Lawrence Weschler

  • Waking Up to How We Sleepwalk

    ONE AFTERNOON EARLY LAST FALL, Knud Jensen, the founder and director of Denmark’s Louisiana Museum, opened the gates of that institution to activists in the Danish and Scandinavian antinuclear movement. “I’m getting a certain amount of flak for this from people at other museums,” Jensen told me. Down below, about a hundred feet down the bluff and then beyond a swath of lawn and fringe of sand, the Oresund glistened in the late afternoon light—a calm blue sea strait, and, in the distance, Sweden. The museum’s wide lawn teemed with visitors in all kinds of attire, carrying banners and posters,

  • Solidarność

    START WITH THE LOGO (fig. 1). It comes surging forward like a crowd: the S hurries the straggling O along, the A and the R stride confidently, the dot over the I and the accents over the second S and C read as heads craning forward to where the C is pointing, the N holds its rippling banner proudly aloft—the red and white flag of Poland. The word itself—SOLIDARNOŚĆ (Solidarity)—taps into a reservoir of communal memories, memories of over a century of worker activism on behalf of a socialist ideal which had been betrayed by 35 years of inept, corrupt state-bureaucratic practice. The word reclaims