I lived around and in the city of Detroit for a short span of my mid twenties. It’s one of those periods of my life that I look back on with both fondness and a little embarrassment.
On the one hand, it was a truly revalatory experience–my introduction to the America beyond the East Coast that I’d never before known existed, and areas of study that I should have expected, but didn’t.
I don’t begin to know how to explain all that, except maybe to say that there turned out to be a lot more to agriculture than I’d expected.
And that there’s a lot to be said for all you can eat family-style fried chicken dinners.
I’ve always wanted to take my younger son–who is one of those people who weight 25 pounds in spite of consuming about 8,000 calories a day–to Frankenmuth. He might never leave.
The embarrassment comes from the fact that I knew, the whole time I was there, that I wasn’t really “pursuing graduate studies.” I was hiding out from taking the leap and seeing if I could be a wroter.
It’s been years since I spent any time in Detroit, but I can still remember it very clearly, both the good and the bad. Detroit used to have one of the best Greek Towns in the country after New York City. It was also the place where I first heard about a drive-by shooting, and where people celebrated a recent national crime survey by riding around in cars with bumperstickers that said: Detroit: Murder City–We’re Number One!
I have been watching the complete mess that has become of Detroit for about a year now, and I still don’t know what to think.
Certainly it’s the poster child for voting with your feet.
As the city became more and more dysfunctional, fewer and fewer people wanted to live there, and the people who could get out did get out.
Most of them don’t seem to have gone very far, because most of them haven’t had to. There are still fairly prosperous suburbs not that far over the city line, and businesses have moved to those as well as people.
Detroit itself has entered a weird phase that’s half dystopian novel and half urban fantasy: long stretched of vacant lots returning to the wild, complete with wildlife; people planting truck gardens to compensate for the fact that there are no grocery stores they can get to.
Along with this, of course, there has been a really remarkable level of violence. There are no longer enough police or firefighters to keep reliable order.
And that lack of reliability is killing all the rest.
It’s also causing a lot of paranoia.
It was almost certainly paranoia and the distinct understanding that the police can no longer be counted on to come when they’re called that led to the murder of a young woman named Renisha McBride.
Ms. McBride was driving through the city in the early morning hours when her car broke down. She went to the nearest house and started pounding on the door, asking for help.
Her pounding awakened Thomas Wafer from a sound sleep. He was alone in the house, and he was immediately convinced that he was about to be the victim of a home invasion.
He got his gun, went to the door where the pounding was coming from, opened up–and fired right through the screen at whatever was out there.
What was out there was Renisha McBride, and she was dead a few moments later.
If you want the whole story you can go here
and if you do, you’ll notice that Wafer, unlike George Zimmerman in Florida, was convicted of the killing.
Michigan has different laws than Florida’s, obviously.
But if you look more closely, you’ll see a few more things. Renisha McBride’s father himself said that he didn’t think the incident was primarily about race.
I told this to a friend of mine from graduate school, and she answered: of course it’s not about race. It’s about Detroit.
I get the point, I really do, but at the same time, I don’t think you can say that this case was not at all about race, because race is part of what everybody is paranoid about if they’re still living in Detroit.
Then there’s the ongoing crisis about the water, which has become an international incident.
That one took me a little while to figure out, and, from what I read in the comment threads of a couple of articles, I wasn’t the only one left confused.
The usual practice in the US is for residents and businesses to pay for the water they use.
This is not usually terribly expensive. Where I live, it runs about $300 a year for a household of four. What we pay helps to fund the upkeep of reservoirs and pipes and other equipment, and pays the guys who do all that. It also helps to keep people from wasting water.
The reason the Detroit water story was so confusing at first was because it was reported rather simply: the city of Detroit was turning off the water to hundreds of homes that were behind, often significantly behind, in the payments for their water bills.
For all the heavy breathing this story caused in Europe, Americans were largely flummoxed. The water department turned off the water on people who hadn’t paid their water bills? Okay. Is this a trick question?
As it turned out, it was a trick question. Detroit, it seemed, had just not bothered to collect on water bills, for years.
People weren’t a payment or two beind. They were sometimes as much as a decade behind.
Instead of doing what most places would do if they felt their poorer populations would have trouble paying the water bill–start some kind of program that paid the water company, issue vouchers that would help pay water bills the way food stamps help pay for food–the city had just gone on its way acting as if none of th is was happening.
Customers were sent bills. Customers ignored bills. Water department ignored customers ignoring bills.
And nobody, anywhere, bothered to explain to the City of Detroit why this wasn’t going to be able to go on forever.
It’s one of those things that makes you stop dead and go: no. wait. just a minute.
When the water department started terminating service to households who were not paying their bills, there were a lot of stories about how the city was terminating water service to poor people with unpaid bills, but not to businesses with unpaid bills.
This sounds like one of those Evil Corporations and the 1% get everything and you get screwed stories, except that in this case, so many employers have already left the city, and so many middle class taxpayers have gone with them, the city no longer has a tax base large enough to fund basic services.
It doesn’t want to see any more of these people go where their neighbors have gone.
If Detroit has any chance at all of getting itself out of this mess, it’s going to have to keep the businesses it has and bring a lot more in.
Personally, I don’t think Detroit is going to get itself out of this mess.
I think it’s going to collapse where it stands. In another ten years, I think there is going to be nothing left but abandoned buildings and vacant lots returned to some kind of quasi-natural state.
And then–then, I don’t know.
Maybe Detroit can adopt Shelley’s “Ozymandias” as its official poem.
Perry Mason had a Cadillac convertible. I don’t know what color it was, because the show was in black and white except for a single episode, and the convertible didn’t appear on that episode.
But Perry Mason had one, at least for the TV show, and the really amazing thing about that was: time after time, Mason was shown driving up to his office building with the top of the convertible down, parking in front of the building’s front door on a busy Los Angeles street, shutting the car off, taking the keys, and hurrying out to enter the building.
Notice what I did NOT say.
I did NOT say he put the top back up before leaving the car on the street.
He didn’t do that. He left the top down.
And he left the car open on the street.
And nobody ridiculed the scene, or talked about how that car would have been gone as soon as Mason got into the building and out of sight.
Of course, nobody complained about the possibility of rain, either, but this was supposed to be in LA, which is in the desert, and mostly dry.
What I can’t get out of my head is the fact that, in the 1950s and very early 1960s, nobody thought those scenes were unrealisitic.
In the 1950s and early 1960s, in LA, it was not implausible that you could park your convertible on the street with the top down and not have to worry about it getting stolen.
One of the things that has happened to me as I have gotten older is that I have begun to lose the sense of what I actually remember and what my memory has reconstructed to fit with what I wish things had been like.
That is why things like the Perry Mason episodes bring me up short, and why I’ve been increasingly fascinated with a CNN original series called The Sixties.
Leaving aside the narration or the construction or what the intentions of the producers were in presenting this show, there are lots and lots and lots and lots of clips, and those clips are just astonishing.
It is staggering to see just how polite we all were–Humphrey conceding to Nixon, Civil Rights icons giving speeches about integration, even teeny bopper screamers trying to get a glimpse of the Fab Four–everybody is neatly and half-formally dressed, nobody is indulging in Anglo Saxonisms, there’s virtually no slang and even the Beatniks are speaking mostly in standard English.
And no, that’s not because these clips lack “diversity.” There are plenty of black people in them. It’s just that the black people are also speaking standard English, whether they’re Martin Luther King or a sharecropper’s wife trying to register to vote.
In many ways, watching that CNN series is completely and utterly surreal.
It’s not just that there is “civility” where now there is none.
“Civility” doesn’t even begin to explain what is going on there.
One of the better words to describe what I was looking at might be “innocense.”
We were innocent in a way, then, that we are not any longer.
It hadn’t begun to occur to us that we needed to worry that somebody would steal our cars if we left them on the street with the top down.
Never mind worrying about other things like whether our next door neighbor was a pedophile with his eyes on our six year old or if the adolescent kid across the street had a gun in his room he was planning to use to blow away most of his classmates at the local high school.
I am not saying the times were actually innocent, because of course they were not.
This was the era of Charles Starkweather and the Clutter family murders. Pedophiles existed then as now. Bad people embezzled and robbed and raped.
But I think one of the things we had was an inner conviction that most people were good people, that the evil among us were an exception, not the rule.
That was a principle stressed over and over again in those old Perry Masons, both the TV show and the books: if a character believed that “everybody” was crooked, that said more about him than the world. That was a sign that he himself was crooked, and you had to watch out for him.
And this sea change–this shift to a place where we feel that most people are up to no good, that even under the skin of the seemingly most admirable among us there lurk the reality of corruption and vice and predation, to militarized police departments and schoolteachers convinced that the children in their classrooms are victims of abusive families who have to be rooted out and punished–
This sea change has come in spite of the fact that the actual incidence of crime, including gun violence and sexual predation, is far lower than it used to be.
It is no longer the case the boys get their first gun at the age of 10 and drive to school in pick up trucks with three rifles hanging on the gun rack in the rear windshield.
Part of this is, I know, a result of the distortion brought on by television news, amplified by the 24 hour cable cycle and the 24/7/365 Internet.
We now here about everything, everywhere, so that what is actually less crime and less danger perceived as more. 100 years ago, we wouldn’t have heard about the rape and murder of a teen aged girl in that took place several states away. It would have been a local, not a national, story.
There are no longer any truly local stories anywhere.
Some of this, though, is a real shift in attitude and understanding. We live in a world where almost everybody now assumes that if we hear a rumor about somebody and that rumor is discreditable–well, then it’s probably true.
And that makes me wonder how much of the change is due to the other thing that’s surreally different between then and now: the fact that we are no longer culturally coherent as a society.
The problem is not that we are now multiracial when we didn’t used to be. We’ve always been multiracial, and multiethnic, too.
The problem is that there is no specific public face that pretty much everybody strives to present.
I suppose I am saying that there was more conformity, and I am–but I’m think of that conformity as a matter of outward appearance, not of inward orthodoxy.
Study after study–yes, those studies; and no, you can’t trust them without looking into them–
Study after study has shown that ‘diversity” is actually bad for us in a number of ways. It decreases trust, for instance, and it makes people less willing to support things like social programs to aid the poor and unfortunate.
The more I look at it, though, the more I am convinced that the “diversity’ they’re talking about–the one with unplatable side effects–is a matter of surfaces.
People are lazy. They take other people at face value unless something occurs to make them reexamine their ideas.
If someone appears to be one of their own, most people accept that person as one of their own, without really thinking about it.
And race and ethnicity, in and of themselves, do not mark someone out as NOT one of their own.
I think the early Civil Rights movement understood this, which is why you get guys in suits like that of any banker and women working voter registration in crinolined skirts and little clutch hats.
The signal was not that everybody was alike, but that everybody wanted to be part of the same enterprise.
These days I think most people spend their time signalling that they DON’T want to be part of the same enterprise–and they send that signal no matter who they are, left or right, liberal or conservative.
Superficial individuation has become not a mark of true individuality, but of festering resentment: no, I’m not like you, and I don’t even want to be.
But people always have been, and always will be, more willing to do for their own than for people who don’t even seem to like them very much.
It’s not a matter of selfishness or racism or the hundred million other things we spend out time accusing each other of these days.
It is a matter of a willingness to see your fellow citizens as people you could at least potentially like and trust, and of being willing to make some surface accommodations to signal the fact.
And we’ve lost that.
And I think that’s a bad thing.
Every once in a while, I have a moment when I really don’t understand how I can claim to be a writer, since I don’t seem to be able to communicate anything to anyone.
Yesterday I tried to explain the difference between a totalizing fictional universe and your ordinary everyday fictional universe, and I seem to have failed utterly.
Lots of people do write fictional worlds that you can lose yourself in.
But Tolkein didn’t just do that.
There is such a fictional world in The Lord of the Rings, but there is also a complete grammar and alphabet in Elvish, which can be learned and is learned, and used, by hundreds of people every year. The appendicies for The Lord of the Rings contain history that appears in no novel. He wrote at least one companion volume–The Simillarion–that is supposedly one of the works referred to in the novels.
He didn’t just write a novel that gives the reader the allusion, for a time, that he’s living in a different world.
As far as he could, he constructed the elements of Middle Earth so that artefacts and records exist for it that normally do not appear anywhere except as the relics of actual civilizations. He provides the languages, and the histories, and the genealogies that provide information that occurs nowhere in the novels, or in some cases is referred to in the fiction only tangentially.
If that sort of thing exists for Barsoon, I’d be glad to see it–but my guess is that it does not.
In general, writers of fiction do not do that kind of thing. Rather, they evoke a “world” for which our only reference is to the fiction itself.
Before I wrote that blog post, I had a discussion with a friend about the fact that I thought Tolkein was the first person ever to do this.
I was told that it was not so, and that other writers had done “the same thing” both earlier than Tolkein and later.
I accepted that at face value, but it’s obvious from the comments yesterday that we weren’t talking about “the same thing” at all, but only about the ordinary kind of world-building novels have been doing for centuries.
So I’ll go back to where I started before I wrote that post–as far as I know, Tolkein was the first person ever to do this, to create not just a world in fiction, but to create the documents, devise the languages so that they could be learned and used to read and write, and all the rest of it.
I think Tolkein was such a powerful force on the culture that this kind of construction began to seem natural, which it most definitely is not.
What also happened was that, sometime in the last 20 years or so, we started to get writers, and sometimes fan comunities, who try to do the same thing.
You can read the Bible in Klingon–it’s up online. Which mean somebody worked out enough of Klingon as a language to make it possible to read and write it.
The Star Trek universe, like Middle Earth, now exists independently of the fiction that created it.
Someone who was so inclined could immerse himself (or herself) in that universe without every reading the books or seeing the television shows or movies.
It would be wrong to underestimate just how deeply one could immerse oneself in such alternate worlds–the Star Trek have their own charities, their own celebrants for weddings and funerals and “naming days,” thick books of philosophy and ethics and history from every world in the fictional universe.
It is becoming possible for people who would rather live in that world that this, to do it.
And the almost is not a small thing.
But there is a movement in fantasy and science fiction to try to create such worlds–worlds with “extras” outside the fiction, worlds which can exist independently of the fiction that created them.
And that is something qualitatively different than our normal ideas of a “fictional world.”
And that, I think, is a very interesting development.
So, the last few days I’ve been doing a lot of actual work and not much on the blog, but when I haven’t been working, I’ve been reading.
And in another twelve pages or so, I will have finished the last of the appendices at the end of The Lord of the Rings, which means I’ll be able to say that I’ve actually read the thing. The whole thing.
All of it. Not just some of it.
Although, given the nature of the appendices, I can’t say that I actually understood all of it.
I went through the appendix on pronunciation twice, and I still can’t pronounce anything.
At one point, Tolkein explains that “ng” in this case is pronounced as in “sing” and not in “finger,” and I’m still unable to figure out any way in which the “ng” in those two words are different.
Part of me is convinced that there is no such way, and that Tolkein was just yanking everybody’s chain.
That aside, though, I still have a healthy respect for any writer who could name something Mount Doom and still get taken seriously.
For better or worse, it was about what I expected–way too many action sequences for me, and occassionally lapsing into that sort of quasi-”olde” language that makes me a little nuts, but on the whole something I had a good time with.
None of that should come as a surprise, and with any luck there will be the minimum of yelling.
But surprised or otherwise, there’s something in this that has me interested.
So I am going to make a suggestion.
In spite of the almost certain yelling.
What distinquishes these books for me–and what distinquishes the whole of Tolkein’s work taken together for a lot of people–is not any particular detail or details about the events of the novels, but the fact that all of it is part of a single totality.
Tokein created not just the suggestion of a world that is necessary to the successful execution of any novel, but a fictional totality, with its own languages, geography, history, you name it–in far more detail than is necessary to write or understand the books.
This is now a common thing. My sons, who can get fairly insane on the subject of fantasy, tell me that many fans these days judge a writer by how completely and successfully he can create such a total world.
What people want is not just stories, good or bad or otherwise, and not just characters that engage them, but complete worlds that can operate independently and that have the kind of texture that real civilizations are supposed to have.
Are supposed to have–but maybe don’t, any longer.
Homer’s world was complete and self referential not because he made it that way, but because it was that way.
The people knew the names of the heroes and the names of the gods, the peculiarities of the land and the stories about them, the names of important battles and the nicknames of important kings–well, because they knew them.
It was in the very air they breathed. It didn’t need to be explained to anyone but very young children, and very young children learned it the way children now learn to sing the jingles on television commercials.
I am not going to go into a long rant about how debased our modern culture is, although I think it’s pretty debased in some cases (think Dating Naked).
I am going to say that I think it may be one of those “distinctions of being human” things that human beings live mostly in a context of history and legend.
Societies define who and what they are not by teaching it to children in schools–although they do that, too–but by referencing the important aspects of their identity in literally everything they do.
What’s more, the part of the individual in all this is not passive. Each person learns the stories because the stories are there to be learned. Each person applies the stories toh is or her own life. Each person understands himself and the world he lives in through those stories.
What is important is made so by the context into which it can be fitted–or not.
There is an old saying that traditional societies see utopia in the past, and modern ones see it in the future.
It’s not a bad distinction as those things go, but I wonder if the modern version is workable for most people.
Surely we are living now in a world without a shared remembered past. At least in the West, we inhabit a kind of eternal present.
We don’t know what came before us, but most of us can’t imagine anything much different happening in the future.
We’re just sort of here.
I think the problem is much wider than the usual complaint that we ought to be teaching our children better in school. Surely we should be teaching them, but if we HAVE to teach them, we’re already in more trouble than we realize.
Even in as late a time as when I went to kindergarten, most kids came to their first day of school already knowing about Noah’s ark and the birth of Jesus, the Pilgrims and the ride of Paul Revere, not because anybody had sat down to teach us, but because we lived immersed in them.
If our parents didn’t teach them, we saw them on television, or they were in the children’s books that were read to us, or other kids explained to the dumb baby all about Thanksgiving.
If my students are to be believed, all of that is already gone.
It’s not only the children of immigrants who come to class these days without a common culture.
It’s everybody–and it’s not a case (except, perhaps, with some of the immigrants) that they just come in with DIFFERENT cultures.
My students come in with no reference points at all except the ruthlessly individual. They don’t see themselves in the context of anything.
They develop vague ideas about right and wrong, past and future, and especially what is “fair,” but these things constitute a world of dotted lines that don’t connect to anything.
I keep getting the feeling that people can’t really live this way.
If their lives have no context, they’ll go looking for some–on ancestry.com, maybe, or in politics or religion, or–
Or in created worlds, worlds that work as worlds are supposed to work, worlds that make sense because they are whole and not a collection of fragments.
And not just in Tolkein, either. There are now dozens of successful fantasy and science fiction authors creating whole worlds.
Most of them don’t go to the kind of trouble Tolkein did to invent entire languages with syllabaries and grammars, but most readers don’t go to the kind of trouble diehard Tokein fans do to try to learn the languages.
Tolkein is, for most of my students, difficult to read.
When they read fanatasy and science fiction–or, more likely, become entranced with fantasy and science fiction television or movies–they largely choose authors whose names I don’t recognize.
But choosing the author is just the beginning of a complicated process that includes conventions, local fairs, even choosing a name in their newly acquired universe. The Harry Potter fans sort themselves into houses.
I am not denigrating the activity. Students who get involved in those kinds or worlds are usually doing better than average on almost every measure.
It grounds them in a way that most of their fellow students can’t seem to manage.
But you’ve got to wonder how long we can do this and still stay together as one society.
When I was very small, I was fascinated by organizations.
I think it was the formalities of organizations that I liked–orders of nuns, for instance, and the Girl Scouts with their ranks and badges, and college sororities.
I even invented a couple of them, including something I named the Nancy Drew Detective Club, which I based on a book about detective techniques put out by the same publisher, and another one–that I called the Ennead–that seemed to be organization for the sake of organization.
I think we’ve all gone through the thing about how I was a very strange child–I invented the Nancy Drew Detective Club when I was eight–so let’s go right past that part to two things.
First, you’ll notice that all the things I mentioned that existed in the real world were organizations of women and girls. I never seemed to have any interest in organizations for men an boys. The Boy Scouts and the Hardy Boys left me cold.
Second, the fact is that the fascination with organizations has not gone away. I’m still interested in women’s religious orders of the very traditional variety, the Girl Scouts, and college sororities, although I don’t create my own organizations any more.
Okay. I think about it every once in a while.
Today, however, I want to consider these people
They are definitely an organization, but they’re an organization for men.
I stumbled across them about a week and a half ago because I was reading an article that went into detail about Theodore Roosevelt, and one of the things it mentioned was that he belonged, at Harvard, to the fraternity called Alpha Delta Phi.
I looked it up because it was a slack part of the day and I just wanted to check,and it endedup being interesting on a number of levels.
In the first place, it wasn’t founded as a fraternity as we understand fraternities today. It was founded as a “literary society,” and “literary society” is still part of how it describes itself today.
It describes itself as a “literary society” because, at the time it first came to be, literary societies were a hot ticket on college campuses. In an era when no fiction or poetry was taught at the college level except that of the Greeks and the Romans, young men who wanted to know more about Byron or Keats or whoever it was who was the best knew thing in then-modern poetry and fiction had to do it on their own.
There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with this. College students do similar things now when they have an interest that isn’t covered in the curriculum.
What strikes an off-note are the circumstances surrounding the founding of the initial ADPhi chapter, and what has become of the fraternity since.
The circumstances are a little vague–there were two other literary societies at Hamilton College at the time, and the student who founded ADPhi joined one of them, but he was unhappy, because he thought both the existing societies used “unscrupulous” methods to recruit members.
What these methods were, I can’t begin to guess, but as a result of them Samuel Ells constructed ADPhi and offered membership to members of both the existed clubs, although not to all the members of all existing clubs.
And that, of course, sounds more like fraternities as we know them today than like a ‘literary society’ devoted to discussion of modern fiction and poetry.
The ADPhi web site’s home page say that it has “retained its focus on its literary roots, by attracting only the best students at the more prestigious colleges and universities in Canada and the United States.
That, too, sounds more like a modern college fraternity than like a literary society, except that recruiting “the best students” doesn’t seem to be what college fraternities are interested in these days.
If you look at ADPhi’s history, you’ll find that “recruiting the best” may have had something to do with the organization’s development. Aside from Teddy, ADPhi boasts FDR and a string of Supreme Court justices and other high-achieving alumni.
It also boasts, or not, Alger Hiss.
And then there’s the persistent rumor that it was the ADPhi house at Dartmouth that provided the model for National Lampoon’s Animal House.
In other words, for all the quirks and foibles–some of its chapters broke off, renamed themselves the Alpha Delta Phi Society and went co-ed–it sounds as if ADPhi is a fraternity much like all the others, where the point seems to be drinking too much and keeping people out.
My question is: why?
I think one of the reasons I so much love organizations is that, in my head somewhere, it seems to me that they should operate differently than the rest of society.
The people who become a part of them should have different motives, different default zones, different beings, maybe, than the rest of us.
By now I have read enough memoirs of ex-nuns, and known enough ex-nuns, I have been a Girl Scout, I have had students and friends who were members of college sororities–
And the bottom line is that organization does not seem to make much of a difference to the human personality, and that the natural history of organizations always seems to be the same.
Where you start may make a difference to how long it takes for that natural history to work itself out, but that natural history always works itself out, and always in the same way.
They become insular and clique-y. They become engines of keeping people out. And they become dominated by their least intelligent and most abrasive members.
Sometimes, I think human beings have a death wish.
I am having one of those days when I just can’t seem to settle down no matter what I do.
That sounds all angsty and portentious, like one of those movies where some woman just can’t stand her successful New York life anymore and goes off traveling to Cordoba and Tibet in search of meaning.
What it most likely is, in actuality, is the one flaw in my favorite tea.
My favorite tea is what’s called Double Bergamot Earl Grey from the Stash Tea Company out in Oregon somewhere. They have a web site at
although there’s no particular reason you should check it out. It’s tea. It’s really good tea at a moderately reasonable price.
It is not ragingly gourmet tea that has to be talked about in the kind of language most people use for wines.
And no. I don’t get the wine thing either.
At any rate, it’s very decent tea and I love it, and every morning I take two tea bags, put them in a 60 ounce cup, pour boiling water over them and steep the whole thing for 15 to 20 minutes.
All of this being the result of the fact that I don’t much like the taste of coffee, but I like the effects of caffeine very much.
Okay. I like the taste of those frappucino things you can get at Starbucks.
The not being able to settle down problem is usually the result of that one little flaw, and that is that the Stash company, being conscientiously environmentalist, uses some kind of material for its tea bags that will, every once in a while, leak.
It will leak little chips of dried tea, which float around in the liquid and which I sometimes swallow without realizing it.
It’s like having a continually steeping tea bag right in your gut, and the caffeine it puts out after a while is truly remarkable.
Of course, Stash tea bags are paragons of structural integrity compared to the tea bags from REAL hippie tea providers, some of which explode on touch.
I say that if I’d wanted to use a strainer, I’d have bought the tea loose.
One way or the other, Stash is the best Earl Grey I’ve found yet, and one of the few that offers double bergamot. It’s not like I’m going to give it up.
The tea jumpiness was exacerbated this morning by the fact that I’ve been reading, over the last two or three days, the Penguin Classics edition of Confucius’s Analects.
I’m stressing the edition because Penguin Classics editions always have at least an introduction, an often have other explantory matter having to do with the work.
In the case of the Analects, there has been more explanatory matter than actual work, which turns out to be a very good thing.
Confucius turns out to be one of those writers of whom I had a vague sense without ever having actually read, but whom I still was convinced I “got.”
Well, not “got” as to specifics.
“Got” as to: this is THAT kind of thing.
The THAT kind of thing I thought Confucius was came under the heading “one of the great religious and moral writers of all time.”
I was aware that Confucius was more moral than religious–that he did not write about God or the gods as much as about the right way to live.
I also had vague ideas about “ancestor worship,” but my sense of that was that Confucius was in favor of it because reverence for ancestors helped keep order and discipline.
What I was expecting–sincerely and honestly expecting–was something like the Buddhist scriptures. Lots of emphasis on self abnegation, doing good to others, being one with our fellow man.
There is, indeed, a fair amount of emphasis in the Analects about what we owe to our fellow man, but it turns out that our fellow man isn’t all other human beings.
People fall into categories in Confucius’s universe, and the two main categories are “our fellow man” and “the common people.”
“Our fellow men” are people like ourselves, born into the educated and cultivated families, destined to take part in government.
“The common people” are everybody else.
Our job, and the job of “our fellow man” is to take care of the common people like a mother takes care of a nursing infant.
There is no other category here–nothing to suggest that Confucius or his disciples even considered the possibility that somebody born poor, or somebody of great wealth who came from a merchant family rather than a government one, could have enough going on in his head to run his own affairs, never mind that of the country.
And this at the time when the Chinese merchant class represented the greatest international traders the world had ever seen.
If you want a possible explanation for why the Chinese invented so much, discovered so much, conquered so much, and never did anything with it–Confucius would be a good place to start.
Socrates was a sage because he taught people to know themselves. Christ was a sage because he taught people to know the mind of God. Confucius is a sage because he knows the principles that, properly followed, will result in our being able to take part in government, at high levels or low.
A lot of what Confucius apparently taught–I say apprently, because there’s actually very little in the Analects about specifics–had to do with what is usually translated “the rites,” but seems to be something more like etiquette.
It is enormously important that the proper format for each and every kind of meeting and contact be carried out exactly. It is so important that someone who fudges this kind of thing is deemed to be unfit for government service, and ONLY government service allows you to be classed among “our fellow men.”
It says something about human nature that a society so constituted could last so long–and it did last long. It certainly lasted longer than the Roman Empire.
My head says that this thing must have operated with more flexibility in the day to day, or it would have fallen apart in no time–but possibly I’m wrong.
China gave us the first of the great bureaucracies, and bureaucracies have a staying power I sometimes find Satanic.
Virtually everything Confucius stresses is about externals.
Where most of the world’s great religions stress the substance rather than the form, the intent rather than the practice, Confucius makes one’s interior life of secondary importance to one’s outward observance.
God rejected Cain’s sacrifice because he didn’ like what he saw in Cain’s heart.
Confucius rejects the most sincere supplicant if the external rules of the ceremony aren’t exactly right.
This is less like moral advice than a networking seminar at the Harvard Business school.
Right now, I’m trying to tell myself that I may be getting this entirely wrong–and I may be. This is not an area I know a great deal about.
Confucius stressed always that the state and the individual (of the right classes) must follow the Way, and the Way seems to be the Tao.
It’s been an unbelievably long time since I read Lao Tzu, and I don’t remember it. Possibly the moral insight I expected to find in the Analects is there, and if I can unearth the thing from the piles of books in this house, all this will begin to seem less bizarre.
Perhaps, but my guess is–probably not.
Christ says that when a man hits you, you should turn the other cheek. Buddha didn’t countenance violence of any kind against anyone or anything.
Confucius says that if somebody does you a bad turn, you should retaliate.
Not only does the person who did you a bad turn need to be punished and corrected, but if you return good for bad, what can you later return for good?
There’s a lot that’s eminently practical in all that.
But it really wasn’t what I was expecting.
Sometimes I sit here and read back over the last few days’ posts and wonder how I got to where I got to.
This morning, I’m chalking it up to lack of sleep.
But since I did manage to sleep through last night, let me give it one more try.
In the initial post on this topic, I stated outright that cases in which people starve themselves through anorexia or multiple plastic surgeries or whatever were NOT what I was talking about when I was talking about having ideals that are unattainable but that you still need to pursue.
I called those things neurotic, which is what in fact they are.
I was displeased with the whole idea of the “body acceptance” thing NOT because I think people should run around trying to be taller, but because I think it represents a strain of thinking in this era that is almost entirely destructive.
“Things are just the way they are and I have to learn to live with them” is a philosophy for misery without hope.
It’s sitting on your butt going, “well, hundreds of kids die of polio and there’s nothing we can do about it. We just have to watch then die.”
It’s watching your crops die because of inadequate rain and going “well, that’s just what happens sometimes, we’ll just have to starve.”
Holding impossible ideals and trying to meet them is not subsisting on 40 calories a day and submitting to 400 plastic surgeries.
It’s going “I don’t ever want to see any of my children die of polio again, so I’m going to sit here with this microscope and hammer away at the problem and maybe I’ll come up with a solution.”
It’s “I may not be the sharpest tool in the box, but if I study three times as much as everybody else I may be able to learn this anyway.”
I think that there is something inexpressibly shameful about the idea that we should all just sit here and put up with it.
That our response to the world is “well, that’s the way it is, and that’s the way I am, and I might as well not bother trying to change it.”
To Lymaree, the “body acceptance movement” is about talking people out of starving themselves and getting liposuction every two years.
To me, the “body acceptance movement” is that guy who weighed 1,000 pounds getting the roof of his house cut off so that he could be airlifted out the top of it to get to the hospital.
But either way, being human is about NOT accepting that things are just what they are. It’s about NOT being “comfortable” all the time because, hey, we’re just another animal and nothing more can or should be required of us but just being.
And that brings me back to Dating Naked and the people who appear in it.
One of the things I think is required of us is to behave AS human beings, and not as “just another animal.”
Clothing our nakedness is both practical and symbolic.
It is practical because, yes, it does get cold in Finland in the winter, and even in Florida.
And too much sun isn’t necessarily all that physically pleasant, either.
It is symbolic because it is one of the ways in which we distinguish ourselves as NOT “just another animal,” and in doing so show respect for ourselves and each other.
Going on television in front of millions of people stark naked is not about “accepting your body.”
It’s about rejecting your body as an actually human body.
It’s about defining yourself down not only to less than you are, but to less than you’re supposed to be.
And yes, part of that is that definitely that most of us will never even approximate physical perfection.
No, that doesn’t mean that we should never get naked.
It does mean that we should restrict the revelation of our nakedness to people we can trust not just to accept the imperfction of it, but to treasure it.
And, trust me, that won’t be a standard to be met among a million five television viewers.
Showing up on television for a first date naked says we do not respect ourselves enough to protect our vulnerable, and we don’t have enough respect for anybody else to present ourselves at our best for them.
It’s like showing up at your interview at a law firm with dirty hair, grime under your fingernails, torn jeans and a T-shirt covered with mustard stains.
It was one of those odd coincidences. I was reading the comments for the last blog yesterday while I was watching a retrospective on the Apollo 11 moon landing–yesterday was 45 years since we first walked on the moon.
If the two things seem to have nothing to do with each other, give me a minute. Because to me, they’re two sides of the same situation.
Although, I’ll admit, only one side of that seems to me to be a problem.
Someone said that there was no point in striving to meet an impossible standard–and that attempting to do such a thing might even be harmful.
The answer given was “trying to be taller,” which, of course, would be both useless and a waste of time.
But I contend that the example is not pertinent, and the premise is very, very wrong.
1) In the first place, no ideal is achievable. That’s why it’s an ideal.
This history of civilization–of all civilizations, inclusive–is the history of the human race’s war against the inevitable: against imperfection, and decay, and death.
Of course, none of these things is achievable, as far as we know.
But that really is irrelevant. The attempt to overcome those things, the will to perfection at any cost, gets us everything we value and most of what we take for granted in “modern’ societies.
It gets us vaccines and moon flights and wheat that feeds twenty times as many people as the old kind and Homer singing about Hector slain and indoor plumbing and the perfect curve of the David’s forehead. It gets us John Donne and Charlie Parker. It gets us a world where we spend our time fretting that our poor people are too fat.
Sometimes I think I’m the only person left on earth who understands how completely bizarre that is.
So no, I don’t think it’s pointless to aspire to an ideal whose standard we can never meet.
2) For all the talk about what one “culture” or “society” or another considers beautiful, one of the stranger realities of human existence is just how narrow our standards of beauty–male as well as female–really are.
We do this, I think, because we tend to confuse beauty with two things that are somewhat related, but not nearly the same thing: fashion, and sexual desirability.
Fashion is various and changes constantly. The rule there is “let me show how I’m doing something new that is so expensive it proves I’m richer than you are.”
In societies with more scope, there are sometimes subcultures whose standard of fashion is something that proves that they’re YOUNGER than you.
The principle thing to remember about fashion is that, unless you’re dealing with the younger thing, it can be bought.
Sexual desirability runs on an emotional engine that has little to do with looks per se and everything to do with biology.
Most of us are primed to want sex, at least when we’re young, and we are drawn to a wide variety of types and personalities.
But wanting to have sex with somebody, even a strong sexual attraction to somebody, is not the same as finding that person beautiful.
And there are more cases than anybody can count of people, and especially women, with nothing special in the way of beauty at all who still scorch the landscape when it comes to sexual partners.
3) Beauty–as opposed to attractiveness–is something colder and more abstract. It’s also something like a force of nature.
And it never lasts.
Physical perfection is achievable in human beings only in the short run.
As soon as the first signs of death and decay appear–the first small wrinkles in women, the first atrophying of muscle mass in men–the game is over. The perfect is, by definition, eternal. The temporary lacks perfection because it is temporary.
This is not to say that people who begin as beautiful can’t end up as very good looking. Some beautiful people fall into ruin, but others just go on looking great, if without the incredible pull they had in their youth.
Witness Maria Schell.
4) The preference for youth, especially in women, is almost certainly biological.
At the core of each and every one of us is a biological imperative that says: be fruitful and mulitply.
Nature wants us to multiply A lot. And women reach the end of their childbearing years a lot earlier than men.
Lymaree’s observation that “society” says the standard of beauty is perpetual sexual attraction is wrong on two counts. It’s not a standard of beauty. And it’s not society that has erected it.
Like it or not, in every human society everywhere, women past menopause will be the least honored members.
What seem to be exceptions to this rule are actually deliberate and carefully devised attempts to “fix” the problem of middle aged women in one manner or another–and those fixes never more than half work.
We live now, however, in a society where the fixes have all broken down, to be replaced by an emphasis on equality of opportunity in business, academia, government and the professions.
That’s a fix, too, and like all the other fixes, it only half works.
In spite of all that, the fixes are the good news–they’re part of that thing where we don’t accept ourselves as just another animal, but insist on fighting the inevitable.
But half working being what it is, we end up with Ruth Bader Ginsberg on the Supreme Court and bouncy little blondes analyzing the government while clueless on all the cable news stations.
6) I think the real issue here is the fear of many women that to get older–to no longer be sexually attractive–is to become invisible, unloved, alone.
And that’s not a baseless fear. A woman can be Ruth Bader Ginsberg, but it’s a status she has to win, and not everybody can win it. In fact, the vast majority of women can’t win it.
What’s more, the traditional hedge against aging–having a large family committed to your welfare–is in direct conflict with earning a place in the professional world that will guarantee you recognition on your own.
Large families have become so unusual that there is very little accommodation for them. And they’ve become so prohibitively expensive, it’s hard to know how they’d get on even there were such accommodations.
But the important thing here is that this problem cannot be solved by “body acceptance” or any of the other fashionable “social” movements that crop up here and there.
The fact that you accept your body does not mean that anybody else will, and it does nothing to change the landscape of the social world into one that asks other things from people than the way they look.
7) I agree that the kind of people who likely end up on Dating Naked do not understand the word “human” as I’ve used it, or even realize that there is that sense of “human” to be.
But that doesn’t mean they can’t understand it.
And that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t understand it.
To not understand–to live the way they live now–is to hit 40 and fall off a cliff.
One of the things that happens to me sometimes is that I get so tired, I can’t get myself to move even though moving would definitely do me good.
That happened to me a couple of nights ago, on the same day I had the terrible headache, and it resulted in what it usually does: after dinner, being completely exhausted, I sat down on the love seat and flipped channels.
Looking for God only knows what, or nothing. Nothing is probably closer to the truth.
What usually happens to me in cases like that is that I flip until I’m staring at the walls, and then I go to bed.
Every once in a while, though, I stumble onto something that attracts my attention, and the day before yesterday, or whenever it was, was one of those.
What I stumbled on was an episode of a new reality show airing on VH1, the rock and rap music station rival to MTV.
This show is called Dating Naked, and it’s about sending newly introduced couples on dates–you guessed it–naked.
Now, there is a lot that could be said here about this particular phenomenon, at least once I got my jaw up off the floor.
There is a very deep seated part of me that is astonished anybody exists out there with so little sense of self that they could expose themselves in that way. I felt the same after reports that Paris Hilton was flashing her vagina to photographers and she walked down the red carpet.
But for the moment I want to get to something else.
Once I’d watched about five minutes of this thing, I posted about it on FB, and also noted that the people in the show were…how to say this?…not very attractive.
This is largely the truth about the people who appear in reality shows of the more embarrassing kind. The casts of Jersey Shore, Party Down South and that kind of thing tend to be personally obnoxious, bone deep stupid, and physically–sort of lumpish.
Either that, or the kind of skinny usually associated with Depression-era photojournalism.
What interested me is that somebody commented by saying that nudism generally was supposed to be “about body acceptance,” and that stopped me dead.
Let me start with a disclaimer.
I understand that there are people out there in the world who have problems with what is fashionably called “body image.” They obsess about their weight. They starve themselves down to 40 pounds and a heart attack. They get multiple plastic surgeries.
People like that are doing themselves harm, and they do indeed need to “accept” themselves more.
And even people without these obsessions ought to at least be onto themselves–to know what they are, and to be able to live with it.
But all this concentration on the neurotics of body image has resulted in a society-wide drive to convince people that they ought to love themselves “just the way they are,” as if feeling satisfied with yourself and in no way compelled to live up to any standard were the highest possible achievement, next to which nothing is necessary.
Let’s acknowledge something true.
Almost nobody looks good naked.
That, far more than warmth or protection from the elements, is why we have clothes.
It is a testament to the power of sex that it can overwhelm any aesthetic sense anybody has ever had, but we are still left with the reality that most men and women lure each other into bed with make up and costume.
The aesthetics of the human body, however, are like all aesthetics everywhere: they’re a counsel of perfection. They are about what we ought to strive to be, not what we necessarily can be, and certainly not what we are.
Even fashion models and actors, people professionally concerned with embodying the ideal, rarely actually embody it.
And when they do embody it at the beginning of their careers, they rarely do by the end.
What’s more important is that they never embody it unless they work at it very hard.
It was the luck of the draw that made it possible for Chris Hemsworth to look like Chris Hemsworth, but he only actually looks like Chris Hemsworth by making a lot of trips to the gym and being very careful about what goes down his throat.
For me, one of the hallmarks of a civilization–of all civilizations–one of the ways we know that what we are looking at IS a civilization, and not just a culture in the anthropological sense, is this business of defining ideals above and beyond what just “comes naturally,” and of insisting that men and women live up to those ideals as far as they can.
Civilization is not about comfort and acceptance, but about discomfort and frustration–about knowing that we fall short of what we should be.
And that until we do as much as we can to be what we ought to be, we are not really living a human life.
The people on Dating Naked seem to me to have abandoned their humanity in any meaningful sense.
They bring nothing to the project of being human.
To the extent that they capture our attention at all, it is as that “human animal” so beloved of the New Atheists–no better than any other species on the planet, nothing special, nothing to see here that couldn’t be seen in an ant colony or a lion pride.
Except that there is something that can be seen, if people choose to create it–and it is a choice.
There’s “The Kreutzer Sonata (Beethoven)” and Michelangelo’s David, the poetry of John Donne and the plays of Shakespeare, the moon landing and vaccines for polio and antibiotics and the Empire State Building and the Taj Mahal.
Yes, we should treat our animals better, but they’ll only survive cancer or the next ice age if we step in to help them.
There is something that is just so damned small about the vision of life and humanness offered up in Dating Naked, never mind the sheer ugliness of the physical aspects of people who firmly believe that being human requires no effort on their part at all.
Or maybe a little–the amount it takes to put in a few piercings and tattoos, most of which start to sag when the skin does, which looks…
If the purpose of things like this is to get us to accept ourselves as we are, I think I’m against them.
As far as I can tell, all the good in the world has come from the people who refuse to accept themselves that way, and insist on doing better, and doing more.
I usually think it’s a very bad sign when I come off writing with a screaming awful headache, and here I am sitting at the computer at the end of the morning with a screaming awful headache.
What’s more, I just went out and put Beethoven on the player, and not just any Beethoven, but Beethoven with pianos.
Have I mentioned before that I really don’t like the sound of the piano?
I make an exception for Thelonius Monk, but what’s playing isn’t Thelonius Monk, it’s “The Kreutzer Sonata.”
I’m very fond of “The Kreutzer Sonata,” but–head pounding; piano pounding.
I’m in a mood.
I’d like you to remember that I’m in a mood before you read what follows, because I’m not really okay with being yelled at.
And some of you are going to want to yell.
I am almost at the end of Tolkein’s The Two Towers, the second part of my foray into reading all of The Lord of the Rings this summer.
All of the people I’m close to who really love Tolkein say that this is their favorite book in the trilogy.
What’s more, all of them feel that this book is the one Peter Jackson got absolutely wrong in the movies, although they didn’t all have the same reasons for feeling that.
One of them told me that, in the book, Sarumon was not a Big Evil Presence but a sort of bureaucratic Nurse Ratched. One of them told me that the Ents had been absolutely defamed.
I like the Ents. The Ents were my favorite part of this book. I hope they find the Entwives.
I have no idea where my other friend got the idea that the Sarumon of the book was more of a bureaucratic dictator than the standard Evil Presence of the movie. Evil Presence seems to me to be exactly what he is in the book, and I’ve come away thinking that Jackson got that part exactly right.
But what really got to me was this–what do people see in this thing?
People have battles. Then they sit around talking about people having battles. Most of the battles they talk about happened a long time ago, and are described in language that sounds to me half faux-Shakespeare and half American Movie Indian circa 1935.
Fortunately for the way I read books, the faux-language stuff in restricted to dialogue and doesn’t last very long. The rest of the book feels very well written.
But–battles? Really? Why?
Before you all start yelling at once–and I know there is going to be yelling–I do understand that I am in the minority here.
Most people seem to find battles very exciting, and to want lots and lots of them, in movies and in books.
It’s been a very long time since either of my children hauled me off to see a movie, but when they did those movies almost always contained long battle scenes with lots of explosions and loud noises and death and destruction.
They took me to Fellowship of the Ring three times.
And, like I said, I’m not unaware that this is what everybody else in the world but me seems to want.
Movies and books with battle and other action scenes make a lot of money, certainly a lot more money than the kind of thing I like.
If I were a studio exec, looking for a movie project that would not bankrupt my studio, I’d defintely be on the look out for something with lots of action in it, and not for this season’s version of Remains of the Day.
And, by the way, there’s a movie that’s better than its book.
But back to the point.
At base, my problem is that I do not understand what people find interesting in action scenes.
Any kind of action scenes. Battles are actually better than a lot of action scenes, in that they tend to be more coherent. But–
In other words, action scenes–in books as in movies–always seem to me to be like sports.
There is some kind of arbitrary goal, defined at the beginning. Everybody spends the next x amount of time running around furiously to achieve this goal, and the person who achieves it first “wins.”
Then my FB news feed is full of people proclaiming the enduring awesomeness of the Cubs or the Packers.
I know there are situations in the real world where I would be more attentive and care more about the outcome of physical contests.
If my country was actually being attacked, I’d find it both important and interesting to know the outcome of the battle.
What it comes down to, I think, is that I don’t find such things intrinsically interesting.
If I’ve got actualy skin in the game, I will definitely find it all very compelling.
But if I don’t, I don’t see what there is about it I should care about.
And I especially don’t understand why I should care about the details.
It’s important to the story to know that Napoleon fails to take Moscow?
Tell me that Napoleon fails to take Moscow and be done with it.
Don’t force me through page after page of prose about who took a bullet here and who had his horse shot out from under him there, and how many yards into allied territory the enemy advanced before being forced back.
It’s that kind of thing that has stopped me from reading War and Peace. In spite of a near absolute commitment to finishing every book I start, I get to the first of the Napoleonic battles in that one and my eyes glaze over.
It’s also why I read my way through the big battle scene episodes of Band of Brothers, one of my favorite video productions ever.
Yes, it is very important that we won the Battle of the Bulge, but I don’t understand why, in order to know that, I have to sit through twenty minutes of big explody noises and people screaming.
A military strategist may need that twenty minutes, but I really don’t.
Of course, as I’ve said, my impatience with this sort of thing is definitely a minority taste.
There is definitely something about battles–maybe I should say physical contests–that draws virtually everybody else’s attention.
And far fewer people find their attention drawn to the kind of thing that fascinates me.
If I was picking the projects for a movie studio, we’d go broke.
But I wish I understood what it is people are looking at when they watch these kinds of things, what they find in them that makes them excited and that feels important.
Because to me, it’s all like that thing from Shakespeare.
Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.