Kevin Berger

That it took a 23-year-old woman who is a pinch over 5 feet tall and weighs 100 to rev up Indy racing says a lot about her magnetism and more about the delight of watching a woman beat men at their own game. Since the Indy 500, the young star has glowed in the spotlight, relishing her role as a public-relations bonanza for the Indy Racing League. “I don’t feel insecure about being girlie,” she told Sports Illustrated. “I do as much media as I can because I want this IRL series to be so kick-butt that NASCAR goes, ‘Huh?’” Her pinup shots in FHM magazine, revealing her clad in tiny leather hot pants and vest, won’t win her any points with Catherine MacKinnon. But what would?

Still, Patrick wants to be known for her talents, not gender. After all, she didn’t spring from the forehead of Aphrodite to materialize in the cockpit of a million-dollar race car.

Growing up in a small town in northern Illinois, she began to fill her parents’ shelves with go-kart-racing trophies when she was 10. As a teenager, she excelled in open-wheel racing (the kind of sleek cars you see at Indy) in the prestigious Formula Vauxhall Championship in England. In 2003 and 2004, she finished in the top five in overall points in the Toyota Atlantic series, the AAA league of Indy car racing, and the breeding ground for both 2004′s Indy 500 winner, Buddy Rice, and this year’s victor, Dan Wheldon. Unlike sports that give men an unfair advantage over women, auto racing begins on an even playing field. It doesn’t require testosterone and undue physical strength to keep the accelerator on the floor and the car on the track. Racing at high speeds demands intuitive intelligence, finesse and unyielding stubbornness. In fact, a real wonder in auto racing is why there are not more Danica Patricks.

The prospect is already getting under the thin skin of some male drivers. Robby Gordon kicked up a media dust storm when he said he would never race against Patrick because the diminutive driver had an unfair advantage. Nonsense, said racing officials, her bantam weight had a negligible impact on a car’s speed. If Gordon was worried about falling behind Patrick, many commentators suggested, perhaps the portly driver should avoid that extra lap around the buffet table at Harrah’s, one of his sponsors.

In “Sunday Money,” while portraying Tony Stewart, a former champion on the Indy racing circuit, and now a NASCAR megastar, MacGregor writes that for “many decades the mastery of Indy cars was the American gold standard for a Professional Racecar Driver. For handling, for horsepower, and for sheer swagger, they are almost unmatched. The only thing an Indy car can’t do these days is make you famous.” MacGregor is going to have to revise that last sentence for the post-Danica paperback version of “Sunday Money.”

More to the point, Patrick’s fame now rises like a breath of fresh air over the cultural inferno of NASCAR nation, into which MacGregor plunges readers without mercy. Determined to decode the riddle of NASCAR’s success, MacGregor and his wife, Olya, a photographer, bought a tricked-out motor home and rumbled across the country to attend every NASCAR race in 2002. Along the numbing interstates and refreshing blue highways, MacGregor traces the gothic Southern history of NASCAR, the prohibition days when grizzled drivers earned their stripes by carrying moonshine and outrunning cops on country roads. At every stop along the way, not to mention every Wal-Mart, MacGregor burrows into the cultural heart of NASCAR and blows up — in both senses of the term — its stereotypes.

The NASCAR dad, you say, embodiment of red-state conservative, the reason why George W. Bush is president? Forget it. “He was a fiction, a hypothetical, a statistical mean,” MacGregor writes. “He was the anthropomorphized mascot of the destabilized center, the patriot angel and the hillbilly boob, a strategic abstraction in the shadowbox of American politics. He was a scarecrow flapping in the wind.”

Camped out at racetracks beneath circus tents of ads for Budweiser, Tide, DuPont and Viagra, MacGregor discovers that NASCAR dads and moms are driven not by politics or politicians but the more powerful American traits of consumerism and celebrity. Without condescension, he delves into the rabid passions of the “Pit Lizards,” shares their barbecued ribs and Coors Lights, and is serenaded nightly by “Free Bird.”

“All sports are theater of a kind, but the intensity of the fans’ passions out here — ‘We love you, Junior!’ — is profound, different, and runs much hotter and deeper than anything I’ve seen in other big-league sports,” MacGregor writes. “It has to do with the life-and-death stakes, I think, and with the haunted history of the South and its cult of personality and our yearning for simplicity and our insatiable craving for celebrity and our ache for fable and our need to live vicariously in the glamour and accomplishment of others and our persistent American itch to create heroes.” Nicely said, although this note about a fan and her favorite driver, Dale Jarrett, was probably the only description MacGregor needed: “Outside the press center, I saw a woman with a disposable camera taking a picture of Dale Jarrett’s picture on a Coke machine.”

Better than any sportswriter to date, MacGregor cracks the glazed personas of rock star drivers Stewart, Jeff Gordon and Dale Earnhardt Jr. His insights into four-time champion Gordon are killer: “You see that Ace Racer face lasering right-angle rectitude back at you from a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats or a can of Pepsi or the pages of DuPont’s annual report, that earnest deadpan of handsome capitalism, and you’re not buying excitement, you’re buying his soothing reassurance — and not just about sales or soda or cereal, either, but about yourself, about America, about the world.”

MacGregor goes to great lengths to treat NASCAR fans and drivers with sympathy. He has a generous heart, and he succeeds. Still, the America that emerges from his turbocharged pages, or at least the America that NASCAR represents, leaves you with a sour aftertaste. Beneath all the hilarious riffs about 40,000-watt Molly Hatchett air guitarists, and touching scenes of Earnhardt Jr. signing autographs for star-struck kids, beat the ugly rhythms of racism, homophobia and sexism. “Welcome to NASCAR! Please reset your watches to 1957.” MacGregor’s being funny but he’s not kidding.

Ultimately, too, MacGregor’s conclusion that NASCAR has abandoned its Southern roots to bloom in the middle of the bland American entertainment industry is also dispiriting. Sports deliver us from the working world and allow us to feel joy and excitement more real than vicarious. They still do, only now the edges of our experiences are tainted by those trying to sell us something other than the elation of a home run, touchdown, or pass on the high side of turn four. In MacGregor’s words: “Dale Jr. won the 2004 Daytona 500. And that year became the first human, other than Colonel Sanders himself, to have his face rendered on a bucket of KFC Chicken.”

For now, the vibrant Patrick, smart and sexy, appears in total control of her image and symbolizes only the excitement and glamour of racing, the transcendence of speed, the freshness of sports. Her race Saturday is bound to attract more fans and TV viewers than any in the Texas track’s history. It’s a brilliant turn of events. By keeping men in her rearview mirror, Patrick has shifted auto racing back into high gear.

A good history of science unreels like the practice of science itself. It wends through a world of experiments until a new reality arises. But the more layered story of that journey is that science is not just a process but is the men and women performing it. In his radiant new book, “The Age of Wonder,” Holmes treats us to the amazing lives of the pioneering sailors and balloonists, astronomers and chemists of the Romantic era. Making good on the book’s subtitle, he takes us on a dazzling tour of their chaotic British observatories and fatal explorations in African jungles, showing us “how the Romantic generation discovered the beauty and terror of science.”

That’s an exceptional insight. After all, this was the time when William Wordsworth wandered lonely as a cloud along England’s lakes and John Keats told us all we need to know on earth is “beauty is truth.” To this day, Romantic poets and scientists are not supposed to be seen together. “Romanticism as a cultural force is generally regarded as intensely hostile to science, its ideal of subjectivity eternally opposed to that of scientific objectivity,” Holmes writes.

What’s superlative about “The Age of Wonder” is that Holmes, author of vivid biographies of Shelley and Coleridge, takes the air out of the terms “subjectivity” and “objectivity” and reveals the ways in which the artists were as enveloped in science as the men and women in the labs around them. In a harmony of scientific and artistic sensibilities, he shows, the Romantics tapped the marvels of nature and sounded the infinite benefits of science. It’s a song, if we can hear it, that can transform us today.

In Holmes’ keen focus, the Romantic era is the Age of Aquarius in science. There was something in the water then — a tonic of wonder, as he sees it. The austere fellows of the previous age, Descartes and Newton, were too obsessed with etching new sciences in stone to gaze beyond the mechanics of their labors. But as the Enlightenment marched on, scientists began to look up from their desks and into themselves. They became self-conscious. Doubts cracked the cold calculations before them — doubts, Holmes writes, that “favored a softer dynamic science of invisible powers and mysterious energies, of fluidity and transformations, of growth and organic change.”

Holmes’ Moses of Romantic science, its guide to a new promised land, was Joseph Banks. A dashing young naturalist, mad about botany, Banks’ lived by his own credo: “To explore is my wish.” In 1769, Banks ventured to Tahiti with Capt. James Cook on a mission whose primary goal was to observe the Transit of Venus. The Pacific Island provided a front-row seat to the rare occurrence of Venus passing directly between the sun and Earth. Banks wanted to study trees.

On the island, things changed. Banks quickly established his independence from Cook and his conservative crew by falling in love with the native people. Rather than colonize them, Banks wanted to understand them. He mastered some of their language, danced with them, had sex with them, and wrote candidly of the light and dark sides of their natures. They could be open and generous one day and thieves and strange sorcerers who practiced infanticide the next. Banks journeyed to Tahiti as an Enlightenment botanist determined to catalog shrubs and flowers and returned to England a Romantic adventurer who journeyed into the heart of human nature and helped pioneer the science of anthropology.

Back in England, Banks became a cynosure of London society with his exotic Tahitian tales. His fame and intelligence led to his appointment as president of the Royal Society, the influential body of philosophers and scientists, who directed and funded the country’s scientific endeavors. As the man in charge for the next 42 years, mired in politics, navigating whimsical kings and religious leaders, Banks never abandoned the adventurer inside him. “His body may have been chairbound, but his spirit was increasingly airborne,” writes Holmes.

The first great discovery under Banks’ watch in England was made by German transplant William Herschel, a musician who learned to read the stars like music. An obsessive inventor, Herschel designed and built large “reflector” telescopes, which captured and concentrated starlight with unprecedented intensity and clarity, allowing him to plunge deeper into space than ever before. Herschel also devised a meticulous math for scanning the skies.

Just as impressive was Herschel’s unfailingly humble and devoted sister, Caroline, who worked around the clock at her brother’s side. Without a formal education, she became nearly as schooled in the way of the skies as her brother, though she would never say so (and neither would he). Caroline would discover numerous comets herself, making her one the first women scientists to win official acclaim from Banks and the Royal Society. (Caroline and her comets were a hot topic in popular magazines.) Holmes sketches the relationship of William and Caroline with heartbreaking, Thomas Hardy-ish skill. The domineering William, we learn, could never quite overcome his condescension toward his sister.

In 1781, after weeks of painstaking observation, Herschel identified a new planet in the solar system, Uranus. The discovery, the first of a new planet since ancient times, guaranteed Herschel’s eternal fame and electrified the populace.

Finding Uranus also underscored a verity of science that belied another myth about Romanticism. As much as the world wanted to believe in a Eureka moment, the truth was Herschel’s discovery arose from laborious work. But mere mortal that he was, Herschel could not refrain from romantically refining his story. As Herschel grew older, Holmes writes, he would tell listeners that he spotted Uranus in “a single wondrous night, the inspired work of a few ‘glorious hours.’”

Despite that embellishment, or perhaps because of it, Herschel embodied the ebullient tenor of the era. News of his discovery, and those of his fellow scientists, raced around the continent. Science and wonder, it seemed, had reached their apogee. Holmes goes so far as to say, “This moment of scientific optimism coincided with the political optimism in Britain and France. In 1789 the Bastille would fall, and the Rights of Man would be declared.”

At the same time, the astronomer augured a profound discontent. With his refined telescope, Herschel showed his generation that galaxies existed far, far away. Given the time it took light to travel, that implied enormous periods of time. He observed that stars and nebulae underwent constant changes over time. The universe was evolving. What Herschel saw through his telescope was a radical affront to the Bible and churches, which held that God created a fixed universe about 6,000 years ago. Beholding deep space and contemplating vast gulfs of time was, in Holmes’ phrase, “disabling with awe.”

And people were feeling it. John Bonnycastle, a popular science writer, wrote in 1786, “Astronomy has enlarged the sphere of our conceptions and opened to us a universe without bounds, where the human Imagination is lost. Surrounded by infinite space, and swallowed up in an immensity, man seems but as a drop of water in the ocean, mixed and confounded with the general mass.”

The awe of the universe was mirrored with acuity by the poets. Of all the masters of the era, Coleridge most often faced the immensity with wonder. Ever since he was a young boy gazing at the stars, he wrote, his “mind had been habituated to the Vast.” And in one of his late poems, “Limbo,” he imagined himself as a blind old man, gazing at the moon: “His whole face seemeth to rejoice in the light!”

Byron visited Herschel and described looking through his telescope as a religious experience. “I viewed the moon and the stars,” he wrote, “and saw that they were worlds.” Later, though, he tapped into the terror of the experience. In his poem, “Darkness,” he wrote: “The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars/Did wander darkling in the eternal space.”

But all was not lost. The mixture of beauty and terror in science took a colorful turn with the era’s balloonists, notably Vincent Lunardi. The boisterous Italian was a born entrepreneur. He charged an admission fee to see his balloon in a theater, took his dog and cat on flights and sold the exclusive rights to his aerial tales to newspapers. “With ballooning,” Holmes writes, “science had found a powerful new formula: chemistry plus showmanship equaled crowds plus wonder plus money.”

With their boisterous personalities, resplendent canopies and test flights that nearly always ended in dramatic crashes, the mad balloonists boosted the popularity of science. It was just that, despite some some significant research into hydrogen gas, air currents and clouds, few serious observers, including Royal Society president Banks, could figure out the long-term benefits of the spectacle.

Gothic novelist Horace Walpole, observing the flights, delivered one of the most prescient comments ever about the dark side of science. “Well! I hope these new mechanic meteors will prove only playthings for the learned and idle, and not be converted into new engines of destruction to the human race — as is so often the case of refinements or discoveries in Science,” he wrote. “The wicked wit of man always studies to apply the results of talents to enslaving, destroying, or cheating his fellow creatures. Could we reach the moon, we should think of reducing it to a province of some European kingdom.”

Holmes charts the grim side of science in an engaging chapter on Scottish adventurer Mungo Park. Inspired by Banks, Park traveled to Africa to map the Niger River and explore the legendary city of Timbuctoo. Unlike Banks, though, Park did not dance with the native people; he was attacked and imprisoned by them. Park’s book “Travels In the Interior of Africa,” a rending account of his travails and epiphany among nature that stirred him to survive, inspired the pantheon of Romantic poets, and later Joseph Conrad. On a second trip to Africa in 1805, Park, on a boat in the Niger River, was ambushed by local tribesmen. He either drowned or was killed when he came ashore.

Doubts that thrilling science lacked social benefits began to creep into Romantic culture. They lodged in the person of gregarious poet and chemist Humphry Davy, who was crazy about nitrous oxide (laughing gas). At the “Pneumatic Institute,” a kind of prototype clinic for experimental treatments, Davy  performed countless experiments with the gas on himself. After one of his first forays out of his head, he wrote that nitrous oxide “made me dance about the laboratory as a madman, and has kept my spirits in a glow ever since.”

In no time, Davy convinced his friends, including poets Coleridge and Robert Southey, and medical doctor Peter Roget, to give the gas a go. In a funny anecdote, Holmes relates that Roget, the compiler of Roget’s Thesaurus, couldn’t find the right words to describe the feeling of ecstasy. “I felt myself totally incapable of speaking,” he said. Davy’s experiments ended mostly in ridicule; unfortunately, he couldn’t quite make the intellectual leap to realize nitrous oxide could revolutionze surgery as an anesthesia.

Davy, though, went on to produce “one of the great demonstrations of scientific ‘Hope,’” Holmes writes, one that revealed applied science could be a force for good and alleviate human suffering. Coal miners were dying from underground explosions ignited by the candles and oil lamps they carried. By surrounding the flame with a metallic mesh, Davy created a lantern that illuminated dark mineshafts without sparking explosions. The “Davy safety lamp” also foreshadowed a fixture of science in later generations. Another lantern maker accused Davy of plagiarizing his design. The charge was proven baseless but it hounded Davy for years.

As the turn of the century dawned, and brilliant new chemists and astronomers arrived on the scene, an encroaching sense that scientists were gaining control over human nature clouded the cultural skies. The fear was epitomized in Wordsworth’s line, “We murder to dissect.” Holmes limns the darkness with a scintillating chapter on Mary Shelley and “Frankenstein,” describing how her novel arose out the popular “Vitalism” debates between physicians who argued that human life was animated by some external force like electricity, and those, such as fearless young doctor William Lawrence, who argued there was no such thing, that the “human body is merely a complex physical organization,” Holmes writes.

Holmes, who understands the Romantic generation as well as any historian, and writes with a journalistic verve more engaging and personal than most scholars, offers a wonderfully fresh and insightful reading of “Frankenstein.” Because the movies have obscured the subtleties of Shelley’s original work, Holmes reminds us that the real tragedy of the Creature, who was articulate and self-aware, was his sense that he and his creator had lost their souls. “I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks,” laments the Creature.

As the 19th century raced on, a sense of alienation from nature deepened. Artists felt their enthusiasm draining and their pessimism rising. In a letter to Coleridge, Southey wrote, “I wish it were not true, but unfortunately it is, that experimental philosophy always deadens the feelings; and these men who ‘botanize upon their mothers’ graves’” — a reference to another Wordsworth line — “may retort and say, that cherished feelings deaden our usefulness; and so we are all well in our way.”

It is necessary for scientists to hone their objectivity to “discern objects clearly” and shun “intellectual mists” and “absurd fables,” argued Lawrence. And so it is. But in the process, scientists, and the generations they represent, cut themselves off from the “magnificent, the sublime and the beautiful,” in Davy’s words. Our deadened feelings spurred us to commit atrocious acts with the tools of science, symbolized by the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima.

Today, we are still chasing the laws of nature, with surgical new technology, and writing the history of science. But we stand again at a crossroad, facing new environmental and geopolitical dangers. As Holmes writes, “The old rigid debates and boundaries — science versus religion, science versus the arts, science versus traditional ethics — are no longer enough. We should be impatient with them. We need a wider, more generous, more imaginative perspective.” The Romantics gave us that perspective. Now we just have to live by it.

 Honky-tonk and ingratiating three-chord pop, courtesy of her tenure with the hook-crazy New Pornographers, come easily to Case. Now, in studio album No. 5 with her own band, she continues to widen and hone her musical vocabulary, with echoes of New Orleans soul and Berlin cabaret, to create bold art songs. With the voodoo reverb dialed down for a change, she orchestrates warm guitars and pianos, spiced by organ and percussion, into melodies that fly and dive and hover over sorrow. Her voice, an earthy tenor with edges that cut, is propelled by a mind that never comes to rest, like an insomniac. Her emotions rise and fall and forever reverberate. When you give in to her personal apocalypse, you hear an artist striving to say one true thing. “I choke it back, how much I need love.” And then, of course, “The next time you say ‘forever,’ I will punch you in the face.”

 I keep saying apocalypse and I mean it. In her literal and figurative move across the country, from suburban Washington state to small-town Vermont, Case — who first found her way in country-punk bands, in the shadow of those hurricane furies, Sleater-Kinney — now sounds like a minstrel along Cormac McCarthy’s road. In “Fever,” which staggers like a junkyard blues — love the prickly Hawaiian guitar — Case sees gas pumps and jackknifed trucks and “sea birds choked in fishing line.” Sleeping in an open field, “marching ants across her temple,” she envisions death with “his schything arms.” Fear takes hold and she finds relief in a fragile mantra: “My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home.”

 I will say one more thing about the Case of “Middle Cyclone.” She is an animal. She sings so in a song called “I’m an Animal.” Do you know the Edward O. Wilson notion of biophilia? “Humanity is exalted not because we are so far above other living creatures but because knowing them well elevates the very concept of life,” writes Wilson. On an album that is a lyrical menagerie of elephants, killer whales, vultures, mollusks and whippoorwills (nice reference to Hank Williams), Case exalts our innate relationship with other creatures. It’s a beautiful turn but it doesn’t rest in folky piety. In Case’s “Middle Cyclone,” we are killing ourselves. In her minatory world, the mockingbird sings “screaming car alarms.” Although it’s true the pop-happy chorus of “People Got a Lotta Nerve” — “I’m a man-man-man-eater” — bops along with levity.

So you recollect “Middle Cyclone” in haunting solitude and while listening feel only the music’s dazzling glow. I am tempted to compare the new album to Case’s second, the rough-cut masterpiece “Furnace Room Lullaby,” nothing but simple country hooks and full-throated love crashing and burning into stinging whiskey hangovers. But the comparison isn’t quite fair. Case has moved on musically, finding new tempos and styles to reflect her searing imagination, and it’s working with charm. For all the thought poured into the construction of the new songs, they don’t feel finished. Like life. I bet that’s Case’s intention. Just as it’s no doubt her view that one day the earth will be done with humans and there will be, as there is at the end of “Middle Cyclone,” only the sound of crickets.

Steves laughed out loud when he read that line, he told me. But see, that’s the problem. He’s so good-natured and devoted in his PBS travel specials to showing places that Fodor’s would never send tourists to in their floral shirts that he’s created a monstrous new travel industry. He’s the apotheosis of the anti-Carnival Cruise crowd.

Oh, well, what are you going to do? I’ve used his books in Europe myself. But there’s an activist side to Steves that many of his fans may not be aware of. Behind his abnormal geniality thrums a daring political agenda. Not a didactic one, mind you, but a Rick Steves one.

In short, Steves wants Americans to get over themselves. He wants us to please shed our geographic ego. “Everybody should travel before they vote,” he has written. We should be represented by politicians who want America to act as a good global neighbor.

Steves’ agenda is epitomized in his recent TV special on Iran. At the request of a friend in the United Nations to help “build understanding between Iran and the U.S.,” Steves has produced a loving portrait of the demonized country. Characteristic Steves-on-the-street interviews open closed minds to the sophistication of Iranian citizens and their lack of antipathy toward Americans. In one scene, a man in a car pokes his head out the window and says to Steves, “Your heart is very kind.” Steves is incredibly proud of his Iran film and is offering the DVD for $5 to any community group that wants to discuss it.

I recently caught up with Steves while he was killing time in the Tulsa, Okla., airport, where he had just given a talk about Iran, and was heading home to Washington state. In conversation, he was as ebullient as ever, fearlessly spelling out his views on globalization and terrorism, the scourges of tourism and the importance of decriminalizing marijuana.

Conservatives continue to harp that the U.S. shouldn’t negotiate with Iran, and call Obama weak for even appearing agreeable toward the country. What can your Iran show say to American hard-liners?

When I made the show, I was not interested in endorsing or challenging the complaints we have about Iran’s government. Maybe they do fund terrorism, maybe they do want to destroy Israel, maybe they do stone adulterers. I don’t know. I just wanted to humanize the country and understand what makes its people tick.

When I came home after the most learning 12 days of travel I’ve ever had in my life, I realized this is a proud nation of 70 million people. They are loving parents, motivated by fear for their kids’ future and the culture they want to raise their kids in. I had people walk across the street to tell me they don’t want their kids to be raised like Britney Spears. They are afraid Western culture will take over their society and their kids will be sex toys, drug addicts and crass materialists. That scares the heck out of less educated, fundamentalist, small-town Iranians, which is the political core of the Islamic Revolution and guys like Ahmadinejad.

After all, this is a country that lost a quarter of a million people fighting Saddam Hussein, when Iraq, funded by the United States, invaded Iran. And they remember the invasion like it was yesterday to them. It’s amazing: They have a quarter of our population and they lost a quarter of a million people, fighting Hussein. That’s a huge scar in their society.

I just feel we underestimate the spine of these people. They will fight and die to defend their values. And their values are not to destroy America and Israel. Their values are to defend their way of life against Western encroachment. Because of recent history, they have grounds to think America threatens them. So it would be dangerously naive to think we could shock and awe them into any kind of submission.

Do you want your film to have a political impact in the U.S.?

Well, yes. I talked to 2,000 people in Tulsa today. After I explained this to them, I am convinced they now have a little less self-assuredness in thinking that Iran is the evil our government wants us to think it is. I was actually scared to go to Iran. We almost left our big camera in Athens and took our little sneak camera instead. I thought people would be throwing stones at us in the streets. And when I got there, I have never felt a more friendly welcome because I was an American. It was just incredible. I was in a traffic jam in Tehran, a city of 10 million people, and a guy in the next car saw me in the back seat and had my driver roll the window. He then handed over a bouquet of flowers and said, “Give this bouquet to the foreigner in your back seat and apologize for our traffic.”

Did you edit out any scenes that might have portrayed Iranians in a negative light?

No. I was very upfront in the show that I wasn’t there to do things like visit nuclear plants. Some people say, “You’re just being duped, you got a minder, he’s only going to show you the good parts of the country.” But we went through streets with angry anti-American posters. We showed that. You see the “Death to America” thing.

I do want to make clear that Iran is not a free society. They traded away their freedom for a theocracy, out of fear. It’s just like Americans. We don’t want to torture people, we want to have civil liberties, we don’t want our government reading our mail. But when we have fear, we let fear trump our commitment to our civil liberties and decency. We allow torture, we allow the government to read our mail. It’s not because we’re bad, it’s because sometimes fear is more important than our core values. And Iran is afraid. They’ve given up democracy because they know a theocracy will stand strong against encroaching Western values.

In your 2004 essay “Innocents Abroad,” you wrote: “To even consider the terrorists’ concerns (U.S. military out of Islam, Arab control of oil, security for Palestine) is out of the question in today’s America. But the passions are strong enough and technologies of mass horror are accessible enough that radicals/heroes/terrorists/martyrs from angry lands … will certainly strike again if no one listens to their concerns.”

Oh, yeah. I just feel more strongly about that than ever.

That sounds like you were being sympathetic to terrorists. Were you?

No. I’m trying to be empathetic to what motivates them. We think they’re terrorists, but we have to remember that 96 percent of the planet is not American. And most of them look at us like an empire. When I write about us being an empire, it touches a nerve more than almost anything else I write. I get so much angry feedback.

But I don’t say we’re an empire. I say the world sees us as one. I say there’s never been an empire that didn’t have disgruntled people on its fringes looking for reasons to fight. We think, “Don’t they have any decency? Why don’t they just line up in formation so we can carpet bomb them?” But they’re smart enough to know that’s a quick prescription to being silenced in a hurry.

We shot from the bushes at the redcoats when we were fighting our war against an empire. Now they shoot from the bushes at us. It shouldn’t surprise us. I’m not saying it’s nice. But I try to remind Americans that Nathan Hales and Patrick Henrys and Ethan Allens are a dime a dozen on this planet. Ours were great. But there’s lots of people who wish they had more than one life to give for their country. We diminish them by saying, “Oh, they’re terrorists and life is cheap for them.” They’re passionate for their way of life. And they will give their life for what is important to their families.

As a travel writer, I get to be the provocateur, the medieval jester. I go out there and learn what it’s like and come home and tell people truth to their face. Sometimes they don’t like it. But it’s healthy and good for our country to have a better appreciation of what motivates other people. The flip side of fear is understanding. And you gain that through travel.

But even saying you’re trying to understand terrorists’ motives still grates. Don’t you think?

Yeah, people don’t like to hear that. They think it’s showing weakness to the terrorists. But we have to think more carefully about why we are angering so much of the world. I’m just trying to say, Hey, look, we’re 4 percent of this planet, we’ve spent as much as everybody else together on the military, and we’ve got military bases in 130 countries. Yet only we can declare somebody else’s natural resources on the other side of the planet are vital to our national security. Only we can be pissed off if they elect a government that nationalizes their own natural resources.

We wonder why didn’t God give us those resources. I don’t know what motivates us to think we’ve got rights to their natural resources. This is poignant stuff, and a lot of Americans don’t want to hear it. But I just want to come home and remind my neighbors that we’ve got to work with this world. Our military and economy is not strong enough to have a unilateral foreign policy. We’re not strong enough to go it alone.

You’ve lamented that 80 percent of Americans don’t have passports. And yet we almost had a vice president who didn’t have one until 2006, and in fact criticized passports as a sign of elitism.

I remember that. She put travelers down as a latte-sipping crowd.

What would it have done to America’s reputation abroad if John McCain and Sarah Palin had won the election?

People cut us some slack for electing Bush the first time. He was an unknown quantity. But the second time we elected him, people just shook their heads and said, “There is no excuse for this.” They knew he was a unilateralist — our way or the highway. And so what if we’re outvoted in the United Nations 140 to 4? Don’t you know that’s because the four nations — the United States, Israel, Marshall Islands and Micronesia — are the compassionate, enlightened coalition, and everybody else is clueless? That kind of thinking astounds our friends abroad.

If we had a terrorist event six months ago, we would have McCain for president today. Because fear would have driven us to the hard-liner on the right. And thank goodness we didn’t have fear raging in our society during the election, so we could elect somebody who wants to talk with the rest of the world. The irony is we make the future more dangerous by not talking to the rest of the world. We can be a part of the family of nations. We don’t need to be a pushover. We can promote our values in a respectful, civilized way. That’s just more pragmatic and more productive.

So if McCain and Palin had won, what would we have seen abroad?

More and more Americans wearing Canadian flags.

What are the international consequences of Obama’s victory?

We’re part of the family of nations again. If you go to Europe wearing an Obama T-shirt this summer, you’re going to get free drinks all around. I’m just so excited that America can provide leadership again. When we opt out of these things, we’re not providing leadership. We think we can coerce people into going along with us, but all we do is isolate ourselves. And the world moves on without us. If the world moves on without us, one day we’ll wake and we’ll find we’re rich only in weaponry, and everybody else is rich in other ways. Then our little house of military cards will collapse on itself, and we’ll be a second-rate nation.

What’s the most important thing people can learn from traveling?

A broader perspective. They can see themselves as part of a family of humankind. It’s just quite an adjustment to find out that the people who sit on toilets on this planet are the odd ones. Most people squat. You’re raised thinking this is the civilized way to go to the bathroom. But it’s not. It’s the Western way to go to the bathroom. But it’s not more civilized than somebody who squats. A man in Afghanistan once told me that a third of this planet eats with spoons and forks, and a third of the planet eats with chopsticks, and a third eats with their fingers. And they’re all just as civilized as one another.

Do you think Americans are more provincial or racist than people in other countries?

The “ugly American” thing is associated with how big your country is. There are not just ugly Americans, there are ugly Germans, ugly Japanese, ugly Russians. Big countries tend to be ethnocentric. Americans say the British drive on the “wrong” side of the road. No, they just drive on the other side of the road. That’s indicative of somebody who’s ethnocentric. But it doesn’t stop with Americans. Certain people, if they don’t have the opportunity to travel, always think they’re the norm. I mean, you can’t be Bulgarian and think you’re the norm.

It’s interesting: A lot of Americans comfort themselves thinking, “Well, everybody wants to be in America because we’re the best.” But you find that’s not true in countries like Norway, Belgium or Bulgaria. I remember a long time ago, I was impressed that my friends in Bulgaria, who lived a bleak existence, wanted to stay there. They wanted their life to be better but they didn’t want to abandon their country. That’s a very powerful Eureka! moment when you’re traveling: to realize that people don’t have the American dream. They’ve got their own dream. And that’s not a bad thing. That’s a good thing.

Echoing Paul Bowles’ famous line, what’s the difference between a tourist and a traveler?

I’ll give you an example. A few years ago, my family was excited to go to Mazatlán. You get a little strap around your wrist and can have as many margaritas as you want. They only let you see good-looking local people, who give you a massage. There’s nothing wrong with that. But I don’t consider it travel. I consider it hedonism. And I have no problem with hedonism. But don’t call it travel. Travel should bring us together.

That same week, I was invited to go to El Salvador and remember the 25th anniversary of the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero. I thought, “I’m not going to be any fun on the beach in Mazatlán, I have to go to San Salvador.” So I went down there and I had a miserable, sweaty dorm bed, covered with bug bites. We ate rice and beans one day, and beans and rice the next day. But it was the richest educational experience. It just carbonated my understanding of globalization and the developing world, and Latin America. I was in hog heaven. And I’ve been enjoying souvenirs from that ever since. Whereas my wife just gained a few pounds on the beach in Mazatlán.

Do you think tourism gets in the way of experiencing a foreign place?

Oh, yeah. But if you’re savvy, you understand the tourism industry just wants to dumb you down and go shopping. So you have to be smart. I was just in Tangiers, which is where all the people go from Spain’s Costa del Sol resorts for their one day in Africa. It’s a carefully staged series of Kodak moments. They have a lunch. They see a belly dancer. They see the snake charmers. They buy their carpet. And they hop back on the boat to Spain. When I see them, I can’t help but think of a self-imposed hostage crisis. They put themselves in the control of their guide and never meet anybody except those who want to make money off of them. It’s a pathetic day in Africa.

Did you ever read the Don DeLillo novel “The Names,” which takes place in Greece?

No.

I always remember this line from it: “Tourism is the march of stupidity.”

That’s a great line. And that’s my challenge. I write somewhere in one of my books that my kind of travel fits the industry like a snowshoe in Mazatlán. That’s our challenge: to offer Americans, who are thoughtful and curious, a way to be thoughtful in their travels.

Of course, that’s also your own consumer brand.

Yes, it’s been quite a publicity stunt! If all I was doing was selling timeshares in Mazatlán, I would not be getting anywhere near the exposure, generating the business I’m doing. And, on the serious side, getting Americans to think about Iran or drug policy.

How did the decriminalization of marijuana become such a passion of yours?

We’re blowing $10 billion a year criminalizing a drug that’s no more dangerous than alcohol or tobacco. Nobody is saying drugs are good. People are just saying it’s smarter to treat drug abuse as a health problem instead of a criminal problem. Some societies measure the effect of their drug policy in incarceration; others measure it in harm reduction. America’s into incarceration, Europe’s into harm reduction. I just bring the European sensitivity home to America.

Was there one experience that opened your eyes to the issue?

A lot of my outlook and writing have been sharpened by enjoying a little recreational marijuana. If you arrested everybody who smoked marijuana in the United States tomorrow, this country would be a much less interesting place to call home.

The fact is, the marijuana law in the U.S. is a big lie. It’s racist and classist. White rich people can smoke marijuana with impunity and poor black people get a record, can’t get education, can’t get a loan, and all of sudden go into a life of desperation and become hardened criminals. Why? Because we’ve got a racist law based on lies about marijuana.

There’s 80,000 people in jail today for marijuana. We arrested 800,000 people in the last 12 months on marijuana. Even in my rich little white suburban community of Edmonds, Wash., 25 percent of police action is marijuana-related. Everybody knows it’s silly. I’m not saying I’m pro-drug. I’m just saying it’s parallel to alcohol prohibition. When they rescinded the laws against alcohol, nobody said booze is good, they just said it was stupid to make it a crime, that you’re creating organized crime and people are dying.

Where’s the best place to smoke marijuana in Europe?

With good friends. I love the ambience in a little vegetarian restaurant in Copenhagen. Or coffee shops in small-town Holland. The big city coffee shops — the menus look like a drug bust — are full of people who are pierced and tattooed and dreadlocked. That’s not my crowd. But go to a small-town coffee shop and you end up talking about philosophy and music with 50-something locals who just drop in to chat and relax. It’s like a pub.

Given the lousy economy, can we still afford to travel?

These economic times are scary and who knows where we’re heading. But it’s dangerous to measure where we’re at today by the unrealistic high a year ago, which was the result of years of goosing our economy to make us believe we’re wealthier than we are. I could say our tours are down 30 percent. And they are. But that’s not really true. Our tours are below the impossible height they reached last year. But they shouldn’t have been that high anyway. We’re taking 8,000 people instead of 12,000 people to Europe this year. And that’s OK.

A headline today said, “Americans lose 18 percent of their wealth.” Well, no, it wasn’t real wealth, it was a bubble. You’re down 18 percent? You’re not. It shouldn’t have been up there in the first place. So get over it. Shut up. Go to work, produce stuff that has value. I really think the days are gone, I hope, when people can rearrange the furniture and get rich on it. You got to produce something.

The interesting thing is we’re all in it together. What I’m sad about is that when America catches a cold, the developing world catches pneumonia. And that’s happened now. And a lot of Americans are feeling sorry for themselves because they can’t have that fancy whatever-they were-going-to-get. But they have to remember that the gap between the haves and have-nots is even more pronounced and more desperate now. You’re suddenly worried about how much is in your retirement account, but other people are worried about how much is on their dinner plate tonight. That’s the reality.

So your advice is to keep travel in the budget?

I never met anybody who was a good traveler and invested time and money in a trip and regretted it. It’s a great life experience. And if you can’t afford it, I understand. But remember, life is short. The good old days are here now. If you spend your whole life thinking the good old days are ahead of you, you’re going to wake up with regrets that life passed you by. Of course, I sell tours and guidebooks. So I need to talk it up!

“The Book of the Unknown” is a collection of pre-modern tales — picture “The Princess Bride” without the gloss — that do an imaginative number on Judaism. They read as if a mischievous and slightly mad young scholar took up a secret residence in an ancient library and composed his own samizdat version of sacred Jewish texts. In fact, says Keats, “I wrote a number of them at the MacDowell Colony, where I had my own wood-burning oven. Every evening I would smoke myself out and in my delirium the tales would come. I mean, who doesn’t like hallucination?”

Each tale follows a humble outcast. They include an idiot fisherman, a clumsy trapeze artist and a hapless gambler, who, unknown to themselves, act as saints, the fabled Lamedh-Vov from the Talmud, and ultimately show their fellow townsfolk “how to live.” In one of the 12 tales, a saturnine thief, newly in love, stands in the dark and seems to see for the first time: “Desire burned in everything, sometimes less, sometimes more, kindled by the beholder. But while children could perceive that flame plainly, adults felt it only indirectly, as the heat of envy.”

The following is drawn from an onstage interview I conducted with Keats inside a cavernous landmark building in downtown Berkeley, Calif., future home of the Judah L. Magnes Museum, which sponsored the talk. We spoke on the top floor, which features Keats’ latest public artwork: stained-glass windows patterned as cosmic microwave background radiation, the so-called space between the stars in the universe. “The Atheon,” as Keats calls it, is a “secular temple devoted to scientific worship.” I was tempted to ask about the Atheon because I know Keats intends it to stir up arguments about science and religion, but I held back because I didn’t want to get him started down the wrong path. We were here to talk about “The Book of the Unknown.”

This is an amazing turn for you, Jonathon. These are simple and wonderful and magical stories — not things you would associate with a conceptual artist who sells real estate in the 11th dimension, as string theory would have it, or who plays recorded religious prayers to fruit flies, and who …

You mean my attempt to genetically engineer God? Actually, that was part of a larger project, a sort of thought experiment undertaken in a laboratory. I was trying to discover God’s place on the phylogenetic tree, but I was unable to obtain God’s DNA, so genetic engineering seemed like the most practical approach to the problem. I worked with geneticists at U.C. Berkeley. In scientific terms, the basis was a process called continuous in vitro evolution, which has been used successfully to genetically engineer bacteria so that they’ll consume oil spills. The underlying idea is to hijack the process of natural selection by …

Keep it short, would you? We’re supposed to be talking about your new book.

Well, briefly, given that people pray to God, I figured maybe there’s a way in which God metabolizes worship. Playing prayers to various species as they evolved over many generations, I could see which ones thrived more than others. The species genetically closest to God would require the least mutation to exploit worship.

I see. Anyway, in “The Book of the Unknown,” the contemporary fictional scholar — very Nabokov of you — writes in the forward that each of the tales follows one of the Lamedh-Vov, the saints who don’t know they’re saints. You were drawing from the Talmud, right?

Yes, I plagiarized everything I could misremember, and a lot of what I misremembered was Jewish legend. The Lamedh-Vov are the 36 righteous, according to Hebraic lore. They are anonymous, unknown to everyone, even to themselves. Were one to know that he or she was amongst the 36, he or she would no longer be one.

Why not?

Traditionally, the Lamedh-Vov are the least expected people: the chimney sweep or the water carrier, rather than religious and political leaders. So that’s the simplest answer. Another way of thinking about it is in terms of a line from Talmud that I use as my epigraph: “Despise no man and deem nothing impossible, for every man has his hour and every thing its place.” That passage is not specifically about the Lamedh-Vov. But I think it’s crucial in terms of suggesting the way in which there are limitations to our ethics. Where saints typically stand as moral guides in the absolute sense, these 36 serve as a check on our judgment. Also, these stories were written during the Bush administration, when self-righteous judgment was rampant beyond anything I’d ever experienced in my 37 years.

In one of your stories, “Yod the Inhuman,” one of the saints is a golem. She is made out of mud by a Jewish scholar, who teaches her to experience pain and pleasure, and then he has sex with her. Later she becomes a whore to the whole town. I take it none of the original Lamedh-Vov from the Talmud were golems.

Well, there’s no way for us to know, given their anonymity, but I will say that even to make a golem female is pretty uncommon. As far as I’m aware, all the golems in Jewish legend were burly men. They were obedient brutes, useful in a pogrom, but hardly models of righteousness.

I’m not a Jewish scholar, but “Yod the Inhuman” sounds pretty blasphemous to me. Does it worry you that you may be blaspheming Jewish tradition and sacred texts?

If I’m blaspheming, it means I’m doing my job as a writer, and also, I believe, being true to the deepest value in Judaism, which is the value of questioning. Some people won’t agree with me, and not only the Hasids who commit the ultimate sin of religious fundamentalism. My ancestors founded one of the first Orthodox shuls in New Jersey, and I’m sure that many of these stories would mortify them. They probably wouldn’t like Yod’s aggressive sexuality, and would be even more upset that my Lamedh-Vov include a gambler, a thief, a murderer and — God forbid — a false Messiah.

But to write about each of these was a test for me, to see whether I could let go of conventional judgment, to broaden my understanding of evil and goodness. So we’re back to the notion of thought experiments: Is there a possible world in which a murderer might serve some noble purpose? Well what if, once upon a time, long ago and far away, there were a city so remote that it was overlooked by the angel of death?

Have you been a good Jew in your own life?

I butchered the Hebrew language at my bar mitzvah. And, when it comes to liturgy, I’m emphatically agnostic. But I think that at some deep level my Judaism has informed the way I live my life: the sorts of questions that I ask, and the sort of emphasis that I put on questions in their own right.

Your first novel, “The Pathology of Lies,” was about a female magazine editor who kills her boss and sends his body parts to the magazine’s subscriber list. Are you doing penance with “The Book of the Unknown”?

Probably not in the way that you mean. “The Pathology of Lies” was written in the spirit of contemporary literary fiction. It was satirical, and fundamentally modernist in the sense of being fractured, a narrative structured like life rather than with the internal coherence of an old-fashioned tale. If I’m doing penance with “The Book of the Unknown,” it’s by committing the literary sacrilege of breaking with modernism.

Why would you want to do that?

There’s nothing harmful about modernism per se, but it is rather retrograde. Life is fractured and confused, there’s no denying that, yet in their efforts to mimic those qualities, the modernists and their postmodernist imitators abandoned the very reason for telling stories, which is that stories reconceive life. Myths and folk tales and fables are alternate realities, simplified and stripped of current events, microcosms that we can enter into completely while recognizing their artifice. They are akin to the philosophical thought experiments that motivate my conceptual art. The modernist assumption is that people used to be too “primitive” to realize that their tales were unrealistic. In truth, the pre-moderns were ahead of us in that they had greater force of imagination.

Well, I don’t mean to criticize your artwork, Jonathon, but the stories feel so much warmer. They’re alive with love and jealousy and loss and reconciliation. Are you showing us a new side of yourself?

It’s a fair question, and if you see me differently through this new work, I’m not going to contradict you. But speaking from my own perspective, the underlying motivation — curiosity about the world in all its peculiarity — is the same in both cases, as is the fabulistic what-if approach to life. If the feel of this fiction is different, it’s because storytelling is a different mode of inquiry, and I think that one of the reasons why I value writing and art equally is that each has its own inherent qualities. Taken together, they allow me to reflect on the world in stereo.

Would you say you’re a spiritual person?

If you can define spirituality for me, I might be able to tell you. Probably my answer would be yes and no. I don’t buy into crystals and gurus, or practice Bikram yoga, but I do write stories. And that’s a spiritual pursuit in that it demands a suspension of disbelief; it demands a total commitment to figures who are, in literal terms, fictional. Yet I believe in them completely, and I believe in them because I have to believe in them, not because I want to do so. So I think that in that sense, yes, I must be spiritual. Also, I’m rather superstitious. A hat on a bed really disturbs me. Maybe imagining the fate of the hat’s owner is what made me into a writer.

Don’t you think reading is also an act of faith?

Absolutely, and especially when reading fiction. In recent years, fiction has been largely abandoned in favor of nonfiction, which of course is half made-up in its own right but carries the imprimatur of truth so that the reader need not apply any imagination. The decline of fiction has weakened our faith — our ability to suspend disbelief — and has created an imaginative vacuum exploited by religious dogma and intolerance. Maybe that’s what motivates me to write tales as simply as I can, so that they can be read by anyone, anywhere, even aloud. This is one of the unrecognized virtues of short stories, and perhaps a sign of the novel’s obsolescence. Fiction ought to be an everyday encounter, not because it’s informative or useful, but because it isn’t.

————————-

Jonathon Keats reads from “The Book of the Unknown” March 11, Strand Book Store, New York; March 12, Brookline Booksmith, Boston. Read the tale “Alef the Idiot” here.

After Obama’s ministerial eloquence, her reading, stressing the poem’s meter, may have seemed choppy to some. Not true. That’s how poetry works, distinguishes itself from prose, from preaching. In her rhythmic delivery, her images held. (Not that the TV cameramen had a clue. They blunted the poem’s impact by constantly taking the camera off Alexander and scanning the uninterested crowd.) I guess I wish Alexander didn’t veer off her dirt roads into an exposition of love in the end, where she seemed to spin her tires in sentimentality. But I heard her faint echo of Walt Whitman nonetheless.

Yet the poem’s end quickly fades and what remains are two images that capture the promise of the new president with indelible beauty. “A farmer considers the changing sky/ A teacher says, ‘Take out your pencils, begin.’”