obiter dicta

Obiter Dicta, no. 56

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The dreadful fact is that there is no God. But what if there is a multitude of gods, small gods of small things, all the small things of the world?

What Horace is telling Leuconoe is this: everything that is needed lies at hand, if only we know how to taste and appreciate it. Spiritual sustenance comes from a winter view, the snow-whitened peak of a familiar mountain; from a beloved waterfall, with ilex growing from the rocks; from the apparent monotony of the sea’s waves; from wine, the great heartener and restorer of spirits; from friendship and conversation; and from love, so long as we do not expect too much from it or grab hold of it with too much vehemence. Horace’s way is the way of worshipping small things and small gods.

— Harry Eyres, Horace and Me: Life Lessons from an Ancient Poet

In our current populist-nationalist moment, there are a number of prominent voices announcing and praising the return of the strong gods. They would no doubt prefer the term “idols” for those Horatian miniatures, which they see as shallow pleasures appealing to hollow men. Others, like Peter Watson and Anthony Kronman, have each in their own way called for renewed attention to the transient things of this world in place of grand hopes of otherworldly salvation; Kronman even names his ideal “born-again paganism.” Who will turn out to be more prescient? Who knows? Let the ambitious ghost-hunters attempt to capture the zeitgeist in a narrative; I prefer the poetry of everyday visible life, expressed with haiku-like brevity. Quod satis est, said Horace. Santutthi paramam dhanam, said Buddha. Bonsai minimalism, said some insignificant blogger. Let it be enough.

Obiter Dicta, no. 55

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I read these magazines in the first place — there is no second place — in the hope that in doing so, I shall keep up with some of the things that preoccupy the culture in its wider, sometimes more youthful, often wildly excessive aspects. I tell myself I do so because it is the duty of the writer to try to grasp the unique quality of his time and make sense of it.

— Joseph Epstein, “An Extremely Well Informed SOB,” Narcissus Leaves the Pool

In theory, that sounds compelling. In practice, the “unique quality of [our] time” is often senseless and not worth grasping:

Obiter Dicta, no. 54

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Undergraduate education is probably best begun at the age of forty, when one is a bit wiser about the world and so can better test the wisdom of both books and teachers.

— Joseph Epstein, “Time on My Hands, Me in My Arms,” With My Trousers Rolled

This is certainly true in my case. It is a poignant irony that I only realized how suited I would have been to the life of a humble scholar once that door had been long closed to me. Like the dog in Aesop’s fable, I was too busy snapping at illusory bones, like a musical career, to fully appreciate the one I already had in my mouth, namely a passion for learning kindled by philosophy class. In the ancient Hindu conception of the four Ashramas, I’m firmly situated in the Grihastha stage. But since I already did most of my big-picture philosophizing and spiritual-seeking in my teens and twenties, perhaps I can trade and use the upcoming Vanaprastha stage for devoted scholarship instead.

Obiter Dicta, no. 52

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I suppose one of the reasons for being well informed on everything is so that one can have an opinion on everything…No one is more opinionated than an intellectual. I am an intellectual. (Finish the syllogism on your own.) One of the delights of being an intellectual is that one is expected to have opinions on everything while incurring responsibility for nothing. But for the formation of these opinions at least a smattering of information is required.

Alas, on an increasingly wide range of subjects, I find I am perfectly pleased to be without any opinion at all. On so many political questions, social scandals, academic disputes, I find my antipathies nicely riven down the center, which makes forming an opinion favoring one side or the other a bit difficult. Besides, opinion generally — and my own in particular — has come to seem less and less interesting to me. A human being, after all, is not an op-ed page; the least impressive of thoughts are formulated in the personal equivalent of editorials.

— Joseph Epstein, “An Extremely Well Informed SOB,” Narcissus Leaves the Pool

Once our basic needs are met, most of our social energy is devoted to cultivating, protecting and enhancing our status. For a certain educated, socially conscious type, opinions are the currencies that buy distinction, even (or especially) if they have no practical value. Without an impressive portfolio of au courant opinions, you might as well just be another mindless beast being led around by the nose. You never know; one day, a powerful figure might suddenly vacate hizzorher position, and you might be called upon to step up from your life as an understudy and cast a deciding vote, give an epoch-defining speech, or sign off on a momentous plan of action. Boy, wouldn’t you feel foolish then if all you had done up to that point was quietly tend your garden!

Obiter Dicta, no. 51

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Although the Hutterites fear evil in the outside world, they must struggle daily with the greed that surfaces within. Just because possessions must be left at the colony’s door does not mean the ark remains free from contamination. A Hutterite leader noted already in 1650: “Men hang on to property like caterpillars to a cabbage leaf.” The same elder charged that Christians who cling to possessions are like “moles and foxes that undermine the communal plantation.” The lure of property has continued over the generations. Despite persistent teaching, colony leaders must be on the lookout for “caterpillars” and “moles” in their midst who are tempted to trade colony property for a personal treasure — a camera, a radio, or even a Playboy magazine. Contraband of one sort or another can be found in the hidden crevices of most colonies.

— Donald Kraybill and Carl Bowman, On the Backroad to Heaven: Old Order Hutterites, Mennonites, Amish and Brethren

Agrarian religious communes or industrial communism; caterpillars and moles or wreckers and saboteurs; the same old story in radically different settings; private property always barring the way to utopia. It tickles me to imagine a Hutterite version of Soviet-style propaganda posters denouncing the cosmopolitan insects and capitalist varmints who undermine the colony from within.

Obiter Dicta, no. 50

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There had always been a strange mindset when it came to extremes of weather. On the one hand, cold was regarded with deadly seriousness. From the beginning of civilized time, the poorest peasant had tried to keep a fire burning in his hut. Buildings with stoves or central heating, innovations that caught on in the early 19th century, blasted forth hot air without restraint; when Charles Dickens visited the United States, he complained bitterly about the intense, dry heat “whose breath would blight the purest air under Heaven.” Come winter, the average person’s clothing, already heavy, was fortified with an array of still- heavier outer garments. “Draughts” were terrifying things, strongly believed to be carriers of disease, and the slightest threat of “catching a chill” sent most people racing for medical help. An essay of the period illustrated most people’s fears in the bleakness of its title: “Winter an Emblem of Death.” Heat, on the other hand, seemed to be merely a nuisance, something to be ignored — or greeted with giddy humor.

…If people felt that they were shielded from winter’s cold by the amount of clothing they wore, during the summer they might be justified in feeling trapped inside a cocoon of cloth. No matter the temperature, women were tightly corseted, multiply-petticoated, long-sleeved, gloved and hatted. They were allowed no concessions other than lighter colors and fabrics — there was even a category of accessories known as Summer Furs. Men had an equally tough time of it. Winter or broiling summer, no sane man would be seen in public without a “sober” dark wool frock coat, as well as waist coat, hat, and gloves, and no matter how hot the day he was never allowed to remove a stitch of it. Excessive perspiration was seen not as a sign of impending dehydration but as a social gaffe; ruling over all hot-weather activity was the dictum that horses-sweat—men-perspire—ladies-glow. (Gentlemen were taught to use their handkerchiefs without attracting attention. As no one wanted to acknowledge that ladies actually perspired, etiquette dictated that they merely fan themselves, dabbing only when absolutely necessary. A lady who might find herself fading away in public was expected to carry her own smelling salts, most of which were a combination of ammonia-plus-perfume, to jolt herself back from the edge.)

Even in less drastic cases, plenty of medical advice was based on theory and superstition, and carefully following Doctor’s Orders could finish off an overheated person. Woolen and flannel undergarments were strongly recommended for the summertime, and the health profession advised perspiration-drenched people never to remedy the situation by removing any clothing: “internal congestion of the abdominal organs” and other evils might result. It was touted that “the best way to endure heat is to drink as little as possible,” that “overindulgence in liquids” and “a too-free use of cold water” were dangerous practices during hot weather.

— Salvatore Basile, Cool: How Air Conditioning Changed Everything

In these sweltering times, when hellfire slowly singes the earth, there’s nothing like a rousing sermon to fortify the soul and remind us of the promised land awaiting us beyond the autumnal equinox. Blessedly, we have two days of low-70s temperatures to enjoy this weekend, but when we are forced again to walk through the valley of scorching heat and suffocating humidity, we shall fear no evil, for Willis Carrier is with us; his air washer and his centrifugal compressor, they comfort us. Ignore the temptations of Satan and give thanks that such a man ever walked among us.

Obiter Dicta, no. 49

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An eighteenth-century inkstand — complete with quill holder, penknife, inkwell, pounce box (to hold the desiccant powder), and wafer box (to hold the paste sealing wafers) — was a monument to the physical act of writing. But if no inkstand was at hand, one could make do with temporary expedients. One day, when Sir Walter Scott was out hunting, a sentence he had been trying to compose all morning suddenly leapt into his head. Before it could fade, he shot a crow, plucked a feather, sharpened the tip, dipped it in crow’s blood, and captured the sentence.

— Anne Fadiman, “Eternal Ink,” Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader

 

Let me proudly state that no animals have ever been harmed during the production of my own writing. And furthermore, if I must appear a madman for the sake of my art, I would rather build a mnemonic cage around the elusive sentence in question by repeating it out loud over and over again. More humane and more effective, if you ask me, and even if you don’t. Scott would no doubt find my attitude regrettably soft and unmanly. But I like to think he’d be impressed, and perhaps a bit unnerved, by the way I can summon a notepad app from thin air, like a wizard’s familiar, to capture ideas when I’m away from my writing desk.

Obiter Dicta, no. 48

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If Schopenhauer had a religion in his youth, or at any time in his life, it was music. It was in music that he found intimations of a realm beyond the human world. The nature of things, he came to think, was ineffable. Language could not capture the reality that lay behind changing appearances. But what could not be spoken could still be sung or played.

— John Gray, Seven Types of Atheism

As Mark Sandman sang, “Music is like our prayer; it helps you reach somewhere.” Likewise, my faith is the substance of rhythms hoped for, the evidence of melodies not heard.

Obiter Dicta, no. 47

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It is true that in certain acute and painful crises of oppression or disgrace, discontent is a duty and shame could call us like a trumpet. But it is not true that man should look at life with an eye of discontent, however high-minded. It is not true that in his primary, naked relation to the world, in his relation to sex, to pain, to comradeship, to the grave or to the weather, man ought to make discontent his ideal; it is black lunacy. Half his poor little hopes of happiness hang on his thinking a small house pretty, a plain wife charming, a lame foot not unbearable, and bad cards not so bad. The voice of the special rebels and prophets, recommending discontent, should, as I have said, sound now and then suddenly, like a trumpet. But the voices of the saints and sages, recommending contentment, should sound unceasingly, like the sea.

— G. K. Chesterton, “What Is Right With the World“

Sometimes, maybe even oftentimes, discontent is a means of distinguishing oneself. I have higher standards. I see further and deeper. I am too profound to be distracted or mollified by superficial baubles. To be happy with simple pleasures is to risk appearing a simpleton, or worse, to risk being forced to acknowledge how much one has in common with others. Most of our modern prophets are simply trying to reassure themselves of their own uniqueness in matters of both morality and taste.

Obiter Dicta, no. 46

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Sociology (Tocqueville’s discipline, and the one practiced in this book), for instance, has largely been captured by the view that inequalities are the most prevalent and most consequential things around. That view is so forcefully held and so apparently beyond criticism that it has become not only virtually synonymous with the dominant vision of what politics is for but virtually sacrosanct, too. For many sociologists, there just isn’t anything else to care about more than inequality, and there just isn’t anything else to do but to combat it politically.

— James Poulos, The Art of Being Free: How Alexis de Tocqueville Can Save Us From Ourselves

As the saying of unknown origin goes, it ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble, it’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so. It’s funny to think that all the ceaseless chattering about inequality is just this century’s version of Freudian psychology, a fleeting intellectual fashion among the intelligentsia, soon to be deservedly ignored. It’s liberating to hear it summed up so concisely like this; it reminds you that there’s life outside this stifling, insular climate of opinion.

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