evolution of the crisis. For thenAmericans, the annexation ofnKuwait offered an opportunitynto destroy the power of Iraqnbefore the Israelis did it withnatomic bombs.nIt would be difficult, I think, to formulatena more succinct and penetratingnresume of the basic issue involved: notnone of fighting for oil, but of forestallingna desperate resort to atomic weapons. Innthis respect the recent Gulf war differsnradically from the other wars in whichnthe United States has been involved —nin Korea and Vietnam, and in the briefncampaigns conducted in Santo Domingon(under Johnson), Grenada, and Panama.nIn George Bernard Shaw’s day thenUndershafts of this worid were already antroubling lot; today, they have becomenan international problem, and indeed anmenace. “On n’arrete pas le progres”n(there’s no stopping progress), thenironic phrase has it, and the same goesnfor science. As Alexandre denMarenches, the former head ofnFrance’s secret intelligence agency,npointed out during a televised roundtablendiscussion last January: “Thenminiaturization of atomic bombs hasnlong since begun, and it is going tonpose an increasingly grave problem fornthe responsible governments in thenworld to keep crackpot dictators fromnlaying their hands on such destructivenweapons for blackmail, terrorism, ornother aggressive purposes.”nMuch as one may regret it, the factnremains that the world is steadilynshrinking. The planet — as Jean-nFrangois Revel pointed out in his mostnrecent book, La Connaissance inutilen(“useless” in the sense of “thwarted”nknowledge) — is now bound from onenpole to the other by an increasinglyndense network of communications andninternational standards, particularly innthe fields of economics, mathematics,nand the “exact” sciences, which haven”objective” validity — in the sense thatnrulers who reject these standards, in thenname of “cultural identity” or “ethnocentricnvalues,” inevitably condemnntheir subjects to varying degrees ofnbackwardness, poverty, and state-sponsorednstupidity. A facile piece of rhetoricnthough it is, the alternative tonGeorge Bush’s New International Ordernis almost certain to be a NewnInternational Disorder, and on an evernmore dangerous scale for the future ofnthe human race.nNietzsche, for once, was being overlynoptimistic when he spoke of dienfrohliche Wissenschaft — le gai savoir,n”cheerful knowledge.” Baudelaire, nonfriend of progress, may have beenncloser to the truth in referring tonknowledge as “bitter” — “amer savoir”n(in his famous poem, Le Voyage) —nand to the worid as “monotone etnpetit.” Monotonous the contemporarynworld certainly is not, but small, alas, itnhas most definitely become.nCurtis Cate, a biographer andnhistorian, has lived for many years innParis.nLetter From SouthnCarolinanby William BaldwinnThe Art of Turnip TruckdomnI’ll take my stand. There are a lot ofntopics around—collapsing savings andnloans, collapsing universes, donkeynbasketball — on which I have skillfullynwalked the rail or else mumbled “noncomment” while hiding my face behindna raised lapel. There is one subject,nthough, that I’m willing to stand up andnbe counted on. I like folk art. Gorrection.nIt’s officially called “outsider art”nnow, but I like it all the same and so dona lot of other red-blooded Americans. Inseem to remember Dwight Eisenhowernchuckling the praises of Grandma Moses,na saintly woman whose life and artnwere relatively typical (or used to be) ofnthe genre. She started painting late innlife and was self-taught. She had nonsense of perspective, used bright colors,nand celebrated a nostalgic or naive or atnleast pleasant view of her surroundings.nI realize such generalizations arendangerous, but I’m taking my stand sonI’ll live dangerously. Grandma Mosesnwas a typical folk artist (or used to be?nmaybe? many say? for her time?).nTimes change, of course. I still like Ikenand assume most other people do too,nbut folk art is no longer a matter to benleft in the hands of benign Sundaynpainter Presidents. It’s big business, andnit’s social statement, and still some of it’snbeing painted right down the road bynelderiy grandparents. The medium isnthe message, and the message is . . .nwell. ^.nMy wife and I live in a small Southernnrural town, and we grew up knowingnpersonally a half-dozen such artists.nTheir paintings were the butt of somenfamiliar jokes — as in the blazing sunsetnthat was interpreted, “My God! AuntnMay, you’ve painted the bomb!” But bynand large this body of work of not-quiterightnsailboats, magnolia blossoms, andnwhatever was praised, appreciated, andnhung on the wall. It was the product ofnpeople who were known and loved —ni.e., folks.nMy wife and I didn’t just fall off thenturnip truck. We’ve been riding alongnon it now for a goodly number of years,nknee deep in turnips, and peering outnthrough the slats at a world we didn’tnmake and have no desire to remake.nStill and all, we’re cosmopolitannenough to know the difference betweennJasper Johnr rd Gasper thenFriendly Ghost. Plu .^ur son, a generationnfurther removed from the Scottishnstone age, is completing a degree innfine arts, and when he passed throughnhis “folk art” phase it was necessary asndoting parents to flip through a handfulnCaptain Joe Cumbee.nnnJULY 1991/47n