The Last Review

In the past two weeks I've been following with interest the online controversy over The New York Times recent list of the 30 Greatest Living American Songwriters.  

I'm a sucker for 'Best Of' lists, and especially when it comes to music. The NYT list is justifiably being eviscerated for both inclusions and omissions. Particularly by some very knowledgeable and influential music YouTubers. 

There are many reasons these lists fascinate us in this cultural moment. It's partly because of the overwhelming amount of unfiltered creative content now available — far too much for anyone to properly evaluate. And it's partly because of the abundance of public opinion, informed and uninformed alike, which further erodes trust in expertise.

The controversy made me think about my own brief career as a literary critic.

Well, not really a critic. A reviewer. I reviewed fiction, non-fiction, and poetry back when newspapers still had Saturday book sections. Mostly for the Montreal Gazette, and occasionally for trade publications like Books in Canada.

I got the gig almost by accident. For a time I was program director at the Jewish Public Library in Montreal and was often invited to speak at afternoon book clubs and “study groups,” usually made up of women gathering over tea and cookies to discuss a book every month or two. They would hire reviewers to present the book and lead discussion, and I became a regular on that circuit.

Around the same time I began attending synagogue regularly, where, purely by chance, I met the editor of the Gazette’s books section who was also a regular attendee. One day she asked me if I’d be interested in reviewing books with Jewish content, especially Israeli literature. I always found this amusing because I had no special qualifications beyond general interest and being reasonably well-read.

A Gazette review paid between $150 and $250, depending on length. That sounds decent for 800 to 1500 words until you consider the work involved. I’m a slow, careful reader. A 300-page book could take me a week. I took notes, filled gaps in my knowledge with research — this was still the era of dial-up internet — and then spent hours writing and rewriting the review.

As an added bonus, we got to keep the book.

At first I loved seeing my opinions in print. The newspaper had granted me authority, and I quickly began to believe I deserved it. If the Gazette thought I knew what I was talking about, maybe I did.

I reviewed a few dozen books, mostly but not exclusively with Jewish themes.

Then two things happened. The Saturday review section steadily shrank, and with it the number of assignments. Six pages became four, then one. Monthly reviews became occasional ones.

At the same time, I began to feel like a phony — and worse, a potentially harmful one.

I generally tried to stay positive, even about books I felt lukewarm toward. When I disliked a book, I aimed for neutrality. I was always conscious of the years of labor, hope, and emotional investment behind what I was reviewing. Especially the small press books written by local authors.

But another part of me felt I owed readers honesty.

The problem was that I increasingly doubted what my judgments were actually based on. I had no academic training in literature. I was simply a reasonably intelligent, fairly well-read person capable of expressing opinions clearly.

And I began to realize that my reactions to books were often deeply idiosyncratic — shaped as much by mood, temperament, and whatever psychological knots I happened to be wrestling with as by the quality of the writing itself.

Eventually the conflict came to a head. I was assigned a debut novel by an Israeli-Canadian writer whose earlier short story collections I had loved and enthusiastically praised in print. I expected the review to be easy. Positive reviews usually are.

Instead, I hated the novel. Not mildly disliked it. Hated it.

So I wrote an excoriating review. I convinced myself I had a duty to be unsparingly honest.

The moment I submitted it, I regretted it. I immediately asked the editor to kill the piece. There was no reason to publicly skewer the book. I didn’t need to prove I had taste, authority, or intelligence by dismantling someone else’s work.

I could make a persuasive case that the novel was bad. And I could make it sound authoritative.

But maybe I reacted so viscerally because I had loved the writer’s earlier work so much. Or maybe the review had less to do with the book than with whatever personal tensions I happened to be working out at the time.

That was the moment I realized I was never going to write another newspaper review. I decided it was more important to be honest with myself than with the readers of my reviews.

The Incident of the Golden Calf

This week Yisroel showed up. You remember him from last week — the smart one. He brought someone new to experience me.

The new kid’s name was Yoseph. Same age as Yisroel, but not dressed like him, more like a miniature adult: a long black coat hanging to his ankles, a boxy hoiche (high) hat instead of the usual kneitch (pinched or folded) fedora. And for some reason this week Yisroel’s hat looked wrong, not his usual hat — too small for his head — and when I mentioned it, he admitted it without explaining why.

Yoseph barely spoke. He had thick, oversized square glasses, buck teeth, and carried a school backpack over his ankle-length coat, which made him look strangely anachronistic, like a child dressed for another century. I asked what was in the backpack.

“Pamphlets,” Yisroel answered for him.

Yoseph was clearly the junior partner on the mission. Maybe he was there strictly to observe, maybe he was in training. I decided at that moment Yoseph would not be disappointed by the visit.

Yisroel got right to it.

“This week we read Behar,” he said. “On the mountain. Mount Sinai. And we learn that Sinai was not a high mountain. From this we learn—”

“That we need humility,” I interrupted. “God chose a modest mountain to deliver the greatest gift possible.” I've heard this one a hundred times.

“Yes,” Yisroel said. “A person can be important like a mountain, and still remain humble.”

“Nice,” I said. “But that’s not why He chose Sinai.”

The boys looked at me.

“He chose Sinai because it was small enough for Moshe to climb. If God brought the Israelites to Everest, how would Moshe get up there? Sometimes the obvious explanation is enough.”

No response.

“Which raises another question,” I continued. “Why didn’t God simply float Moshe to the top? The people had already seen the ten plagues, the sea split, water come from rocks, manna from heaven. One more miracle wouldn’t have changed much.”

Still nothing.

“I’ll tell you why. Because God wanted Moshe to make the climb. And He wanted Israel to watch him make it. This was the end of miracle-dependence. The Law only matters if people do the work of following it. Faith alone isn’t enough. Taking responsibility is what matters.”

“And of course,” I added, “they immediately failed the first test.”

“The Golden Calf,” said Yisroel.

Then he said something unexpected.

“Rabbi Zushe says that for America’s 250th anniversary, trump wants everyone to honour the Sabbath.”

“I didn’t hear that,” I said. “But you go back and tell Rabbi Zushe that Glen says he’s committing chillul Hashem.” I know the kids tell their Rabbi about our weekly visits. 'Chillul Hashem' means desecration of God’s name. I realized it was quite an accusation.

The boys stiffened.

"Any Jew praising trump is doing exactly that. You know why? Because trump builds golden statues to himself. It’s literally the aigel hazahav (the Golden Calf) all over again. A violation of the second and third Commandments."

I pulled out my phone and showed them the photo of golden trump from his golf course this week.

“Tell Rabbi Zushe he should be ashamed."

Added smiling, "There was something pertinent in this week's Torah portion after all."

The kids left the office looking a bit shaken. 

Job done.

Dispatches from the AI Trenches: The Illusion of Control

As I think you know, I earn my keep in property management. Most of my day-to-day responsibilities revolve around leasing space and keeping commercial tenants happy—and paying the rent. I’ve been doing this for 30 years.

Last week, something happened that I’ve never seen before. Twice.

I sent a draft lease to two different tenants. In both cases, it came back within an hour with detailed commentary and questions.

That shouldn’t be possible.

Our commercial lease isn’t standard. It’s fifty pages long, built and refined over decades by the owner of our company, who is a lawyer. It’s dense. It’s thorough. It has, at times, scared off prospective tenants simply because of its complexity. There is no realistic way either of these tenants read and analyzed it in under an hour.

More to the point, these weren’t large, sophisticated tenants. They were renting small spaces on relatively short terms. In my experience, tenants like this don’t hire lawyers. The financial commitment isn’t large enough to justify it. Typically, they skim—or don’t read at all—and ask me to flag the key financial clauses before signing.

And when lawyers do get involved, negotiations stretch into weeks.

But this was different. The comments came back quickly, and more interestingly, they looked similar—in tone, structure, even in the types of issues raised.

I knew immediately what I was dealing with: AI.

Both tenants had almost certainly run the lease through ChatGPT or Claude and received a clean set of concerns and questions in return.

---

Something else happened this week.

We had our annual meeting with partners to review property performance, approve last year’s financial statements, and sign off on this year’s budget (late, as usual).

The owner of our company typically gets nervous before these meetings. He’s meticulous with numbers and tends to revise reports right up to the last minute.

That said, we run a fairly tight operation. The properties perform quite well. Our partners trust us. These meetings are usually perfunctory—more social than substantive. We present, they approve, everyone leaves with a cheque. It’s always been that way.

This year was different.

His anxiety wasn’t just elevated—it was bordering on paranoia. I couldn’t understand it at first.

Then it clicked: AI.

He’s worried the partners—who historically haven’t read much beyond the bottom line—are going to run our reports through AI, giving them the tools, or at least the language, to question our decisions, our assumptions, maybe even our competence.

For thirty years, a certain balance held. Leases were too long to dissect quickly. Financial reports were too dense to interrogate casually. Most people didn’t have the time, expertise, or incentive to dig deeply. That balance is gone.

Now, anyone can upload a fifty-page lease and get a list of risks in minutes. Anyone can run financials through a model and generate discrepancies.

Whether those questions are always insightful is almost beside the point.

They now exist and present a challenge.

---

These two small stories capture something larger happening in the workplace.

On one hand, AI empowers. It gives people access to information that once required hiring expertise. It allows them to ask better questions, to feel more protected, more in control.

On the other hand, it quietly displaces the very expertise it imitates.

In my own experience, when clients came back with AI-generated questions, there was often no real follow-up. The questions sounded sophisticated, but they weren’t grounded in understanding. When I answered them, the conversation ended quickly. The space that would normally be filled by experience—judgment, sequencing, knowing what matters next—was simply empty.

What AI provides is not expertise, but the appearance of it. It allows people to perform knowledge without possessing it.

And for now, that may be enough. It saves money. It creates the feeling of control.

But scraping a database is no substitute for experience.

The risk is that we trade away expertise for its simulation, only to rediscover—too late—that knowing what to ask is not the same as knowing what to do.

The real cost will not just be job loss, but the erosion of judgment, the thinning out of skill, and a quiet loss of dignity in work itself.

Mother Earth

I'm thinking about the term Mother Earth. Not in the flaky, Gaia, New Age woo-woo metaphoric sense. In the sense that the term is literally true. 

We have literally emerged out of the Earth. We are made from the very chemical compounds that formed with the Earth's creation. We have been shaped and developed along with the evolutionary timeline of the planet and in response to it. Life emerged from its material, its energies, its climate, its forces. What we call “life” is not something placed on top of the Earth. It is something the Earth does.

Nerve by nerve, instinct by instinct, perception by perception, we are calibrated to the Earth's rhythms: light and dark, season and scarcity, sound and silence. Even things that seem esotheric, our sense of beauty for example, is not arbitrary. It's recognition of the conditions that made us possible.

We don't live in nature, we are nature. It's why when you go for a walk in the forest something inside you settles. The noise in your head drops a notch. That response isn’t spiritual, it’s biological. What some researchers call the Biophilia Hypothesis: we feel at home in the conditions that made us.

Think of the opposite, how it feels to live in the city. Towers of glass and steel, lengths of asphalt and endless right angles. Artificial light overriding circadian rhythm. Environments designed not for human coherence, but for efficiency, extraction, and control. It produces anxiety, alienation, and numbness—as though it were a malfunction of the individual rather than a predictable response to an unnatural environment.

We like to imagine that human ingenuity has freed us from dependence on the Earth. That we can engineer substitutes, optimize inputs, transcend limits. But everything we eat is still a variation on a single theme: plants, animals, fungi. All of it grown, fed, or assembled from the same planetary chemistry. We do not create nourishment. We reorganize it.

The illusion of independence is made possible by layers of abstraction. And the more layers there are, the more we forget where things actually come from, and the more distant we become from who we are.

The further we push into environments that ignore this fact, the more we should expect not just ecological breakdown, but psychological and social fragmentation as well. 

Every harm we do to the environment, the more we bury our heads under digital covers, the more we lose a sense of ourselves. 

This summer, I'm going for more walks in the woods.

The Messianic Agenda

For some time now, I’ve been circling an uncomfortable idea: that elements within Israel’s current leadership are not just indifferent to the condition of Jews in the diaspora—but may, in a deeper ideological sense, see their deterioration as useful.

Call it, for lack of a better term, the Messianic Agenda.

To be clear, I don’t believe Benjamin Netanyahu wakes up in the morning plotting how to make life harder for Jews in Montreal, London, or New York. His explicit project is to permanently foreclose the possibility of a two-state solution and consolidate Israeli control over Palestinian land. That much is visible in policy, in coalition choices, and in political instinct.

But Netanyahu does not govern alone. He sits atop a coalition that includes figures like Bezalel Smotrich and Itamar Ben-Gvir, for whom politics and theology are not separate spheres. In their worldview, history is not just something to be managed—it is something to be fulfilled.

And within that worldview lies the ancient idea of the ingathering of exiles: that Jews will ultimately return to the land of Israel as a precondition for redemption.

You don’t have to stretch very far to see the implication. If Jews are comfortable, secure, and integrated in the diaspora, why would they leave? But if life becomes precarious—if antisemitism rises, if belonging begins to fray—then aliyah is no longer an abstract ideal. It becomes a necessity.

I am not suggesting a coordinated policy to export instability. That would be too crude, too conspiratorial.

What I am suggesting is something subtler and, in its own way, more troubling: a governing ethos that is perfectly willing to absorb, perhaps even quietly validate, the consequences of its actions on diaspora Jews, because those consequences align with a deeper religious and ideological current.

If Jews abroad become targets of anger toward Israel, that is regrettable. But it also reinforces the core Zionist claim in its religious-nationalist form that Jewish life outside Israel is ultimately untenable.

This marks a profound break from the Zionism many of us in the diaspora grew up with.

In the 20th century, Zionism was a partnership. Israel was fragile, resource-poor, and dependent. Diaspora Jews, especially in North America, provided capital, expertise, and political cover. We did so not out of religious conviction, but out of historical memory and cultural attachment. Israel was not where we had to live. It was the place that ensured we would could live anywhere without worry, because we always have somewhere to go if we had to.

I remember that ethos vividly.

As a child, I would paste small paper leaves onto a cardboard tree at school, each one representing a modest donation to the Jewish National Fund. Some kids were enthusiastic about it, filling tree after tree with leaves. There was always competition to see who could make the most trees. I wasn`t one of those kids. My tree looked as bare as the onset of winter. It was a source of some shame and embarrassment. 

I have a black and white photograph of my grandfather Sam from the early 1960s. He stands with a group of men around a woman, her hair covered with a kerchief, at a sewing machine. He is inspecting the way two swatches of fabric were sewn together with the practiced eye of a master in his field. As one of Canada's most successful garment manufacturers, grandpa Sam had been invited by the Prime Minister of Israel himself, to help develop the country`s fledgling textile industry. That, too, was Zionism: practical, collaborative, outward-looking.

That version of Zionism assumed a strong, confident diaspora as a permanent feature of Jewish life. A partner in state-building.

Today’s version is different. It is more insular, more absolutist, and more overtly theological. It does not look to the diaspora as a partner so much as a population in waiting.

At the same time, the environment for Jews outside Israel is becoming more volatile. Social media is becoming saturated with conspiracy theories that would not have felt out of place in The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Old tropes—of secret control, of blood libel, of dual loyalty—have returned with modern packaging and algorithmic amplification.

Some of this is tied to Israel’s recent actions. America's involvement in the war with Iran has become a lightning rod for antisemitic conspiracy. 

Some of it is opportunistic. The internet doing what it does best: flattening distinctions and rewarding outrage.

But the result is the same. The line between criticism of Israel and hostility toward Jews is increasingly blurred, and diaspora communities are left to absorb the consequences.

Here is the paradox.

The more exposed diaspora Jews feel, the more Israel can present itself as indispensable. And the more indispensable it becomes, the less incentive its leaders have to moderate policies that contribute to that exposure in the first place.

This is not a conspiracy. It is a feedback loop, one that does not require anyone to consciously design it in order to benefit from it.

The tragedy is that it risks eroding something that took generations to build: a relationship between Israel and the diaspora rooted not in fear, but in mutual investment and shared purpose.

What replaces it may be something narrower, more coercive, and ultimately more fragile—a Zionism that depends not on the flourishing of Jewish life everywhere, but on its contraction.

The 21st century version of Zionism increasingly pursues a Messianic Agenda. The ingathering of the nations is always in the background. 

For Jews who don't relate to that Israel, our ancestral homeland risks losing its meaning and importance. 

Worse, when the Israeli government makes moves that don`t consider the international consequences, diaspora Jews feeling increasingly at risk, may understandably turn against it. And that is regrettable.   

The Woman I Need

CLICK HERE TO HEAR THE SONG

The woman I need has seen a few things,

The woman I need has seen a few things,

You know the woman I need has seen a few things,

A woman with heart and a spirit that sings.

Some women shine like a lightning flash,

Some women shine like a lightning flash,

Some women shine like a lightning flash,

You know the woman I need is like a thunderclap.

Some women are the kind that just want to please,

Some women are the kind that just want to please,

Some women are the kind that just want to please,

You know the woman I need, she ain't so easy.

Some women are breezy, light as a leaf,

Some women are breezy, light as a leaf,

Some women are breezy, light as a leaf,

The woman I need is like a chestnut tree.

Some women cry the world done them wrong.

Some women cry the world done them wrong.

Some women cry the world done them wrong.

You know the woman I need the world's made her strong.

The woman I need has weathered the storm,

The woman I need has weathered the storm,

The woman I need has weathered the storm,

A woman, like me, a little battle worn.

The Hockey Analogy

It’s that time of year once again. The NHL playoffs. And this year the Habs (what we locals affectionately call the Montreal Canadiens) made it into the playoffs even before the last week of the season. 

That used to be a given back when I was a teenager in the 70s. But it hasn’t been the case for decades.

I’m not saying the Habs are a contender for the cup. They’re a young exciting team. Still rebuilding. But they have grit and seem to be on the right track. They might win a round or two. 

Hockey was on my mind when the crew of bar-mitzvah bochers sporting their miniature 1940s-style fedoras showed up at my office for their weekly attempt to get me to wrap tefillin (phylacteries).

I usually oblige because I love to see the smiles on their smooth, pre-adolescent faces. Then they give me their religious shpiel, memorized from the weekly Torah portion. Some pearl of wisdom from the sages that their teacher taught them to recite. As if these barely pubescent kids could teach me something I didn't already know. It's cute as hell, and I give them plenty of attention.

Every once in a while I'll slip in a code they'll understand. A Yiddishism, or a reference to a Talmudic sage, so they know who they're dealing with, and they don't completely embarrass themselves.

Fact is I love them for their optimism and enthusiasm. 

Today the crew comprised, Yisroel, Lavy and Menachem Mendel. 

Yisroel is the serious one. Clearly the most learned of the bunch. Hungry to both share his knowledge and learn something new. Lavy just wants to get on with the business at hand and earn his mitzvah points; wisdom shmisdom, time is money. Menachem Mendel is a combination of the other two. He’s got big glasses and looks like he hasn’t graduated from elementary school yet. He’s a lot smarter and more mature than he looks, and knows his Torah. 

On this particular Friday I was in rare form; jocular and avuncular. I decided early on that I was going to turn the tables on them in a lighthearted way. Knew also that I was going to wrap, say the Shema, and drop a few coins in their pushke to make them feel the visit was a win.

Lavy and Menachem Mendel took off shortly after I did the dirty deed and exacted my price, gave them a parting shot by telling them not to get overly excited by all this superstitious nonsense. Yisroel stayed behind to further nourish my soul with his learned words.

He furrowed his brow and looked up to the sky (the cheap suspended ceiling tile), searching for spiritual guidance and inspiration. 

Then he said: This week's Torah portion we read that when Aaron's two sons, Nadav and Avihu, died suddenly because they had committed an avera in the Temple, a transgression against Hashem, Moses consoled his brother in his time of grief. And from this we learn that in life there will be eventualities we cannot comprehend, and it is by comforting each other that we will find the strength to endure such difficulties. 

And that's when I talked hockey, being certain that like every Canadian kid with a pulse - even ones who wear wholesale, undersized, rabbit-fur fedoras - he's a Habs fan.

'Why would G-d want us to endure such grief as losing a child?' I asked him.

'Unfortunately it happens,' he answered. 'We have to learn to accept the incomprehensible sometimes. And the strength to do so comes from realizing we are not unique. All human beings suffer.'

'Fair enough. So why do we differentiate ourselves? Why do we think we have some 'chosen' status?' 

'Because we were given the responsibility of Torah.'

'Okay, but you say that we learn that Moses comforted his brother who suffered an incomprehensible tragedy. Isn’t grief and suffering universal?'

'Yes.'

'Look I get it. We have our traditions, others groups have theirs. There is comfort in that. But you agree that we all experience tragedies we can’t understand. And it's human connection that provides comfort.' 

Now he's listening.

'What I mean is this. You and I grew up in Montreal. We're Habs fans. G-d forbid if we cheer for the Bruins. We love our team. And there's nothing wrong with that. We want them to win. It makes us feel good. When they lose we get mad. I feel the same way about being Jewish.’

He smiles.

'But in the grand scheme of things, it's just hockey. A game. A bunch of made-up rules. The game favours some types of people who have the skills and character to play it well. The rest of us have to watch from the sidelines and enjoy. But it's all arbitrary and artificial. It has no meaning or real value. It’s just a game.

How is that any different than society as whole? A bunch of made-up rules we follow. A game we play. Some better at it than others. The better ones get rich. The ones who can’t play are poor. They suffer. Let’s face it. It's all a bunch of artificial bullshit.'

Now he's on the verge of laughter, because I cursed. 

'Sure, cheer for your team if it makes you feel good. But don’t overdo it. There is something more important. Something the uniform can’t cover. Moses consoled Aaron. He didn't lecture him about G-d. Didn’t try to explain the unexplainable. He went to his brother because he was suffering.'

Then Yisroel said, 'And the Torah says Aaron responded to Moses with silence'.

And I said, ‘Sometimes there are no words. As it says in the Book of Ecclesiastes, there is a time to speak, and a time to keep silent.'

Yisroel just nodded. 

Like I said, he's the most learned of the bunch.