obiter scripta

Obiter Scripta, no. 53

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October is the month of painted leaves. Their rich glow now flashes round the world. As fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall, so the year near its setting. October is its sunset sky; November the later twilight.

— Thoreau, “Autumnal Tints”

That’s probably the case in New England, but here in the mid-Atlantic region, it tends to be early November when the leaves reach their glorious peak. This week is traditionally very busy for us, and this year we entertained a visiting relative for a few days on top of it, so I feel as if a whole week of my favorite month of the year has zipped by before I could savor it. But today, the sun was bright, the temperature mild, the pine trees were laying down a golden carpet of dead needles, the breeze was nipping at the heels of the fallen leaves and herding them across the yard, and the air itself seemed to glow with a reddish-orange hue from the blazing treetops. A year ago this night, I was about to embark on a three-day hospital stay culminating in gallbladder surgery. Today, I’m just happy to be alive to enjoy this wonderful time of year.

Obiter Scripta, no. 52

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I had learned the phrase “obiter dicta” in my readings over the years — I especially remember Roger Kimball and Theodore Dalrymple using it — and thought it would make a good name for a continuing series of short posts. Recently, though, George Santayana introduced me to the phrase “obiter scripta,” which struck me as more apt given that I’m writing, not speaking, so I changed the title of the series. This is what happens when your knowledge of Latin consists of a smattering of words and phrases acquired secondhand. Maybe I need to crack some more books.

Obiter Scripta, no. 51

By in books, obiter scripta, writing No Comments

Although I’ve had some commercial and critical success with my books, I’ve never written a book at whose completion I felt that, like a gymnast making a perfect landing, I’ve nailed it, a perfect ten. Only a year or more later, when for one reason or another I might open the book and find a passage that pleases me, do I say to myself, “Not bad, not bad at all. I wasn’t stupid when I wrote that. How come I’m so stupid today?”

—Joseph Epstein, “The Perils of Prolificacy,” Wind Sprints: Shorter Essays

I feel that way all the time. Apparently I suffer from a type of writer’s farsightedness, where my opinion of my efforts grows in proportion to my temporal distance from it. Up close, I can only see wasted potential and disappointment. “I felt stupid when I wrote that. How come it looks so much smarter in retrospect?” Ah, hindsight — both the torment and the solace of an amateur writer.

Obiter Scripta, no. 50

By in antisocial networking, books, obiter scripta No Comments

What distinguishes the junk language of our day from the junk language of earlier days is that it is so quickly taken up by people who are supposed to — but of course don’t — know better: journalists, public figures, academics in high places with low tastes. Glimpsing a recent book about Henry James, I came across the phrase “James’s take on this question.” Henry James had a point of view, insights, observations, aperçus, a striking pensée or two, yet I am certain that he didn’t do “takes,” ever.

— Joseph Epstein, “Don’t Ask, Multitask,” Wind Sprints: Shorter Essays

I didn’t “lol,” but I did indeed laugh out loud to read this, given that it was written eighteen years ago. What would Epstein (or even more amusingly, Henry James) think now that “take” has become the preferred term in our attention-deficient age for referring to an expressed opinion, of either sentence-fragment or article-length, used by precisely the same culprits he named so accurately? There are many disgusting and enraging things about social media and its heaviest users, but this particular piece of overused argot is one that makes me wish I could delete other people’s accounts.

Obiter Scripta, no. 49

By in bonsai minimalism, books, obiter scripta, santutthi No Comments

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 Scripta, no. 48

By in books, fresh hell, obiter scripta, the cult of multi, the geist of the zeit No Comments

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 Scripta, no. 47

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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 Scripta, no. 46

By in books, obiter scripta, status seeking No Comments

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 Scripta, no. 45

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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 Scripta, no. 44

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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.

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