Huck Finn and Hamlet

Originally published here in April 2016, and by far the most popular post I’ve ever written, with over 1,500 hits upon its first appearance. Go figure.

If, as Ron Powers suggests in his exemplary biography of the writer, Mark Twain is America’s Shakespeare (and this coming Saturday marks the 400th anniversary of the Bard’s death), Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is his Hamlet. Comparisons are odious, of course, but that never stopped people like myself from stinking the place up a little.

At first glance, there couldn’t be two works of literature more different in genre, style, and voice. Hamlet is tragedy, Huck Finn comedy; Hamlet is set in 14th or 15th century Denmark, Huck Finn in the 19th century American South; Hamlet’s a play confined to the locality of Elsinore, Huck Finn a picaresque novel. And I could go on. But to lay out only their differences is to obscure the continuing appeal of both works to a 21st century international readership. The similarities are more telling.

For a comic novel, Huck Finn has a large body count, nearly as large as Hamlet’s. Indeed, violent death weaves through the novel like a black thread. Before one reaches page 150, Pap Finn, three men on the Walter Scott, and Buck Grangerford (as well as others of the Grangerford clan) have already met violent ends, via a knife in the back, drowning, and shooting; that’s more than three deaths against the two deaths of Ophelia (drowning) and Polonius (stabbing). And there’s more to come, not least a gunshot that leaves Tom Sawyer near death.

There’s more to come in Hamlet, too, which leads to another interesting similarity, and that’s the controversial and, to some, unsatisfying conclusions of both Huck Finn and Hamlet. There are two schools of thought in Twain scholarship about the last fifth of the novel. The first believes that it represents a falling off of Twain’s talent and the book’s appeal, a cowardly repudiation of what had gone before; the second argues that the book is far more subtly crafted and deliberately structured than that, and the conclusion confirms all the satire that has gone before. I am of the latter opinion myself, but even so, Hamlet’s conclusion also suggests that Shakespeare had written himself into a corner and resorted to the Suddenly, everyone was run over by a truck. The End school of narrative closure that Michael O’Donoghue identified many years ago.

Both Shakespeare and Twain were working in a period of great linguistic transformations. Elizabethan English was in considerable flux in 1600, and the plays written and performed from Marlowe to Ford demonstrate the white-hot development of both written and spoken English in the 16th and 17th centuries. Similarly, written and spoken American English, both vernacular and literary, were just beginning to mature in the 19th century. Twain’s appropriation of Southwestern American dialects as he defined them in the author’s note that precedes the book revolutionized American literature (although, it must be said, many Southwestern literary journalists, including Josh Billings and Petroleum V. Nasby as well as Twain himself, had already started integrating this vernacular into stories written for newspapers and magazines).

Finally there is the question of theme, and Hamlet and Huck Finn share one particular thematic concern, that of guilt and conscience. The title characters of both experience confusion, doubt, and moral quandaries as they make their way through the stories that bear their names. Hamlet is tragic in that his search leads to a death-wish; Huck Finn is comic in that his leads to a desire for freedom. But in both works, individual morality in conflict with cultural morality is a central, if not the central, theme.

I picked up Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as a reprieve from the dour imaginings of Shakespearean tragedy, but it was less a reprieve than I thought. Huck’s story is just as complex as Hamlet’s, and like Hamlet you cant get a firm grasp of Huck Finn on a single reading. Perhaps it is this that has led to its remarkable endurance, and not only in America. Like Hamlet, Huck Finn has been translated into dozens of languages and sold millions of copies around the world, and its popularity does not appear to be waning. (Except, that is, in the United States, where there’s far more Shakespeare than Twain sitting on the shelves of serious readers and critics, in the columns of literary and cultural journals, and in my Twitter and Facebook feeds though Huck Finn like Hamlet has generated entire shelves of critical response.)

Perhaps in part this is because, despite the book’s setting in the American South, there are children, temptation, corruption, violence, rivers, the wonders of friendship, and nostalgic longings for a seemingly more innocent past in every country (not to mention guilt and conscience). It may also be because it’s so funny, and remains so. If we’re going to be honest about it, there are more real laughs in Huckleberry Finn than in any three or four Shakespearean comedies combined. There are also a few in Twain’s own parody of the Hamlet soliloquy embedded in Huck Finn, and for a few laughs here, it’s posted below:

To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane,
But that the fear of something after death Murders the innocent sleep,
Great nature’s second course,
And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune
Than fly to others that we know not of.
There’s the respect must give us pause:
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The law’s delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take.
In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn
In customary suits of solemn black,
But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns,
Breathes forth contagion on the world,
And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i’ the adage,
Is sicklied o’er with care.
And all the clouds that lowered o’er our housetops,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
But soft you, the fair Ophelia:
Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws.
But get thee to a nunnery—go!

A portrait of the satirist as a child

First published here in April 2016.

At the Strand Book Store the other day, I came across Walt Kelly’s Ten Ever-Lovin’ Blue-Eyed Years with Pogo, a book that I cherished as a child. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Kelly’s comic strip was still running in the now-defunct Philadelphia Bulletin, and it was among my favorites, along with Peanuts. After school, I used to lie on my belly on the blue-carpeted floor of the living room, the last orange rays of the afternoon sun dappling the carpet through the window, and open the Bulletin to its last pages, where I studied these, and others, and laughed myself silly (though I imagine most of the time, given the subtle comedy of these strips, I merely smiled in recognition). Other books (mostly pictures, but words too) that I cherished at the time were Gelett Burgess‘s The Purple Cow and Crockett Johnson’s Barnaby, both of these published by Dover in fairly sturdy paperback editions. Paging through the Kelly book this weekend, I won’t say that my childhood came rushing back to me in some Proustian tsunami of memory, but quite a bit of it did.

For those who may not remember it, Pogo was an animal strip. Its lead character was Pogo Possum, and the stories meandered through Okeefanokee Swamp, populated by a frog named Churchy LaFemme, a porcupine named Porky, and an alligator named Albert, among the hundreds of characters major and minor who wandered in and out of the strip over its quarter-century lifetime. More to the point, Kelly often used the strip as political satire; in the late 1940s and early 1950s, the period covered by Ten Ever-Lovin’ Years, its most significant target was Joseph McCarthy, and in later decades Kelly would target the FBI, the Ku Klux Klan, and a gentleman from Whittier, CA, named Richard Nixon. In this odd way, I was introduced as a child to recent American history and contemporary politics and racism. And that’s not all; Kelly was, above all, a liberal humanist, and the strip just as often provided a melancholy reflection on a lost, prelapsarian paradise. “Pogo combined both sophisticated wit and slapstick physical comedy in a heady mix of allegory, Irish poetry, literary whimsy, puns and wordplay, lushly detailed artwork and broad burlesque humor,” says an anonymous Wikipedia editor. “[His] characters are a sardonic reflection of human nature — venal, greedy, confrontational, selfish and stupid — but portrayed good-naturedly and rendered harmless by their own bumbling ineptitude and overall innocence.”

This book was soon joined on my shelf by issues of Mad magazine, then enjoying something of a hey-day with the satiric treasure-box of the early 1970s to work through and before it became a brand under the ownership of Warner Communications; it was inexpensive, advertising-free, and owned and published by the anarchic William M. Gaines; and shortly thereafter by the early issues of the National Lampoon, both of these, too, featuring sophisticated artwork and a profound skepticism, even cynicism, towards the American popular and personal experience of the 1970s.

I read these as a boy between the ages of 7 and 13 or so (though the nonsense rhymes of Burgess may have been introduced to me earlier). It was an odd time to be growing up, and I was in an odd situation. My younger brother and I were often plopped down in front of the TV for dinner time as my parents argued in the kitchen, and we ingested Walter Cronkite’s coverage of the Vietnam War as we ingested our chicken or hot dogs or what-have-you. A few years later, I learned about American history and the United States system of government in social studies class, but during summer break in 1973 I learned how this worked in practice during the Watergate hearings. On a more personal level, I watched The Brady Bunch and All in the Family as my own parents’ marriage deteriorated, eventually ending in separation in 1970 and final divorce about a decade later.

When I first came upon satiric novels in my mid-teens, I must have recognized myself in some of their main characters. Both Gulliver and Huck Finn, the protagonists of the novels that bear their names, end up solitary, distinctly apart from the cultures that the novels satirized, Gulliver ensconced in a stable and Huck Finn ready to take to the river again. This voluntary alienation may be less a misanthropic nihilism than a strategic retreat. Although Gulliver doesn’t stand for Parliament or Huck Finn become an abolitionist, nonetheless they have been exposed to kindness and compassion as well as corruption. This retreat may, instead, be an acknowledgement that as individuals they are too easily corrupted by ideals (both real and false), practices, experience, and religious or social dogma that, upon a few moments of reflection, reveal themselves as catastrophically corrupt; Joseph Heller’s Something Happened reveals their ultimate psychic toll. As Pogo himself once famously said, We have met the enemy, and he is us.

Indeed. Since then I’ve become corrupt too, and unless you head for the stable or the river there’s really no way to avoid it.

I also remember that it wasn’t all satire. I enjoyed other kinds of humor and comedy, not least the gentler proddings of Robert Benchley, James Thurber, S.J. Perelman, and W.C. Fields (though all four had their darker moments as well), who are also finding their way back to my library after a long absence. All of this eventually led me to William Gaddis, Heller, Terry Southern, and the others. What I find curious is that I never tried to write satire in any focused way myself, given my pleasure and admiration for these writers and artists. Maybe I should have, but I imagine that what stopped me from doing so was the knowledge that Kelly, Twain, and Swift said it all far more effectively than I could. As Tom Lehrer once admonished, I feel that if a person can’t communicate, the very least he can do is shut up.

My daughters are now 6 and 7 and, most happily, one of the things their mother and I appear to have successfully handed down to them was this sense of humor, not least the first buds of skepticism and cynicism (this despite the fact that in high school the vice principal told me that I was too young to be so cynical, but I don’t think you can ever really be too young for that; it saves a great deal of time and sorrow). And what they like to do most, really, is laugh. One day not yet, but soon I’ll start slipping Pogo and Mad into their bookshelves, so that they can enjoy their first childhoods as I appear to be enjoying my second.

A golden age of American satire

Michael O’Donoghue

First published here on September 14, 2014.

It’s very easy to make people laugh. That’s not the point. It’s very difficult to make people think. Art is the cake. Comedy is the frosting. The trick is to get them to eat the cake.

Michael O’Donoghue (1942-1994)

Whatever happened to satire? I mean not parody or television shows like The Daily Show, which usually just confirms the prejudices of its audience, but literary satire, the kind that flourished in Rome with Horace and Juvenal, the kind that flourished in early 18th century England with Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope? The product of rage, a sense of the absurd, and skepticism about the hypocrisies of both public and private life, satire is often enough dismissed as hopelessly ephemeral (“Satire is what closes on Saturday night,” as George S. Kaufman memorably dismissed it). But the best satire, like that of the four writers I mention above, unfortunately proves to have considerable staying power. Sometimes righteous anger is justifiable, and only a few kinds of hypocrisy have a sell-by date. In the best satire, there’s always an element of cruelty — especially when that satire is not directed to politics (which admittedly is ephemeral), but to human experience and stupidity and gullibility itself.

The question occurs because I’ve been indulging in a little nostalgia lately, thinking about the kind of reading I did in my teens and as an early adult, and apart from plays it was almost all satire. Fortunately, having been born in 1962, I was growing up in what now appears to have been a golden age of American literary satire. I blame my father, really; among the books on his shelves as I was growing up were Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint (1969) and Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 (1961), masterpieces of satire and parody. But I didn’t have to look at home for this, either; the newsstand helped as well. As print publications, both Mad magazine and National Lampoon also qualify as literary satire, and I devoured Mad‘s parodies and satires in the early 1970s, graduating before too long to the more slash-and-burn, take-no-prisoners attacks of National Lampoon, then in its glory days (as the National Lampoon Tenth Anniversary Anthology 1970-1980, now sadly out-of-print, attests). From inspired silliness like the “Wide World of Meat” to the coruscating “The Vietnamese Baby Book” by Michael O’Donoghue (with Baby’s First Handprint [three fingers, thanks to Agent Orange], Baby’s First Wound, and Ask the Doctor [“Although my baby is over four years old, she continues to suck her stump. What can I do?”]), the Lampoon honed my own sense of the horrifically ridiculous to a razor edge. What made the Lampoon particularly effective was its careful art direction — the “Baby Book” was designed to precisely resemble the kinds of baby albums kept by American parents, at the same time undermining mawkish sentimentality and emphasizing that it’s what some of these same American parents were supporting as the Vietnam war dragged on. I’m a parent myself now, and it wasn’t hard to remember the “Baby Book” during the recent wars in the Middle East and elsewhere, which claimed their own shares of similar victims.

O’Donoghue had his own heroes. “If there was a Mt. Rushmore of modern American humor, Terry Southern would be the mountain they carve it on,” he once said, and Southern quickly became one of mine as well — not because of his Dr. Strangelove screenplay for which he is best known and which has grown somewhat dated and tiresome, but for his astonishing satiric novels, The Magic Christian and Blue Movie among the best of them. The millionaire Guy Grand spends the concise 148 pages of the first novel “making it hot for them,” gaily revealing the greed, corruption, and foolish self-congratulation of American life through a variety of outlandish frauds and tricks; Blue Movie may be the best Hollywood novel since Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust, centered on a Kubrick-like director who is trying to make a big-budget pornographic epic featuring Hollywood celebrities. Southern’s career was wildly uneven, but the novels represent the pinnacle of his achievement, and a high point of American satire of any age, that of Mark Twain included. (Though I should point out that Twain is the grand-daddy of them all, and all of the writers mentioned here owe him credit and reverence.)

Southern was the friend of both William Gaddis and Joseph Heller, to complete a triumvirate, perhaps, of American satire in the years 1955-1975; Gaddis I’ve written about before, but Heller, too, deserves to be remembered as one of the great satirists in the mode of Juvenal and Swift; it’s a shame his later novels, such as the powerful (perhaps more powerful than Catch-22) Something Happened and the more experimental Picture This and Closing Time, aren’t better known. Their books, too, began to pop up on my shelves beginning when I was about 15 or so, and these, along with shows like Monty Python’s Flying Circus that began to appear on American television at about the same time, is enough to corrupt any young mind.

There was plenty of comedy in film and live performance as well that graced the period — Lenny Bruce’s 1961 Carnegie Hall and Curran Theater concerts had been released on LPs (I went through a number of phonograph needles replaying these), and the caustic All in the Family and the somewhat less caustic (despite O’Donoghue’s presence as head writer) Saturday Night Live both had debuted before I was 16 — but the lasting impressions were certainly made by Southern, Gaddis, Heller, Mad, and the National Lampoon. The grace, style, wit, elegance, anger, resignation, and sheer quality of this literature are without parallel, and that they flourished simultaneously is little short of miraculous. It is a rich, accomplished, incomparably American body of great satire that remains valid — The Daily Show and The Onion can’t hold a candle to it. Before long it was over; with the exception of Mad, all of these are now defunct. I hope my daughters’ minds will be similarly corrupted, but I can’t see how.

The quest for the authentic self

Both Wyatt Gwyon, the protagonist of William Gaddis’s 1955 The Recognitions, and John Yossarian, the protagonist of Joseph Heller’s 1961 Catch-22, are engaged in quests for an authentic self in a corrupt world. This alone opens up a 64-ounce can of worms, not the least worm of which is the question as to whether there is an authentic self to be found at all, whether the very idea is an illusion. How, once one starts looking for it, does one know that it’s been found? Is it even an important question, or is it just another form of narcissistic navel-gazing that we could more merrily do without?

Not to mention that not every person feels the need to search for it; the question never even comes up for most of us, probably; it never comes up for the other characters in these novels. Whether one sets out on this quest or not, one doesn’t feel the need for it until a discomfort and dissatisfaction is felt within; a sense that something, somewhere, has gone wrong with the relationship between us and the world and needs to be set to rights. Most of us probably wander around in a Panglossian haze: that this is the best of all possible worlds anyway, and it’s our job to work our way through it. Neither Gwyon nor Yossarian know precisely what it is that they’re searching for. But they know that, whatever it is, they don’t possess it.

The mid-1950s New York of The Recognitions and the 1942-44 Pianosa of Catch-22 are microcosms of the larger world and, as satirists, Gaddis and Heller are engaged in detailing the corruptions, fraudulence, and stupidity of this world as they impede their heroes on their quests. Both novels are lengthy, as befits the need to detail these corruptions, for they’re many. There are those, of course, that are local to the novels themselves: the corruptions of the artistic scene and popular culture of postwar Manhattan; the corruptions of the military and bureaucracy of the war machine of the 1940s. But Gaddis and Heller both see these corruptions as only local variants of a wider corruption and inauthenticity in the western world in the twentieth century; each of these corruptions receives its due. Among them are corruptions in religion, history, technology, politics, capitalism, education, aesthetics, family life, ambition. As Gaddis and Heller build their long novels out, each of these corruptions results in a barries to the quests of their heroes; they have their obvious effects on the other major and minor characters in the novels as well.

It seems that Yossarian and Gwyon are the only two characters who find these corruptions potentially lethal to their own sense of well-being. Even then, it’s unlikely that either could recognize and name these corruptions themselves, or recognize that they stand in the way of their quests. Ultimately, neither novel answers the questions about the authentic self with which I began this contemplation: Gwyon disappears into the Spanish landscape with his lover and their daughter at the end of The Recognitions, and Yossarian goes AWOL and deserts to Sweden, following the desertion of his crewmate Orr (a homophone for “or” — an alternative to the existing condition), on the last page of Catch-22. Rather than conclusions, these seem like indications that their quests are just beginning, but that they’ve finally been able to take the very first step on that journey. Both books end with a new life for both characters; how Gwyon and Yossarian end up is beyond the scope of the satire.

Something funny about crucifixion

On location with Monty Python’s Life of Brian.

Earlier this year, London’s TimeOut released the results of a poll ranking the “100 Best Comedy Movies,” and coming in at #3 — just after This Is Spinal Tap (#1) and Airplane! (#2) — was the 1979 Monty Python’s Life of Brian. Though it’s been a few years since I’ve watched it, I probably saw it several times upon its first release and the years immediately afterward. Of the three official Monty Python films, it’s the one that holds together the best (and contains a lovely Chaplin-esque performance from Graham Chapman as Brian), and I have a feeling that it, like the other two of the top-three comedies, retains its strengths, even 40 years later.

Its interest, too, remains. In June 2014, the Department of Theology and Religious Studies at King’s College London hosted an international conference exploring the historical Jesus and his times through the lens of the Python satire. Pythons John Cleese and Terry Jones also participated in the conference, and the results were released in book form in 2015 by Bloomsbury T&T Clark as Jesus and Brian: Exploring the Historical Jesus and His Times via Monty Python’s Life of Brian, edited by conference organizer and King’s College Professor of Christian Origins and Second Temple Judaism Joan E. Taylor. It’s a cracking good read, too.

Mind you, the idea behind the book doesn’t suggest a rip-roaring page-turner. The conference and collection are experiments in “reception history,” a comparatively recent development in Biblical Studies. As John F.A. Sawyer defines it, reception history assumes that “what people believe [the Bible] means and how they actually use it — in everyday situations, in the liturgy, in preaching, in the media, in literature, in art, in music, in film — can be studied with the same degree of scientific sensitivity and rigor as the original,” and that this study can, in the words of Paul Joyce, “shine a spotlight on biblical verses that have been dulled by familiarity; it can foreground biblical concepts and concerns that have faded over time into the background; and it can even give rise to new readings of difficult Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek terms.” In short, it can deepen our insight into the texts of the Bible themselves, how people live with and without the Bible, and, perhaps for some of us, provide different perspectives on Christian and Judaic faith.

The first half of the book looks at the film itself, its production and contemporary reception. In doing so, it reveals a few fascinating perspectives that may not have been obvious at the time. In Taylor’s own “The Historical Brian: Reception Exegesis in Practice,” she reminds us that Brian’s trip with aliens through the Terry-Gilliamesque skies may have been a parodic reference to Erich von Dänekin’s 1968 spurious potboiler Chariots of the Gods?, which suggested that extraterrestrial beings visited the ancient world and left behind structures that remain mysterious (fun fact: its German editor, Wilhelm Roggersdorf, was a best-selling author himself during the Nazi era); a documentary based on the book was released in the US in 1972, narrated by Rod Serling. William R. Telford’s essay looks at Life of Brian as a parody of the “Jesus film,” intriguingly asking whether it’s a “Jesus film,” an “anti Jesus-film,” or an “anti-Jesus film”; Anglican Bishop Richard A. Burridge looks back at the controversy that surrounded the film upon its original release in “The Church of England’s Life of Brian — or ‘What the Bishop Saw,'” asking “whether the Church and the academy missed a golden opportunity in 1979 to debate the life and work of Jesus of Nazareth in wider society,” as well as addressing a decline in biblical literacy in the years between 1979 and today; and David Tollerson offers thoughts on what blasphemy means in the Bible, in 1979, and today. In my favorite essay so far, Philip R. Davies’ “The Gospel of Brian,” the founder of what we might call “Brian Studies”1 compares the Christ of history with the Brian of history, revealing considerable wit and style in the process. Interesting observations about the cheerful nihilism of the end of the film abound. The second half of the book delves more deeply into issues of Biblical scholarship and archaeology, as well as questions of sexuality and Jewish identity that Life of Brian raises.

I can already see you yawning, but you shouldn’t; all of the contributors are fully aware that they’re engaged in the frog-dissecting business of analyzing a movie that was meant as entertainment, as a comedy, and by and large their tone remains as light and irreverent as that of the Pythons themselves. John Cleese, who participated in the conference, said, “I think it was somebody who said you were going to say, ‘What was the most interesting part that came out of Pythons?’ and as far as I’m concerned it’s this conference.” Terry Jones, the co-director of the film, echoed Cleese’s comment with an “Absolutely,” and contributed a preface to the collection in which he concludes, “The comparisons are always illuminating, and the commentaries are right on the nose.”

There’s no evidence in the Bible to indicate that Jesus ever laughed; this is a point that Cleese himself brought up at the conference. He wept, yes, according to John 11:35; but never an indication that he chortled, or even smiled. On the other hand, if Christ was fully human, it’s hard to believe he didn’t, with the apostles or with the money-changers and prostitutes with whom he often shared dinner. This is, though, nothing to be surprised at. The Bible is a collection of books of various genres composed over 500 years — of laws, of history, of letters, of poems — everything except jokebooks, it appears; but jokebooks are a rather late development.

If God invented everything, as some would have it, he invented satire and humor, too. In the end, we have G.K. Chesterton’s most interesting observation, from Orthodoxy:

And as I close this chaotic volume I open again the strange small book from which all Christianity came; and I am again haunted by a kind of confirmation. The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth.

The film Monty Python’s Life of Brian and this collection of essays may remind us of that. It’s something completely different, and worth a moment or two of reflection.


A few interesting videos mentioned in the book are below. The first is the 1979 debate between Pythons Cleese and Michael Palin versus Malcolm Muggeridge and Anglican bishop Mervyn Stockwood, broadcast on the BBC:

And, just to prove that parody is not beyond parody, here’s a satire of the same conversation — with Rowan Atkinson defending his film, Life of Christ, on the same basis that Cleese and Palin defended theirs — a little later on Not the Nine O’Clock News: