C O M M E M O R AT I N G

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2019

University of Michigan Law School, 1225 Jeffries Hall

4:10–5:30 p.m. 

Sponsored by U-M Office of the Provost

A CONVERSATION WITH 
U.S. REPRESENTATIVE 
JUSTIN AMASH



46000 Summit Parkway
Canton, MI 48188
734-394-5460
www.summitonthepark.org



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One
Edith Wharton’s second novel, “The House Of Mirth,” depicts a 
world that I knew almost nothing about before picking it up — the 
New York “fashionable” society of the late 19th century, a world that 
mirrors the European aristocracy in its social aesthetic but is made up 
of industrialists, real-estate magnates (like Wharton’s parents), Wall 
Street speculators. That every rich person in America is nouveau riche 
when compared to the European aristocracy means that participation 
in high society has more to do with taste, refinement, manners and 
other immaterial, vague qualities. It’s interesting that this is the social 
formation that accompanied a period of intense income inequality — in 
the Gilded Age, the very rich are mostly concerned with being better at 
being rich than their friends and acquaintances. 
Awaiting women in this world is a system of rigid control structured 
around marriage, and Wharton’s novel is a depiction of the viciousness of 
this system. Her protagonist, Lily Bart, was born into “fashion” but, being 
an orphan, doesn’t have the means to stay there without marrying a rich 
man. She is nearly thirty and is reaching the point where her youthful 
beauty is just beginning to fade — she starts to notice circles around 
her mouth and wrinkles on her forehead — but her problem is really 
more psychological. Having been raised in an environment saturated 
with opulence, she is hesitant to leave it, even as she finds its trappings 
intolerable. The beginning of the novel has her faced with the prospect 
of marrying Percy Gryce, a man so dull she nearly can’t stand spending 
several afternoons with him at a country house. She vacillates between 
feeling incapable of marrying Gryce and feeling like she needs to charm 
him, win him over, so she can at least avoid falling into the “dinginess” 
that surrounds her charmed circle. She is of two minds, on the one hand 
needing to stay in the presence of money at any cost to her mental life, 
and on the other hand fully aware of how ill-suited she is mentally for life 
among the leisure class. 
This aspect of the plot rests on what amount to vague judgements 
about social aesthetics — it’s possible that Wharton’s intended audience 
would have a good awareness of what Lily means in her subtle judgements 
of the habits of the wealthy. For a reader in the 21st century, what comes 
across most readily is the mutability of Lily’s judgements, her propensity 
to change her mind not just about her own role in this “social tapestry,” 
but about the entire nature of the thing itself. Lily’s simultaneous 
attraction and repulsion, not just from single men or situations, but to the 
entire situation of her life, expands the novel of manners into something 
resembling a psychodrama. 
Wharton is also very deliberate in creating a character who is entirely 
dependent on the money of these people to maintain her lifestyle, which 
is the only one she has ever known. Over and over again, Lily comes 
close to repudiating her cruel, petty friends before remembering that 
she also lives in terror of having to make a life for herself outside of this 
context. Usually she repudiates for just long enough to miss important 
chances — she spends an afternoon in the country with Lawrence 
Selden, a charming lawyer just outside the circle of “fashion,” and when 
she returns to the house finds that Percy Gryce has gotten upset and left. 
Money saturates the social system Wharton depicts — there’s a gift 
economy for “tips” on Wall Street, newly rich families try to display their 
wealth to each other in banquets and parties. Every act of consumption 
is conspicuous. This doesn’t mean that restrictive social codes no longer 
exist, though, it just means that they are overlaid with an intensely 
marketized logic. Money mixes with everything else. Lily falls into a 
debt in the first half of the book to an investor, Gus Trenor, which quickly 
turns into an implied sexual debt that Lily flees from in horror. Later, 
she receives a marriage offer from Simon Rosedale, a man she finds 
repellant, who says “I’m just giving you a plain business account of the 
consequences. You’re not very fond of me — yet — but you’re fond of 
luxury, and style, and amusement, and not having to worry about cash.” 
As time goes on Lily becomes more and more desperate, she finds this 
proposal more and more appealing, even as she shrinks from it. 
The cruelty of “The House Of Mirth” lies in its reduction of everything 
to value — every bit of social behavior, every signifying piece of clothing 
or jewelry has a vector that ties it to money. Wharton’s novel reveals, as 
Lily says, “the cords at the back of the social tapestry,” the identical image 
of society with all the material workings visible. 
Two
There’s something about the structure of indecision that makes 
caricatures of the objects under consideration. Writing indecision, then, 
often requires stating the patently ridiculous. The titular character 
of Adelle Waldman’s 2013 novel “The Love Affairs Of Nathaniel P” is 
performing a kind of lower-stakes version of Lily Bart’s social weighing; 
instead of two distinct, relatively fixed systems, Nate is evaluating 
a string of women for compatibility, never quite being able to settle 
on what he actually wants from them. He is instead afloat in a sea of 
atomized social and sexual characteristics that never quite settle into 
preferences or opinions. Essentially, he is of two minds as well — one 
desiring company and one seeing himself as akin to Mailer and Roth, 
the mid-century writers who were able to view their sexual gratification 
as akin to the fulfilment of their intellectual wills, independent of 
romantic involvement. He has inherited a lot of misogyny from his 
ambient encounters with masculinity, represented by his friend Jason 
who frequently regales Nate about his softer side. Nate frequently finds 
himself judging women on Jason’s metric of one to 10 before stopping 
himself. But he does have a genuine tender streak that occasionally and 
unpredictably finds its way to the surface. 
This pendulousness makes his behavior in relationships strange and 
erratic. He is not a jerk; he is in fact sensitive when he wants to be, but is 
still capable of being unfeeling and even cruel. He entertains moments 
of “embarrassing tenderness” and refers to the feeling of having a 
girlfriend as having an “an alien presence” in his bed with him. He is 
unable to face these contradictions, because it seems like his mind is 
only capable of entertaining one set of feelings at a time. Nate’s emotions 
are always described with fluid words — affection comes over him in “a 
wave,” resentment “flows” through him. Nothing can be pinned down 
or reversed in a wave, it has to be followed. Nate is at the mercy of his 
emotions, wherever they may lead him. 
The novel occasionally feels like it simplifies everything in life to 
writing and sex, but in that I feel like it represents how a sizable contingent 
of people in the contemporary era of overwork and individualism think. 
As much as his social life is tied up in his work, he sees work as completely 
distinct from the rest of his life, and is prone to seeing anything else as 
a distraction. Nate has a hard time having a dignified relationship 
with anyone because he sees, essentially, a dignified relationship as 
compromising his working ideal. This does not stop him from pursuing 
relationships, though. He is unable to fully settle on this ideal, unable to 
fully commit to it. 
Maybe this tug-of-war settles on a synthesis in the way that Nate tends 
to value women. No one in this book seems particularly intellectually 
rigorous, instead drawing from a hodgepodge of reference points to make 
ad-hoc arguments over drinks for the fun of it. Similarly, Nate judges 
women based on a bewildering array of overlapping social cues and 
codes, some of which have to do with writing and some of which have 
to do with simple attractiveness. He judges women the way a bad book 
reviewer judges a book, succinctly and based on surface characteristics 
— he’s giving a recommendation, more or less. 

Diptych of value

LITERATURE COLUMN

EMILY YANG
Daily Literature Columnist

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

Pitch shifting has been around for decades. 
It’s the process of raising or lowering a vocal 
pitch signal by a set interval. Essentially, 
it makes the original signal sound higher 
or lower in pitch, depending on how the 
artist implements it. Chuck Berry adopted 
vocal pitch shifting during his late career to 
make his voice sound younger. Kanye West 
has used it prominently when sampling to 
create his trademark “chipmunk soul” beats. 
Grindcore and death metal bands use it to 
drop their vocals deeper below the human 
register and raise them to be higher than 
a screaming banshee. A$AP Rocky uses it 
extensively on the introductions to many of 
his tracks. It’s a wildly dynamic effect that 
has uses across genres, but for some reason, 
few musicians within the singer-songwriter 
sphere have implemented it. That is, until 
(Sandy) Alex G started making waves.
Alex G, who started as a bedroom 
musician recording tracks on his laptop 
with a shabby, decades old microphone, 
has become a veritable indie star, and he 
did it using vocal pitch shifting. He doesn’t 
overdo it, though. He only uses it when 
he thinks he needs it. Sometimes it’s for 
an entire song, sometimes it’s only on the 
verses and sometimes it’s just sprinkled in 
randomly. Alex G has gotten some pretty 
prominent placements because of it, too. He 
was the one playing guitar all over Frank 
Ocean’s Blonde and Endless. He’s worked 
with Oneohtrix Point Never, reimagining 
“Babylon” in a dazzling, yet somber, way. In 
fact, Alex G’s cover of “Babylon” has even 
more plays than the original. He has the 
ability to create haunting, magical moments 
using only his voice, and that’s a special 

thing to have.
His newest release House of Sugar is most 
similar to a cute but slightly creepy old 
fairy tale. It’s both captivating and a little 
repelling at the same time. Beginning with 
“Walk Away,” each song takes listeners to 
another realm, one where time stands still 
as Alex G’s vocals and guitar wash over 
everything. “Walk Away” is like the gentlest 
vice grip, with plush pillows taking the 
place of clamps. The song is stifling, but in a 
comforting way. The use of downward pitch 
shifting on the lines, “(S)omeday I’m gonna 
walk away from you / Not today, not today / 
Not today, not today / Not today, not today,” 
is unsettling and claustrophobic, but in a 
way, it feels nostalgic, like a memory that 
can suddenly speak to you, subtly reminding 
you of an old misstep. 
“Walk Away” is the introductory track 
to an album dealing with addiction and 
dependence, and it’s a damn good one at 
that. It beautifully sets listeners up for songs 
like “Hope,” a tear-inducing remembrance 
of a friend who died from an overdose 
on fentanyl, and “Taking,” a choric aside 
about a woman discovering and caressing 
her potentially strung-out lover. Despite 
thematic similarities, Alex G continues to 
surprise sonically. “Bad Man” is similar 
to a country ballad, and on “Sugar,” he 
unleashes a droning, robtronic wall of 
sound, making it clear that Oneohtrix Point 
Never’s influence has rubbed off on him.
The most striking thing about House 
of Sugar is its ability to strike a balance 
between the strange and the familiar. Alex G 
seamlessly incorporates altered and multi-
tracked vocals with electronic keys and 
acoustic guitar. He’s so good at arranging 
his songs that the electronic flare doesn’t 
seem that odd next to the more standard 
acoustic guitar. It just makes sense. That 
weirdness is what makes Alex G who he is, 

and he’s never ashamed to let his goofiness 
shine. Luckily, this doesn’t detract from 
his music and its message. Instead, it adds 
accessibility, cutting the weight off some of 
the heavier tracks.
House of Sugar is like a childhood fairy 
tale that slowly begins to reveal itself as 
you get older. At first, it seems sweet and 
innocent, but as you give it more time 
and thought, it begins to reveal its more 
sinister colors. In this case, it unveils the 
ravages of dependence and addiction in a 
truly sad way. But using pitch shifting and 
glittering instrumentals, the album appears 
saccharine and a bit silly. It is truly the 
culmination of Alex G’s career up to this 
point, perfectly capturing his essence as a 
musician and human being. House of Sugar 
is an album that deserves repeat listens, if 
not for its lyrical content, then for the sonic 
acrobatics it so often pulls.
(Sandy) Alex G has already proven that he 
can do the whole singer-songwriter thing. 
But it’s the moments on House of Sugar when 
he lets his freak fly that make the album 
special. Moments like when he busts out the 
Springsteen impression on “SugarHouse - 
Live” or his mock-country accent on “Bad 
Man” are what make it hard not to fall in 
love with the man and the music.

(Sandy) Alex G’s Grimm-est tale yet

ALBUM REVIEW

JIM WILSON
Daily Arts Writer

House of 
Sugar

(Sandy) Alex G

Domino Recording 
Company

From 
an 
early 
age, 
we’ve 
been 
conditioned to see height not just as a 
genetic marker, but as a quality of identity. 
Growing up, we tracked our maturation 
with pencil marks on closet walls, in 
middle school we lined up in height order 
and beamed with pride upon reaching 
five feet and now as adults we still gossip 
over physical stature. Impossible to miss, 
height is naturally a feature considered 
in our first impressions of one another. 
While the intention behind Netflix’s latest 
release, “Tall Girl,” is more to offer a light-
hearted romantic comedy than to make 
a commentary on society’s fixation with 
height, the film is deeper than it appears, 
provoking audiences to recall the value in 
embracing their own skin and standing 
tall.
Jodi (Ava Michelle, “The Bold and the 
Beautiful”) is six foot one inch, a trait no 
one ever lets her forget. Despite support 
from her family and quirky best friend 
Dunkleman (Griffin Gluck, “Why Him?”), 
who is openly head over heels for Jodi, her 
insecurities weigh heavy. For Jodi, height 
is a curse, a bewitchment that singles her 
out and, even worse, makes the prospect of 
finding a dateable guy nearly impossible. 
Her luck seems to change however, when 
an uber tall, dreamboat foreign exchange 
student named Stig materializes out of the 
blue. Stig appears to be everything that 

Jodi has been longing for and more, but 
whether he is actually what she needs is 
another question entirely.
As the title suggests, the film’s plot is 
relatively simplistic, illustrating the trials 
and tribulations of a girl struggling to fit 
in. However, through a balance of B-grade 
jokes and silly supporting characters, the 
film holds audience attention. Given that 
there aren’t many exciting twists and 
turns, both Dunkleman and Jodi’s sister 
Harper (Sabrina Carpenter, “Horns”), 
a slightly air-headed pageant girl, help 
pump the life blood to the movie. The 
two characters function as Jodi’s support 
network in different ways, and each has an 
eccentricity that skirts the line between 
entertaining and annoying. 
Despite its lack of mystery, “Tall Girl” 
does pull viewers in through the shared 
experience of being an “other.” Jodi’s tall 
stature is an obvious characteristic that 
sets her apart from the bunch. But other 
characters in the film are “weird” in less 
evident ways. Dunkleman for instance, 
carries around a crate of books instead of 
using a backpack. And Harper is the latest 
of late bloomer, still struggling to close the 
yearbook and move on from her pageant 
days. The point that director Nzingha 
Stewart aims to make is that we all have 
elements, on a varying spectrum of 
visibility, that make us outliers. As cheesy 
and overemphasized as this message is, for 
some odd reason, we don’t mind hearing it 
just one more time.
“Tall Girl” embodies the phrase “‘what 

you see is what you get.’” There are no 
major shockers, and no defining moments, 
but there is development. Though not 
necessarily innovative or fresh, Jodi’s 
story is representative of the journey of 
self-acceptance that each and every person 
goes through. We might not all have been 
the “tall girl” in high school, but that 
doesn’t mean we don’t all have our own 
awkward oddities that we’ve had to learn 
to grow into. The ultimate goal of “Tall 
Girl” is not to leave viewers wide-eyed 
and mindblown, but rather to crack a few 
smiles and warm a few hearts.

‘Tall Girl’ is simple, but very sweet

FILM REVIEW

SAMANTHA NELSON
Daily Arts Writer

Tall Girl

Netflix

Wonderland Sound and 
Vision

6A — Monday, September 16, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

