staging is to be admired: stark and clinical. Your perspective is grand. Don’t get me wrong, kid: I dig ya. But at this point, you may be a bit too detached for my tastes. We’ll see how it goes.

Sarah Waters, Fingersmith: Your victimization of a young woman in the Victorian age angle reminds me in many ways of Crimson Petal and the White, except you’re shorter and there are some exciting plot twists. While I have a suspicion you’re short-changing us on some giddy language possibilities (and what’s with the heavy-handed, obvs “Gentleman” approach), there’s absolutely no reason why you should be in the remainders pile (which I saw you in a few weeks ago). Is there no justice?

Ian Rankin, Strip Jack: You’re good, but you’re more of the same. I’ve been following your adventures, deliberately padding them out over several months, hoping to see how Rebus’s adventures evolve over time, but does Brian Holmes’ promotion really count as character development? I’m starting to grow weary of your corny jokes, which were fun in the earlier novels, but now stick out like sore thumbs intended to space out the novel. Perhaps I’m being too hard on you. Please tell me it gets better.