"Why do they hate us?"

Mona Eltahawy confronts the still under-discussed subject of women in the Arab world:

Name me an Arab country, and I'll recite a litany of abuses fueled by a toxic mix of culture and religion that few seem willing or able to disentangle lest they blaspheme or offend. When more than 90 percent of ever-married women in Egypt -- including my mother and all but one of her six sisters -- have had their genitals cut in the name of modesty, then surely we must all blaspheme. When Egyptian women are subjected to humiliating "virginity tests" merely for speaking out, it's no time for silence. When an article in the Egyptian criminal code says that if a woman has been beaten by her husband "with good intentions" no punitive damages can be obtained, then to hell with political correctness. And what, pray tell, are "good intentions"? They are legally deemed to include any beating that is "not severe" or "directed at the face." What all this means is that when it comes to the status of women in the Middle East, it's not better than you think. It's much, much worse. Even after these "revolutions," all is more or less considered well with the world as long as women are covered up, anchored to the home, denied the simple mobility of getting into their own cars, forced to get permission from men to travel, and unable to marry without a male guardian's blessing -- or divorce either.

(Video: "In a striking cover article for Foreign Policy magazine, Egyptian-American writer Mona Eltahawy argues that women must finish the revolutions started by the Arab Spring. Eltahawy tells the BBC's Katty Kay that post-Mubarak Egypt has not provided women with the basic freedoms that all Egyptians asked for during the revolution.")

Of Vice and Men

Mitt Romney's pathetic admission of a one-off, "wayward" adolescent indulgence in beer (a sip, I assume, based on his statement) is less an indication of his devout Mormonism than a feeble appeal to those who still needlessly and incorrectly associate sobriety with strength of character. Never in history has someone so dry seemed so horribly wet. At any rate, the strictly sober presidents, as Timothy Egan points out, tend to be dreadful:

The last president to swear off alcohol was George W. Bush, who seems doomed to have his name forever followed by the words, “and we know how that turned out.” During his misspent youth, W. was a heavy drinker and considered quite the cutup, but was also obnoxious, smashing his car into trash cans and challenging his father to go “mano a mano.”

Jimmy Carter was a teetotaler, and he earned his one-term status. Were the two connected? Can’t say. But his temperance (though he now drinks wine) was much harder on White House visitors than the White House occupant. “You’d arrive at 6 or 6:30 p.m., and the first thing you would be reminded of, in case you needed reminding, was that he and Rosalynn had removed all the liquor from the White House,” Teddy Kennedy lamented in his memoir, “True Compass.” Carter’s arid receptions give Romney something to consider. Would guests be more inclined to listen while he droned on about the European debt crisis, knowing that the presidential liquor cabinet held hope of a promising end to the evening?

As for the trite proposition that sustained sobriety demonstrates self-control, ought it not really to be the other way around? Alcohol can be a diligent servant, but a taxing and unforgiving master. If the delicate relationship remains firmly of the former sort, it can even be helpful. Certainly some of the great writers (whose apparatus in some cases may be conspicuously incomplete without the bottle) did much of their best work while 'under the influence', as people tend to say. "Write drunk, edit sober" were Hemingway's famous words on the subject. Though even then it's impossible to deny that the bottle contributed heavily to the bitter denouement of Ernest Hemingway's own engrossing story. But I digress...

It's promising, at least, to note that the needless fixation on Obama's cigarette lapses appears to have ended. (Apparently the shocking revelation that he still has the occasional smoke and can't quite quash the habit actually made news.) One can't help but wonder why anyone would actually care. Even those wishing to make the obvious but natural connection between Obama's character and his inability to kick a nicotine addiction would have to admire his candidness in the matter, and his willingness to endure the frivolous speculation about, and media vigilance for, his next trip outside for a cigarette.

(Image: "Was there a connection between Franklin Roosevelt’s fondness for drink and his accomplishments as president?" Thomas D. Mcavoy/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images/source.)

Consider Casanova

It's surprising, given how legendary his personality has become since his death, that people generally know very little about him:

Today, Casanova is so surrounded by myth that many people almost believe he was a fictional character. (Perhaps it’s hard to take seriously a man who has been portrayed by Tony Curtis, Donald Sutherland, Heath Ledger and even Vincent Price, in a Bob Hope comedy, Casanova’s Big Night.) In fact, Giacomo Girolamo Casanova lived from 1725 to 1798, and was a far more intellectual figure than the gadabout playboy portrayed on film. He was a true Enlightenment polymath, whose many achievements would put the likes of Hugh Hefner to shame.

Remembering Christopher Hitchens

Last week, Vanity Fair magazine, for which Christopher Hitchens was a contributing editor, held a memorial service in their late star's honor. Among those sharing memories of Hitchens and reading extracts from his mountainous body of work were Stephen Fry, Salman Rushdie, Ian McEwan, and Christopher Buckley — to name a few. (Martin Amis's rather funny 'eulogy' turned out to be something of a highlight, comically, and was delivered in the author's typical sardonic and irreverent manner, peppered with obvious fondness for the departed "Hitch".)

But, as David Remnick, I think correctly, noted, the most poignant moment came from the poet James Fenton, who delivered a solemn recitation of his own verse:

What would the dead want from us
Watching from their cave?
Would they have us forever howling?
Would they have us rave
Or disfigure ourselves, or be strangled
Like some ancient emperor’s slave?