Disclaimer: no wishes are granted or carpets magically flown.

In Helene Wecker’s The Golem and the Jinni, the two title characters represent different approaches to life. The former is created to serve and obey, the latter is born to roam free and unencumbered. Once separated from their masters, those opposing natures fuel an unlikely friendship and drive much of the book’s character and plot development, as two “people” figure out who they are in the world.

Frequently, after one or the other makes a mistake, causes some trouble, hurts someone, or simply isn’t sure what to do with themselves, they give the excuse, “But that’s my nature, that’s just what I am, and I can’t change that.” However, the bulk of the story involves them doing exactly that. We see them learn to accept responsibility for their actions, to control their natures. In short, they learn how to change and grow beyond what they “just are.”

All of us like to think we have free will (which… maybe not?), and that we’re in control of our choices. But who hasn’t decided not to do something “because it’s just not me,” or made an excuse for their behavior because “that’s just who I am.”

What choices you make, or things you do, have you attributed to your unavoidable, essential nature?

How often do you use that as a justification for your behavior?

What does that reasoning say about you, or any of our ability to control our lives?

This book could easily provide 20 more posts, but it would almost feel like stealing.

Chuck Klosterman’s I Wear the Black Hat collects a dozen or so essays about how we see certain figures in society as good or evil, and how sometimes the differences we feel so deeply aren’t as clear-cut a distinction as we might think. What we forgive in one person, we villify in someone else. Or the ways and reasons we remember some of our heroes ignore what other figures are hated for, often depending less on what they’ve done (or believed), but how they presented it to the world. Lots of good conversation (or at least chin-scratching contemplation) fodder, as is usual with Klosterman.

One passage in particular jumped out as a good reason to turn the lens back on myself, especially in the shadow of recent events:

Clear, unsubtle satire on TV shows like SNL and The Daily Show and The Colbert Report can succeed as entertainment, but they unintentionally reinforce the preexisting world: These vehicles frame the specific power holder as the sole object of scorn. This has no impact beyond comforting the enslaved. Power holders — even straight-up dictators — are interchangeable figureheads with limited reach; what matters far more is the institutional system those interchangeable figureheads temporarily represent.

So what does this mean, outside of an academic discussion about power? Well, maybe this: If you want to satirize the condition of a society, going after the apex of the pyramid is a waste of time. You need to attack the bottom. You need to ridicule the alleged ideological foundation an institution claims to be built upon. This is much, much more discomfiting than satirizing an ineffectual prime minister or a crack-smoking mayor. This requires the vilification of innocent, anonymous, working-class people.

As happy as I am to see The Daily Show in particular continue doing good work poking the giant, it may be a way for me to go on feeling superior while laughing at those in power. I sit on my couch venting my frustrations through comedy, while they go right on running-slash-ruining the world.

Does satire ever actually change anything for the better, or is it just a way to feel better about what’s wrong with the world?

Which satires are the most effective? What would make others more so?

Are the biggest fans of satire the people that are actually doing the least to make a real difference in the world?