Let's write about ethical dilemmas caused by legalizing physician assisted suicide and Medical Aid in Dying

The alternative to  Physician Assisted Suicide (PAS) and Medical Aid in Dying (MAiD) is hospice care.

Echo report by Chadwick Moore, senior reporter, for the New York Post interviewed disability advocate Heather Hancock who said, "Keep your ears and eyes open, especially if you have a disability or mental illness, or are in any way considered a disadvantaged or non-contributing member of society. Those are the people that are targeted. [Assisted suicide] is an effective way to get rid of those they deem draining the healthcare system. It’s not compassionate."❗😒😞😩😧😟😢

“'I was terrified. I couldn’t believe what was happening. They talked to me like I was putting a dog down', Fisher, 71, told The Post from her home in Ontario, Canada"

Echo report published by the New York Post and the Patients Rights

Debbie Fisher is advising New Yorkers to prepare their elderly relatives ahead of the state legalizing Physician Assisted Suicide (PAS) this summer.

The Canadian’s elderly mother, Rita Busby, came dangerously close to being euthanized over a single sentence.

Her mom, who was active and independent in spite of her 93 years, ended up in the hospital after accidentally overdosing on a drug she was prescribed. Drowsy and not thinking straight, Busby had made an offhand comment to one of the nurses that she “wanted to die.” Hospital workers took her at her word.

Next, a Canadian government psychologist pulled Fisher aside to let her know they were preparing to euthanize her mother, a devout Catholic and lifelong Blue Jays fan.

Fortunately,  Fisher and her mom were prepared, as Busby had signed over Power of Attorney to her daughter. Now she and others in Canada — which legalized PAS a decade ago — are warning the Empire State of the “slippery slope” into a culture of coercive death which may be headed their way.

“My mom wanted to die, she didn’t want to be killed!” Fisher said. “If I hadn’t been there, and she hadn’t signed over Power of Attorney, who knows what would have happened”

It was a narrow escape and Rita lived for six more months — during that time she went bowling and to baseball games, attended a family reunion and mended strained relationships before dying naturally at home in 2019. 💙🦋

“People don’t understand there’s a lot of things that go on behind the scenes [in hospitals] when there’s no one there to protect them,” said Fisher.

In the last ten years, an estimated 100,000 Canadians have been euthanized by their government 😟— about one in 20 deaths in the country in 2024, alone. (Maine Writer, it is statistically impossible for this number of assisted suicide to have been 100 percent legitimate. My strong suspicion is that a small percentage were motivated by personal ambitions related to the challenges caused by caring for a family member or for inheritance.)

“You just opened Pandora’s Box and the slippery slope will get very steep very fast,” Heather Hancock, 58, of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan and who suffers from cerebral palsy, told The Post.

She now carries a laminated “do not euthanize” card wherever she goes.

“This is eugenics and this is genocide against the [disadvantaged],” she claimed.

Hancock is no stranger to death-pushers. She’s lost count of the number of times Canadian doctors have tried to coerce her into killing herself, she claimed, through Medical Assistance in Dying, or MAiD —the title given to their PAS program.

During one hospital visit, “the nurse on my ward looked at me and said, ‘You really should consider MAiD. You’re not living. You’re just existing,” she recalled to The Post.

She now carries a laminated “do not euthanize” card wherever she goes.

Hancock warned certain classes of New Yorkers may have to be vigilant going into heath care facilities. “Keep your ears and eyes open, especially if you have a disability or mental illness or are in any way considered a disadvantaged or non-contributing member of society. Those are the people that are targeted,” she said.
“[PAS] is an effective way to get rid of those they deem draining the healthcare system. It’s not compassionate.”
Major US medical groups strongly condemn PAS, including the American Medical Association, which warns in its code of ethics, “Physician-assisted suicide is fundamentally incompatible with the physician’s role as healer, would be difficult or impossible to control, and would pose serious societal risks.”
Fourteen additional states are considering legalizing PAS this year.

So far, no state has legalized euthanasia — the form of assisted suicide where a medical professional administers the lethal agent rather than being prescribed a deadly drug the patient takes on their own.

Between 30 and 50 percent of patients prescribed the killing concoction don’t end up taking it, studies show, whereas booking a euthanasia appointment has a much higher kill rate. 

Virtually all assisted suicides in Canada are now carried out by euthanasia.

“It makes it feel more like a medical act. People feel more obligated to it because, of course, the doctor has to schedule it,” Alex Schadenberg, executive director of Canada’s Euthanasia Prevention Network, an advocacy group, told The Post.

Canada, which has a socialized medical system, will formal

ly legalize euthanasia for mental health as the sole underlying condition in 2027, if legal challenges against the expansion are unsuccessful.

“It could be really touchy for someone in New York if they don’t have the gold standard in health insurance and they develop some kind of disability,” said Schadenberg.

“In Canada we have serious funding problems in our healthcare system, hospitals are running deficits. They would never say it to you, but clearly dead people don’t cost money.”

“You’ve had cases of people who are homeless asking to be approved for euthanasia,” he added, which was reported on in 2024.

Health Canada told The Post: “Canada’s medical assistance in dying law seeks to respect personal autonomy for those seeking access to MAID, while at the same time protecting vulnerable people and the equality rights of all Canadians. MAID is a complex and deeply personal issue. “The Government of Canada is committed to ensuring our laws reflect Canadians’ needs, protect those who may be vulnerable, and support autonomy and freedom of choice.”
Studies show overall suicide rates increase when PAS becomes legalized, going up by 10.5 percent in Canada since PAS was broadened in 2021. In Europe the numbers are more staggering: suicides increased by 18.5 percent — and raised by nearly 40 percent in women — among nine countries where PAS is permitted, according to a 2022 study.
One case in Spain caught the attention of the White House this month, which has demanded a probe into the euthanization of 25-year-old gang rape victim Noelia Castillo, who had been confined to a wheelchair since 2022, when she attempted suicide by jumping from a fifth-floor building.

“[PAS] demystifies the issue of suicide. It takes away the whole concept that suicide is not the right way to go,” said Schadenberg.

New York’s law, set to take effect on August 4, requires patients must be a New York resident, at least 18 years old, mentally capable of making health decisions, and diagnosed with a terminal illness with six months or less to live. (Maine Writer: Many people who are diagnosed with a terminal illness will outlive their 6 months prognosis.)

There is a mandatory five-day waiting period between the time a suicide drug is prescribed and when it can be filled. The program is overseen by the Department of Health. (Maine Writer: There should be a subsidiary Department of Death in this organizational chart.)In 2021, Canada removed its mandatory ten-day waiting period and now desperate Canadians can get same-day suicides.

Such was the case when an 80-year-old Ontario woman recovering from heart surgery (known as “Mrs. B” in an official report) requested palliative care and initially declined MAiD due to her religious beliefs. Nevertheless, her husband — experiencing caregiver burnout —contacted a MAiD referral service the same day; after two quick assessments, a third provider approved her, and she was euthanized later that evening, according to the report. (See my Maine Writer note above....)
States tend to follow Canada’s trend of loosening restrictions over time — but, so far, not to the same extremes.

Each state where PAS is legal reports increasing usage over time. Oregon, Washington, Vermont, Hawaii and Colorado have also removed residency requirements, resulting in grisly “death tourism,” while California was the first to shorten mandatory waiting times.
Liberal state California has overseen the most PAS deaths in the US with 4,287 between 2016 and 2023, with Oregon a close second.

“It changes medicine,” said Schadenberg. “People have to recognize the importance of being there with their loved ones in the hospital. In our culture, there are too many people going through difficult health conditions alone and that actually breeds the death idea.”

PAS also transforms the death industry. Entrepreneurial New Yorkers could soon follow the lead of Canadian funeral homes offering one-stop MAiD services.

In London, Ontario, A. Millard George Funeral Home converted a former casket showroom into a “Compassion Suite” where patients can die surrounded by family.
Quebec’s Complexe Funéraire du Haut-Richelieu similarly provides a dedicated space for the procedure, allowing loved ones to hand off the body immediately afterward.
Advocates for PAS argue it’s about bodily autonomy, dignity and independence.

“For New Yorkers nearing the end of life, what matters most is having access to the full spectrum of end‑of‑life care,” Francesca Triest, New York-New Jersey Campaign Manager for Compassion & Choices, which lobbied strongly for New York’s law, told The Post.

“The Medical Aid in Dying Act reinforces a fundamental principle: every individual deserves compassion and the autonomy to make personal decisions about their own body and their care at life’s end.”

But Fisher said that sends the wrong message to everyone else. “If it’s legal, it must be OK. That’s the mindset they’re in,” she said.
Adding: “My body, my choice and I’m just going to go to sleep and all my problems go away. But the families are left behind".
(Maine Writer: Families, elderly and disabled will be coerced into believing they have a duty to die. This "my body, my choice" slogan is propaganda. Frankly, is complete hypocrisy to use such a euphemism to gloss over the brutal finality of death by suicide.)
“It’s like a holocaust. It serves no purpose.”

Let's write about immersion immigrant dining experiences in a creative restaurant review

 Low didn't originally set out to become a restaurateur- he's a filmmaker by training....."

This Tables for Two review published in The New Yorker magazine, by Helen Rosner, and at this social media link here. (This review describes an immersion into creative immigrant ethnic dining...wish we could visit....I suppose a diner could enjoy a different experience every day for a month.)

(Love this descriptive excerpt:  "Kelang’s paratha isn’t a pizza, but it’s not not a pizza; it’s chewy, wheaty, savory, creamy, and fresh, with a bit of heat in the dal and a brightening zing of green from a tangle of herbs on top." -Haha, hmmm, so what's not not a pizza, anyway❓)

Kelang, is a Malaysian restaurant located in Greenpoint, part of a new crop of restaurants that celebrate the cultural synthesis of many immigrant groups that coexist in tight proximity to one another. This intermingling isn’t exactly a new phenomenon, but Kelang’s approach feels specific to this moment. The restaurant’s owner, Christopher Low, is an American-born son of Malaysian parents. He grew up in Brooklyn, eating his parents’ cooking in addition to the Haitian and Jamaican food of his neighbors and friends. Low brings this background into his cooking. “Call it the second-generation turn: the cooking of children whose palates belong not to their parents’ homelands but to the cities that they were raised in; cooks making food that doesn’t attempt to re-create someplace distant, in space or in memory, so much as to reflect their actual lives, which are hybrid and hyphenated, deeply rooted yet widely branching,” 

Helen Rosner writes: The best thing on the menu at Kelang, a Malaysian restaurant in Greenpoint that opened in December, is a puffy paratha on a bed of spiced red-lentil dal, topped with creamy Italian stracciatella cheese. Depending on who you are, where you’re from, and how rigid you are in your notions of gastronomic interpolation, this will strike you as either an absurd concept or a brilliant one.

Kelang is part of a new crop of restaurants that celebrate the cultural synthesis of many immigrant groups that coexist in tight proximity to one another, from the Southeast Asian-kissed Italian American joint JR & Son to the Southern-meets-Sichuan fried-chicken spot Pecking House.

What these places are doing isn’t “fusion” in the cynical sense, wherein a chef from one culture raids another for decorative elements. It’s something more personal, less calculated. Kelang’s paratha isn’t a pizza, but it’s not not a pizza (❓); it’s chewy, wheaty, savory, creamy, and fresh, with a bit of heat in the dal and a brightening zing of green from a tangle of herbs on top.
This intermingling isn’t exactly a new phenomenon (birria ramen❗ Pastrami burritos❗❓ Gumbo❗), but Kelang’s approach feels specific to this moment.

Call it the second-generation turn: the cooking of children whose palates belong not to their parents’ homelands but to the cities that they were raised in; cooks making food that doesn’t attempt to re-create someplace distant, in space or in memory, so much as to reflect their actual lives, which are hybrid and hyphenated, deeply rooted yet widely branching. Kelang’s owner, Christopher Low, is an American-born son of Malaysian parents. He grew up in Brooklyn, eating his parents’ cooking in addition to the Haitian and Jamaican food of his neighbors and friends.

In 2022, he, his parents, and his sister opened a restaurant, Hainan Chicken House, in Sunset Park, a counter-service spot named in celebration of a regional culinary export that’s hugely popular in Malaysia: poached chicken, fragrant with scallions and ginger, served with chicken-infused rice and sauces.
The restaurant became a minor sensation—the titular dish is terrific, silken and subtle and rich, but what most stood out was a rotating lineup of specials, mostly hawker-style Malaysian fare, particularly the food of Klang, his parents’ home town, on Malaysia’s western coast.

At Kelang (the restaurant is named for an archaic spelling of the city’s name), those dishes are brought to the fore and woven with flavors from Low’s life in Brooklyn. There’s the paratha, of course, with its playful Neapolitan flourishes, but also a rendang, a Malaysian style of curry in which the sauce simmers down to almost a rich glaze, here made with tender shreds of oxtail—smoked first, Caribbean style. It’s served alongside rice cooked with mushrooms and herbs, a clever mashup of Malaysian nasi ulam and Haitian djon djon (small black edible mushrooms).

Oxtail rendang, a mix of Malaysian and Caribbean staples.

Low isn’t the first to do a curry-chicken potpie, (❓- hmmm, interesting....😉😋) but his version is rich and warm, with airy, shattery pastry reminiscent of roti, flaky and slick with butter. (Note:  I suppose butter improves nearly all unfamiliar flavors....)

Not all dishes on the menu make you play a game of spot-the-references; some dishes are just terrific for terrific’s sake. Take, for instance, the clay-pot bak kut teh, featuring big hunks of pork (belly, trotter, rib) bobbling around in an intense, herbal broth in which they’ve braised for ages, or the “moonlight kway teow,” a stir-fried dish of wide rice noodles that are near-black with dark soy sauce, with a yellow orb of egg yolk in the center; its flavor is sultry and craggy from smoked clams and wok hei. Rojak, a spicy-savory fruit salad that’s a signature Malaysian dish, is made with seasonal fruit (guava and pineapple, among others, on my visits), plus crunchy cucumbers tossed in a gorgeous dressing tangy with fermented shrimp paste. Hainanese chicken—the dish that started it all—is available at dinner, and is impeccable: a steamy, silky half bird, foot coquettishly still attached, alongside a cluster of bowls containing sauces, rice, and a broth that strikes the ideal midpoint between fussy from-scratch freshness and bouillon nostalgia. I especially loved a dish of abacus seeds—chewy little dumplings made from taro, which the menu cheekily identifies as “gnocchi,” sauteed with smoked mushrooms and fiery chiles.

Low didn’t originally set out to become a restaurateur—he’s a filmmaker by training, and he’s cited the works of Wong Kar Wai as a primary influence on the interior design of Kelang. The space, previously a medical office, is boxy, with a certain high-ceilinged sterility, but Low has staged it like a movie set to conjure a lush, melancholy romanticism, with deep-red banquettes, tropical vines, gilt-edged mirrors, and, at the U-shaped bar, bent-bamboo chairs, with a boudoir-pink fringe. If the low, blushing lighting doesn’t get you in the mood for love, maybe a drink will help: a Martini dirtied up with a splash of fish sauce, a Negroni with notes of cherry blossom and lemongrass, or a Longsan Lahhh, a note-perfect non-alcoholic cocktail with smoky tea, fruit juice, and a bit of chile-pepper heat. 

Service, on my visits, was a bit spacey, but it’s been tightening up; the tone of the place seems to be in progress, too, oscillating between that of a neighborhood joint, an amorous date-night nook, and a sceney hot spot. But that sort of multiplicity plays well here: Kelang is a little bit of many things, all wrapped up together, in a way that totally works. ♦

P.S. from Maine Writer, I don't think spell check can keep pace with the variety of words in this Tables for Two article.  

Let's write about the fun of reading children's books again!

I have read "Charlotte's Web" by .E.B. White at least three times. 

I read it aloud to my two sons when we were in transit living in my sister's apartment in Winnetka, Illinois, and they had not yet been enrolled in the elementary school. One time, I read an excerpt when it was my turn to give an inspirational moment at our weekly Rotary meeting. I started to cry when I read Charlotte's goodbye to Wilber.

Why adults should read more children’s books an essay published in the Boston Globe by Zach Przystup.

You’re never too old to believe in magic. Zach Przystup is the author of the Substack newsletter "Ask Your Father", where he writes about parenting, family life, sports, and technology.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “Someday you’ll be old enough to read fairy tales again.” It looks like I’ve reached that day.

I just turned 40, and over the past couple of years I’ve read some 20 children’s novels by the likes of Daniel Nayeri, Roald Dahl, Dave Eggers, Katherine Rundell, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Louis Sachar.

The binge wasn’t intentional. It started with introducing my old favorites to my first- and third-grade boys.

I got curious about what’s out there for kids today, and then I was enjoying myself so much that I got around to some of the classics I had never read, like “The Hobbit” and “The Chronicles of Narnia.” Some of these books were among the best I had read in recent memory, or ever, really. 

And it sure is nice to be able to finish something in a few days.

That’s rarely the case with adult fiction. With its penchant for weighty drama — murder, betrayals, affairs — it all can get, well, a little depressing.

The thing is, children’s literature also ponders the big questions — how to deal with unfairness, what makes a good life, and what happens after we die — but usually in a way that’s inspiring and less long-winded. As my favorite writing professor would charge: “Get to the pith!” (IOW, get inside the issues.)

Children’s novels excel at getting to the pith. Just consider: You’re wrongly thrown into a juvenile detention center and ordered to dig holes in the scorching sun alongside a ragtag group of youth vandals. What’s your next move? — “Holes,” Louis Sachar. A strange girl parachutes in from a magical portal and says she needs your help to save her world. Do you go? — “Impossible Creatures,” Katherine Rundell. You’re a valued member of an island’s animal community (you’re a wild dog), but one day that community changes forever. Do you stick it out or leave behind everything you’ve ever known? — “The Eyes and the Impossible,” Dave Eggers.

Children’s books also remind us of an essential truth: The magic, adventure, and boundless possibilities that we naturally grasped as kids are all still out there.

We badly need this reminder because as we get jobs, start paying mortgages, and get bulldozed by domestic responsibilities, the magic tends to die.

That’s why we need “James and the Giant Peach.” A good children’s yarn chips away at our jaded exteriors by helping us to look at the world the way we used to as kids, with a sense of wonder, awe, discovery, and playfulness that are all worthy of the life we’ve been given. They remind us of who we were and ask whether we still believe in the things we used to.

We’re a grown and grizzled Peter Pan; these books take us back to Neverland.

After reading “Holes,” I visited my parents at my childhood home. As I sat playing with my boys in the front yard, I suddenly thought to show them the dirt patch under the great oak tree where I used to dig for gems as a little boy. They eagerly fetched a spade, started digging, and found all kinds of treasure. It was a full-circle moment of play and discovery inspired by an excellent children’s novel — an excellent novel, period.

The morning commute, the endless dishes and laundry and schedule shuffling — they aren’t going anywhere. But, if we remember how to look, we can recognize that our daily lives are still shot through with plenty of magic. Can anyone who has visited a national park deny that fantastical realms exist❓ 

Can anyone who has a child deny that wondrous creatures exist❓ 

I think that’s what C.S. Lewis was getting at.

Here’s some parting advice from Roald Dahl: “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” Children’s books invite us to read and believe again. Who knows what we’ll find❓

Let's write about the provenance of "One The Road": Manuscript "the scroll" sold at record breaking auction price

On the Auction Block: Jack Kerouac’s Record-Breaking Manuscripts
Published in Literary Hub:

Jean-Christophe Cloutier Considers the History of Kerouac’s Posthumous Sales

Kerouac scroll

Just a few weeks ago, on March 12, 2026, which would have been Jack Kerouac’s 104th birthday, the On the Road scroll sold at auction at Christie’s in New York for a whopping $12,135,000. This marks a new and historic record: the artifact is now the most expensive literary manuscript to sell at auction regardless of period or origin.

Twenty-five years ago, this same scroll had already sold for what was then a record price: in 2001, Jim Irsay, erstwhile owner of the Indianapolis Colts, had purchased it for $2.43 million, then the highest paid price for a literary manuscript from the 20th century.

In 2020, the Mills College copy of a Shakespeare first folio (or, F1) sold for $10 million, the previous record holder. If we take inflation into account, when the Huntington Library in Pasadena purchased most of the Duke of Devonshire’s book collection for $750,000 in 1908—including the first quarto of Hamlet, still only one of two surviving copies—the adjusted price tag might fall upwards of $30 million. But that was for a collection, not a single artifact.

Unlike Shakespeare, Kerouac has never really had much backing from the academic establishment. But in our capitalistic world, where market value always trumps research value, interest in Kerouac has always been high—a lesson many academics prefer to unlearn or deny.

Despite years of sneering from US critics—or perhaps because of it—Kerouac’s popularity and influence on generations of global readers and artists is undeniable. Bob Dylan put it this way: “I read On the Road in maybe 1959. It changed my life like it changed everyone else’s.”

Last year, a major documentary focused on the ongoing impact of On the Road was released: Kerouac’s Road: The Beat of a Nation. Premiering at the Tribeca Film Festival, the film includes the participation of big names like Josh Brolin, Matt Dillon, Nathalie Merchant, Michael Imperioli, David Amram, Jay McInerney, and more. Over the years, the world of fashion has often turned to Kerouac for inspiration: in 1993, the GAP released a series of posters with the slogan, “Kerouac wore khakis.” In 2018 Harmony Paris released their Fall-Winter « Kerouac » collection, and in 2022, Kim Jones unveiled his Christian Dior fashion line for men based on Kerouac.

Musicians, especially, have been drawn to Kerouac’s work, from the Beatles and David Bowie to Patti Smith, Tom Waits, Lana Del Rey, and Zach Bryan, who purchased the On the Road scroll last week. Bryan, in particular, seems dedicated to keeping Kerouac’s legacy alive: last year, he purchased—for over $3 million—the St-Jean Baptiste Church in Lowell, MA, a bastion of Massachusetts’ Franco-American cultural history, and the church where the author born “Jean-Louis Kérouac” was baptized in 1922, and where his funeral was held forty-seven years later, in 1969. In collaboration with the Kerouac Estate, plans are nowunderway to turn the space into a Kerouac museum, cultural center, and venue for performances.

Unsurprisingly, Kerouac’s influence is also pronounced among an array of writers who have dominated contemporary literature.

Non-anglophone authors range from Norway’s Karl Ove Knausgaard, who cites Kerouac in My Struggle as an inspiration, to Chile’s Roberto Bolaño, who translated into Spanish several poems by Kerouac. The Cuban author Guillermo Cabrera claims Kerouac as a key forebear: he wrote Tres Tristes Tigres in a Spanish dialect inspired by street talk and phonetics, as Kerouac did, and wrote the screenplay to Vanishing Point (under the penname Guillermo Cain), a cult-classic road movie directly inspired by Kerouac. Japan’s Haruki Murakami—whose heroine in Sputnik Sweetheart not only models her writing on Kerouac but also her sense of fashion—likewisenotes Kerouac’s imprint on his work.

His imprint can pop up anywhere; in 2020, during an interview with the Washington Post, former US President Barack Obama discussed some of the authors and books that had most influenced him. Included in Obama’s top five, alongside Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Mohandas K Gandhi, and Shakespeare, was On the Road. In her graphic memoir The Secret to Superhuman Strength (2021), the cartoonist Alison Bechdel undertakes a sustained dialogue with Kerouac’s Buddhism and follows in his footsteps in climbing Matterhorn Peak in Sierra Nevada.

Kerouac’s turn to Buddhism in the mid-1950s, is another important aspect of his multifaceted cultural legacy. The poet bell hooks, for instance, credits him for modeling a form of “resistance to that old patriarchal kind of Buddhism that was all about obedience to authority.” This Kerouackian strand of countercultural spiritual resistance continues in contemporary pop culture, as evidenced by Jason Sudeikis’s Ted Lasso character who reads a battered paperback edition of The Dharma Bums on the plane that will take him to the UK in the pilot episode. The trendy eyeglasses company, Warby Parker, named after obscure Kerouac characters, gives away a copy of The Dharma Bums to every new employee.

Poet, playwright, and editor Amiri Baraka, towering figure in the Beat world and the Black Arts Movement, considered Kerouac “a giant of swift exacting poetic insight” and included no fewer than four Kerouac pieces in The Moderns (1963), Baraka’s groundbreaking “Anthology of New Writing in America.” Even when Kerouac was placed alongside his countercultural peers, Baraka recognized in him a unique “occurrence as a style of American writing,” where he stands “absolutely alone.” And now, with this new auction record, Kerouac stands alone once more.

The King of the Beats has always attracted a fair amount of attention from collectors—especially since his passing in 1969. Kerouac had left everything to his mother, Gabrielle-Ange Lévesque, who outlived all three of her children but was already in ill-health at the ime. Kerouac’s third wife, Stella Sampas, filed for and obtained one-third of the Kerouac estate, under a legal entitlement extended to widows by Florida law, and when Gabrielle died in 1973, total ownership passed on to Stella.

L'Heureux photograph

During her stewardship, Stella more or less left her late husband’s papers untouched and refused most requests by scholars and biographers to access its contents. Bootleg anthologies nevertheless began circulating in the early 1970s—often known as the “collected uncollected” Kerouac, as demand remained high. 

Private collectors and institutions sought to acquire whatever they could get from the Kerouac Estate.

When Stella passed away in 1990, her brother John Sampas—an antiques dealer by trade—took over control of the estate.

After appraising the extent of the collection, Mr. Sampas realized that Kerouac had left behind an impressive array of unpublished manuscripts—and slowly, posthumous works began to be released. Learning on the fly the myriad temptationsand possibilities that come with handling the estate of a coveted literary figure, Sampas began selling a few items to various repositories around the country—notably the New York Public Library and the Harry Ransom Center in Texas—as well as to some private individuals.

Through his contacts in the antiquarian book world, Sampas began looking for potential buyers and was put in touch with Michael D. Horowitz, a book dealer and archivist who specialized literary appraisals. Horowitz suggested he reach out to a young actor named Johnny Depp who was dating his daughter, Winona Ryder, at the time. According to the bill of sale’s invoice, Depp’s purchase included: raincoat, suitcase, travel bag, sweatshirt, rain hat, tweed coat, letter to Neal Cassady, and a canceled check to a liquor store, for a total sum of $50,640.

2001, was a major Kerouac year on the literary market: not only did the On the Road scroll sell for $2.43 million, which was at the time a world record for a literary manuscript, but Glenn Horowitz, the famed rare book dealer, also arranged for the auctioning of 76 items from the Kerouac archive, the vast majority being letters, along with a handful of short manuscripts, and a signed check. And the bulk of the collection—what Sampas qualified as “95%” of Kerouac’s literary and personal archive—was sold to the New York Public Library that same year.

In their announcement, The New York Times underscored that NYPL’s “acquisition of the Kerouac archive began more than a decade ago when Rodney Phillips, the director of the Humanities and Social Sciences Library and a former curator of the Berg Collection, began buying items sold by the estate through George Minkoff, a dealer in Great Barrington, Mass.” And so, even prior to the main 2001 purchase, the Berg “had already, through purchase and gift, amassed the largest group of Kerouac papers in institutional or private hands.” As time passed, Sampas came to understand the value of keeping a such a collection together, and increasingly developed a growing sense of responsibility in his role as custodian to the Kerouac archive, even reacquiring some of the items he had sold into private hands.

In 2001, the record sale of the scroll at Christie’s further prompted a mystery collector to come forward with another Kerouac manuscript, one widely thought to be lost forever: The Haunted Life. Published posthumously in 2014 as The Haunted Life and Other Writings, the book is an unfinished handwritten manuscript Kerouac composed in 1944 when he lived near the Columbia University campus in New York. But even its author thought this one was lost to oblivion; in his 1968 novel, Vanity of Duluoz, Kerouac mentions the “Haunted Life” as the “long novel I had been writing… in pencil” and “lost… in a taxicab: never heard from it again.”

This unfortunate taxicab loss would have presumably taken place in 1944, and this occurrence can be more or less corroborated through a convenient little document in Kerouac’s archive, entitled, “If He can be Call’d a Failure who Leaves 1 ½ million Unpublished Words at 32.” Written in 1954, this notebook page lists the titles of novels that a then 32-year old Kerouac has written thus far, the year in which he wrote them, and his estimation of their approximate total word count. It’s important to remember that in 1954, Kerouac had only been able to publish a single novel, 1950’s, The Town and the City; literary fame would only come when Viking finally published On the Road, in 1957, six years after he had composed the original. On his 1954, literary inventory, Kerouac had listed “The Haunted Life” with an added “(Lost)” in parentheses.

Therefore, the manuscript’s sudden resurfacing on June 18, 2002, on auction at Sotheby’s in New York, came as a shock and its provenance remained nebulous. In the Sotheby’s catalog, it was described as the “longest and most important autograph manuscript by Kerouac ever to appear at auction,” and was estimated to go for $100,000–$150,000. It was further listed as “an autograph fair copy, meticulously written in Kerouac’s hand and absent of marginalia, corrective marks, and significant grammatical errors—Manuscript in very good condition.” In the end, the manuscript sold to an unnamed bidder for $95,600 via phone—$80,000 was the “hammer price,” with the buyer’s premium bringing it up to $95,000.

When Todd Tietchen was hired to edit the manuscript for publication, he worked exclusively with a photocopy of the manuscript—the original remained with the buyer, a private collector named Mark Novak (as someone who was present at the moment of the sale confirmed to me). In his introduction to his 2014 edition of the book, Tietchen does not identify the seller (or the buyer), but shares what he had been able to find out, namely that “the manuscript had [apparently] been willed to the seller by his longtime domestic partner, who claimed to have discovered it decades earlier in the closet of a Columbia University dorm room.”

This narrative is plausible because Kerouac did spend parts of October of 1944, living in his friend Allen Ginsberg’s dorm room at Columbia. Tietchen speculates that Kerouac “had left the manuscript in Ginsberg’s room after accepting a berth on the merchant vessel Robert Treat Paine (only to jump ship in Virginia and head back to New York). Why he subsequently lost track of the manuscript,” Tietchen adds, “is impossible to say.”

Whether or not more “lost” Kerouac manuscripts will appear on auction—and whether any of these will keep breaking sales records—is equally impossible to say. One thing we can say is that even though interest in Kerouac is alive and well (despite what the professors would have us believe), Kerouac himself could never have come close to reacquiring any of his own creations on auction. As author Joyce Johnson, who was Kerouac’s girlfriend in 1957, when On the Road was published, reminded us in the wake of the latest sale of the scroll, “Jack was the poorest person I ever met.”

Jack Kerouac Jean-Christophe Cloutier literary auctions literary legacies On the Road

Jean-Christophe Cloutier is associate professor of English and comparative literature at the University of Pennsylvania. He is the author of Shadow Archives: The Lifecycles of African American Literature (2019) and of Big American Writer: The Bilingual Jack Kerouac, forthcoming in October 2026 from Columbia University Press.

Let's write about enjoying our creative passions like starting a band regardless of age or talent

This opinion in the New York Times seems appropriate for  "boomers of all ages". The author Hugo Lindgren gives us permission to continue our interesting passions even if we are not good at what we want to do!  Have fun reading! Mr. Lindgren is editor of the zine (aka "zeen") "Let’s Start a Band". 

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/03/22/opinion/band-music-community.html

In the spring of 1982, six friends got together in an East Village New York City apartment to start a country-punk band. They had a guitar, a bass and some sticks and spoons to bang on. 

“We tried Hank Williams and Tammy Wynette songs and our voices wrapped around each other as everybody found their natural level,” wrote Amy Rigby in “Girl to City,” her 2019, memoir. “We wailed through a version of ‘Hey Good Lookin’ that lasted long enough to cook an entire spaghetti dinner. It was the most fun I’d had in my life.” That band was called Last Roundup. 

You’re forgiven for not knowing the name. Though the group had a relatively brief existence and never had anything close to a hit, Ms. Rigby’s memoir — a lucid, unguarded account of band life — is one of the best I’ve read. And I’ve read tons.
In fact, I’ve spent the last year plundering music biographies, memoirs, magazine profiles, documentaries and podcasts for stories of start-up bands.

I did this after Chris Scianni, an old friend, got in touch and asked for my help in writing about his decades of hustling in the music business. In high school, Chris and I had both been in bands — we shared a drummer — but mine was a bunch of goofballs burdened with too many opinions and too little patience for rehearsing. He was truly talented and dedicated, the best guitar player any of us knew, obsessed with Buddy Guy, Keith Richards and Joe Strummer.

While we caught up over lunch, I recognized that Chris has another exceptional gift: He is a band builder. That thing we both did as kids❓ He kept doing it — he’s had a band that was signed to Sony; he played in the tennis star John McEnroe’s band; and he has jammed with Bruce Springsteen at the Stone Pony. He has also spent his adult life keeping an eye out for collaborators to help him go places he wouldn’t be able to reach on his own.

The more we talked about it, the more I came to understand that Chris’s band-joining impulse is the perfect resistance to these stupefying times. Chris and I decided to create a zine about starting a band, dedicated to a simple message: Life’s problems, big and small, recede when you get in a room and play music with a few friends or friends of frids or, why not, complete strangers. 

Make it up as you go along. If nobody else wants to sing, you sing. 

Be a zealot about keeping your instrument in tune but nothing else. Force yourself to write one new song a week, no matter how dreadful the first ones come out. Reach out across the divide of awkwardness to the closet geniuses in your life, like that ex-co-worker who has a thing for modular synths. Be especially kind to your drummer, if you have one, because drummers are impossible to find. Or maybe you’ll have to learn the drums. Book a gig. Make stickers and hand them out on the subway. Stop chasing what everybody else is chasing. Create your own center of gravity.

I told myself I was doing all this for my teenage daughters, both of whom are musically inclined but have been tentative about forming their own bands. It’s not something teenagers do as naturally as Chris and I once did.

For one thing, live music, once ubiquitous, is now almost quaint. And kids who can sing or play an instrument start professional training today around age 3. We’re inundated with evidence of other people’s superior talents and superhuman work habits.

On YouTube, you’ll discover you can’t play guitar half as well as a teenager who does a multilayered rendition of “There She Goes” with a delay pedal while skateboarding down her street. Sticking your neck out as an inspired beginner takes courage. Yet that’s also how the best stuff always starts.

I know what some of you are thinking. What if I’m old? What if the last time I picked up my guitar, my kids marched out of the house? These are reasonable concerns. If making music will never be your thing, find co-conspirators for something else. Your band could be a book club, a knitting collective, a pop-up theater, a game night, or a pinball laundromat mahjong club in Gowanus (which does not yet exist, as far as I know, but act fast). It could even be starting a zine (pronounced "zeen" as in "magazine".).

Even after we published our zine, I couldn’t stop collecting stories about the origins of bands. I’ll go to the music section of a bookstore and flip right to the part of each book where they start their first band. It rarely fails to be inspiring — the coolest bands were ridiculously uncool in their early incarnations.

At its first paid gig, for high schoolers in Summit, N.J., the Velvet Underground literally fell to pieces: “Our set was only about 15 minutes at the most,” the drummer Maureen Tucker has recalled, “and in each song something of mine broke.” Robert Smith of the Cure was mortified at first by his own voice, and when he tried being lead vocalist at a gig, he sang the words to “Suffragette City” while the band played “Foxy Lady.” At early rehearsals for the band that would become Radiohead, Thom Yorke, the singer, told the keyboardist Jonny Greenwood, “I can’t quite hear what you’re doing, but I think you’re adding a really interesting texture.” It turned out Mr. Greenwood had switched off the power on his keyboard because he didn’t know how to play the chords.

What made these kids push through such cringe-inducing incompetence and keep going? The safety net of having other kids on their side. It inspired them to not only persevere and get better but also to keep taking risks in pursuit of their own distinctive sound.
If there’s one thing that digital technology is exceptional at, it’s fueling the ambition of the solo practitioner. We barely need anybody for anything these days. A practically infinite (and utterly obedient) orchestra lives in our iPhones. But relying too much on these tools keeps us in creative silos. It denies us the connection we all crave, which is the real meaning of music and the best reason to start a band. People want to connect.

A band is not just a mechanism for doing that, it’s a model. It can also be a path to a deeper creative life. That’s how it worked out for Amy Rigby. Since Last Roundup split up, she has made a career as a solo artist; the critic Robert Christgau called her “one of the great unknown American songwriters.” Connecting with those original collaborators had turned Ms. Rigby, a self-described “goofy amateur,” into an artist.

“Certain people let you feel free to be a true part of yourself,” Ms Rigby wrote. “Not the only part, but one facet that lies dormant until somebody else says: ‘Come on out, it’s OK.’”

Let's Write about antisemitism history and the Jews of New Orleans

This essay describes Jewish experiences I am unfamiliar with.

Although I am Roman Catholic, I have followed the evils of antisemitism and Holocaust denialism for decades. The Pittsburg Platform of 1885* is new information to me.

Nicholas Lemann is a professor of journalism at Columbia University, a staff writer at The New Yorker, and the author of “Returning: A Search for Home Across Three Centuries.”

Echo essay published in the Boston Globe:

In a golden age for many American Jews, my family was uncertain about its identity. How our story resonates in this difficult moment.

I grew up in a highly particular corner of the American Jewish world in New Orleans: among the descendants of Jewish immigrants from Alsace and southwestern Germany who had come here in the early 19th century, usually alone, and had started out as backpack peddlers in the rural Deep South. 

By the time I was born, just past the midpoint of the 20th century, we were established and prosperous. We belonged to one of two grand, vaguely Moorish sand-colored Reform temples on St. Charles Avenue. We were brokers and owners of medium-scale department stores, intergenerationally headed out of business into the professions.

But there was something distinctly provisional about our place in the world. We were cautiously liberal, more so than most native-born white people in the South, but we knew the location of the political boundaries that we would be unwise to cross. We were barred from full membership in the local social elite. Mainstream American Jews — descended from Eastern European immigrants who had come here later than us, and who were more proudly ethnic and tribal — made us nervous. They wouldn’t have fit in as Southerners, and their visibility, we thought, made it harder for us to fit in.

When I left the South, I encountered a version of American Jewishness that was far less cautious. Many of my new friends in New York and Boston felt they had achieved full acceptance. 

In New Orleans, we followed the precepts of the Pittsburgh Platform of 1885, the founding document of American Reform Judaism, which was meant to scrub the separateness and strangeness from Judaism: no bar mitzvahs, no dietary laws, no Zionism. But now, at least on the East Coast, Jews could be proudly Jewish without sacrificing either their status as real Americans or their identity as Jews.

In the long sweep of Jewish history, this was quite an unfamiliar place for Jews to be. The 19th-century Germany that we left was full of debates about “the Jewish question”: How much of the completely separate and self-contained world we inhabited would we have to renounce in order to be fully emancipated from the many restrictions that others had always imposed on us❓✡️

It’s worth remembering, for example, that as the 19th century began most of us, including my own family, didn’t have last names.

Non-Jews battled over these questions — “the Jewish question” wound up being resolved by the Nazis — and so did Jews. 

In pre-Nazi Germany and then in the United States, we split into subtribes defined by how observant to be and how strongly to embrace or resist assimilation. Had it now become possible that these quandaries no longer presented themselves❓ That Jews ✡️could live anywhere, work anywhere, and not have to think about the need to dial down the way they presented themselves, lest it be too culturally Jewish, and therefore limiting❓

I was raised to believe the answers to those questions would never be yes, and I now see many of my friends who had more mainstream Jewish upbringings wrestling with them, painfully, in ways they never expected. What set this off was Hamas’s attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, and Israel’s brutal military retaliation in Gaza. The psychological package of confident and untroubled American Jewish identity included the idea that Israel was broadly admired, for being a liberal, democratic, remarkably successful new nation built with miraculous speed by refugees from oppression. Believing this always required a degree of willed unawareness of the attitude toward Israel in the overlapping Arab, Muslim, and post-colonial worlds. Now, unawareness is impossible. The Gaza war, and now the Iran war, have brought into view a fierce hatred of Israel, first on the left and then on the right. Around the world, the Jewish state is despised — not, it has become clear, just for its behavior and its policies but for the basic terms of its existence.

This is a painful time for American Jews. In many places, it’s officially OK to be Jewish, but it is definitely not OK to be “Zionist.” What had seemed like a comfortable fit between Jewishness and Zionism isn’t comfortable any longer. Many congregations, many individual families, are in a state of deep internal, often intergenerational, conflict over Israel, between defenders, reformers, and renouncers. And because outside the Jewish world it has become difficult to avoid being asked whether you’re a Zionist, in a way that makes clear what the acceptable answer is, it’s no longer even theoretically unproblematic to be Jewish.

The distinctly German-Jewish world I grew up in is gone now — assimilated out of existence. One of our core precepts, essential to our anti-Zionist stance, was that we were Americans who happened to have a lightly held ethno-religious identity; we were most definitely not members of a Jewish people who collectively longed for and deserved a homeland. I see a resurgence of this attitude all around me, as identification with Israel has gone from being something easy to something highly charged for American Jews.

In my own life, I have embraced peoplehood**. Nearly half of us Jews live in Israel — a proportion that is likely to increase. Saying that Israel has nothing to do with me isn’t an option. Israel’s challenges, internal and external, are my challenges, too.

* Pittsburg Platform of 1885:  a pivotal 1885 document in the history of the American Jewish Reform Movement that called for Jews to adopt a modern approach to the practice of their faith. While it was never formally adopted by the Union of American Hebrew Congregations (UAHC) or the Central Conference of American Rabbis founded four years after its release, and several rabbis who remained associated with Reform in its wake attempted to distance themselves from it, the platform exerted great influence over the movement in the next fifty years, and still influences some Reform Jews who hold classicist views to this day.

** Peoplehood: Used to describe the feeling of belonging to a specific group, such as "Jewish peoplehood" which connects diverse individuals through shared history and destiny.

Let's write about evil Holocaust denial and how quickly some people are blinded to it

This excerpt is transcribed from "No Road Leading Back", by Chris Heath.  An improbable Escape from the Nazi and the Tangled Way We Tell the story about the Holocaust" .

Thank you Ms. Heath.

 A WASHINGTON POST BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR • NATIONAL JEWISH BOOK AWARD FINALIST • CHAUTAUQUA PRIZE FINALIST • This by turns shattering and hope-giving account of prisoners who dug their way to freedom from the Nazis is both a stunning escape narrative and an object lesson in the ways we remember and continually forget the particulars of the Holocaust.

No Road Leading Back is the remarkable story of a dozen prisoners who escaped from the site where more than 70,000 Jews were shot in the Lithuanian forest of Ponar after the Nazi invasion of Eastern Europe in 1941. Anxious to hide the incriminating evidence of the murders, the S.S. later in the war enslaved a group of Jews to exhume every one of the bodies and incinerate them all in a months-long labor—an episode whose specifics are staggering and disturbing, even within the context of the Holocaust.

From within that dire circumstance emerges the improbable escape made by some of the men, who dug a tunnel with bare hands and spoons while they were trapped and guarded day and night—an act not just of bravery and desperation but of awesome imagination. Based on first-person accounts of the escapees and on each scrap of evidence that has been documented, repressed, or amplified since, this book resurrects their lives, while also providing a complex, urgent analysis of why their story has rarely

August 2017 - Ponar (the Nazi killing field in Lithuania) and its story remain half hidden in all kinds of ways, not least literally. Though this place is only a few miles from Lithuania’s capital Vilnius, and though its designated twenty or so acres are currently maintained as a Holocaust memorial, it is fiendishly difficult to find. Occasional signposts do feign to indicate where the site is, but they do not link up in any connected sequence that might actually lead you there. When you do finally arrive, unless you have decided to make arrangement in advance, the small on-site museum will most likely be closed. You may see another car or two in the expansive parking lot, but just as likely you will have the place to yourself.

Today, I am not traveling there alone. In the care with me is Abe Gol, a Florida resident who has retired from his job in the fire industry, shuttling between the United States and Japan.

This is his first visit to Lithuania. The last couple of miles take us along winding roads in which the surrounding forest is broken by industrial buildings and then by the old apartment blocks and houses on Paneriai- an indistinct settlement radiating from the railway junction that doesn’t feel appropriate to describe either as a village or as a small town.

As we drive, Abe mutters quietly to himself, “I pictured this totally differently,”

Getting out of the car, he looks around. Where are the pits?”, he asks.

We are the first of a larger party, who are expected here today, and the museum is open. Abe Gol looks af the list of escapees I had written down on my first visit, the twelve whose stories I am trying to recover.

These are the names:

Josef Gielic

Abraham Blazer

Yitzhak Dogin

Yuli Farber

Shlomo Giol

David Kantorovich

Zulman Matzkin

Leizer Owsiejczyk

Konstantin Potanin

Matke Seidel

Adam Zinger

Peter Zinin* (The names are written as they will be generally used in writing their stories. This list is actually printed in the museum as the names in Lithuanian.)

The fifth name on this list is the reason Abe is here. Shlomo Gol was his father.

We are the first to arrive, but the others- among them Richard Freund and some of the team who found the tunnel, now back in Lithuania to work on other projects- eventually gather.

Freund speaks to Mantas Siksnianas, the guide who works for the museum. “I want the official story,” Freund requests. Mantas begins, “Paneriai is the biggest mass killing space in Lithuania, but Lithuania is just filled with similar places like this one….

Officially in Paneriai they killed about a hundred thousand people, but now historians say it was probably about fifty or seventy thousand, of course we are not sure.”

After a while, Siksnianas leades us over to a pit. Present-day visitors to Ponar can visit a number of these circular pits, all the others are identified as murder sites, but the pit we now approach is different. It has vertical, stone-clad walls and looks like (a picture) – my intrepetation, a flattened labyrinth. Abe stands on the pit edge, taking photographs on his iPad as the guide explains that about eighty Jews, including Abe’s father, lived inside this pit and then dug an escape tunnel. It can be confusing being here, hearing this story, because- as I’ll come to explain- almost nothing in this photo is exactly what it appears to be. Almost nothing helps a visitor to understand what once happened here. Even with all the research I had done, the first time I cam ehere, much of what I thought I understood as I looked into the pit I would later come to realize I had not understood at all.

After Aber and the rest of the party leave the pit area, we walk down a shallow slope and gather next to an imposing memorial. First Richard Freund, then two of the geophysicists who found the tunnel, Paul Bauman and Alastair McClymont, speak. Freund asks Abe Gol whether he would like to share some words.

Abe would. He explains that when he was growing up, his father Shlomo was reluctant to tell him about what had happened here. “But, bit by bit,” Abe says. “I did learn.” Once his father did explain, he continues, it was had for a son to understand how anyone could have gone through that horror, yet come out the other side and appear to be living a normal life. Abe will finish his words this afternoon by saying, “I really appreciate the opportunity to be here. And physically seeing what they had gone through.” And then, he will pause, his voice breaking before continuing. “From my point of view, there is a lot of ache, a lot of emotion…..and maybe closure.”

Before that, though, he refers to a particularly poignant moment in his, and by extension his father’s life. It happened when Abe was a teenager in Florida in the early 1960s. It is a moment that might stand as a stark preview, just off one way that the story about this place might go adrift and tumble through the gaps of history.

Why Did It Take Three Days For X To Remove Holocaust Denial Post?

Abe Gol attended Andrew Jackson High School in Jacksonville, Florida. The year after the Gol family arrived in the United States, when Abe was fifteen the teacher of the English class, Mr. Kelly, assigned the students to write a story in their own words. That gave Abe an idea. He explained to Mr. Kelly about a document of his father’s written in Hebrew in which his father had detailed his wartime experience. Could Abe translate that for this assignment? Would that be okay? Mr. Kelly said that should be fine.

When Abe told his father, Shlomo neither encouraged nor discouraged him. On the allotted day, Abe read out his translation in front of the class, telling his father’s story in his father’s own words.

“We were tasked now to construct living quarters for our own use, and those quarters were to be constructed in one of the bunkers that was not yet used as a mass grave.”

One Abe finished laying out the whole awful truth, Mr. Kelly had a question for the rest of the class.”Does Abe’s story sound believable to you?”. Then he called for a vote. Those who believed the story should raise their hands.

Abe looked around his class mates awaiting their validation for what he had just shared. For what his father, Shlomo Gol, had by proxy also just shared.

Just four hands were raised.

Naturally, Abe protested. “I said this is a true story, a story that had been corroborated by the courts in Nuremberg when the people responsible were put on trial. Do you still not believe me?”

The vote remained the same.

“They thought,” Abe will tell me, “there was no one in the world who could do something like that.”

That evening, Abe will tell his father what had happened at school that day. Shlomo wasn’t surprised. “Not many people believe what happened,” he told his son.

One time- Abe isn’t sure whether it was that evening or another day- his father’s frustration did bubble over, just for a moment. To have lived through such torment only to find that your specific kind of suffering doesn’t match contemporary expectations! To have survived as experience so intense and brutal only to realize that you’d escaped into a world in which your story somehow didn’t seem to fit!

“I guess they would have believed you if you’d brought me to school and I’d shown off the number on my arm,” Shlomo told his son. “I guess I should have gone to ✡️😥Auschwitz or something like that. Maybe then, they would have believed it.”