sometimes dreadful sense lonely with his burden once buoyancy is gone
For rarely is a man so alone as on the trail, especially under a canoe. He is then shut off completely from his fellow. Tom and I have sat for hours by a camp-fire at night, without a word to each other, each of us thinking his own thoughts, but with a most acute sense of companionship. Meditation is not lonely, even when it is solitary. But on the trail, with a heavy load, and weary, a man is intensely alone. The exertion, the pounding activity, the noise of one’s own heavy breathing, of one’s own heart beating, the implacable insistence of sweat — all these give something of the loneliness of severe pain, and forbid the soothing attunement of the spirit to the universe, which makes communion out of contemplation. In a sometimes dreadful sense, a man is lonely with his burden on the trail, once it has become a burden, once the buoyancy is gone.
From the book, The Incomplete Anglers by John Daniel Robins, Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Canada Ltd,1943.
But on the trail, with a heavy load, and weary, a man is intensely alone.
The exertion, the pounding activity, the noise of one’s own heavy breathing, of one’s own heart beating, the implacable insistence of sweat — all these give something of the loneliness of severe pain, and forbid the soothing attunement of the spirit to the universe, which makes communion out of contemplation.
In a sometimes dreadful sense, a man is lonely with his burden on the trail, once it has become a burden, once the buoyancy is gone.
Once more, the loneliness of severe pain, forbids the soothing attunement of the spirit to the universe, which makes communion out of contemplation.
No wonder sometimes I feel so tired, once that buoyancy is gone.
And once that buoyancy is gone, how do you get it back?
Sometimes no price would be too high for just a solid night of sleep.
happiness to know that it is a rising and not a setting sun
“I have often and often, in the course of the session, and the vicissitudes of my hopes and fears as to its issue, looked at that behind the President, without being able to tell whether it was rising or setting: but now at length, I have the happiness to know, that it is a rising and not a setting sun.”
Dr. Franklin is supposed to have said this or wrote this to James Madison or Mr. Madison remembered Dr. Franklin saying this when the United States Constitutional Convention finished their work.
Maybe it was one of those things that was too good for someone not to have said so history decided Dr. Franklin said it.
He was famous for saying things he never said and his autobiography might not have been the way it happened but surely, was the way it should have happened.
BUT I DIGRESS!
Dr. Franklin is supposed to have been looking at the designed carved into the back of the chair of the President of the Constitutional Convention, a feller named George Washington.
Driving to work this morning I new that as I looked east I was seeing the sun rise out of the Atlantic Ocean.
It matched my spirits.
Hopefully, if Dr. Franklin was around today and watching CNN he might once again say, “I have the happiness to know, that it is a rising and not a setting sun.“
never known woman who could weep about her age way men I know can
Well, the characteristic fear of the American writer is not so much that as it is the process of aging.
The writer looks in the mirror and examines his hair and teeth to see if they’re still with him.
“Oh my God,” he says, “I wonder how my writing is. I bet I can’t write today.”’
The only time I met Faulkner he told me he wanted to live long enough to do three more novels.
He was 53 then, and I think he has done them.
Then Hemingway says, you know, that he doesn’t expect to be alive after sixty.
But he doesn’t look forward not to being.
When I met Hemingway with John O’Hara in Costello’s Bar 5 or 6 years ago we sat around and talked about how old we were getting.
You see it’s constantly on the minds of American writers.
I’ve never known a woman who could weep about her age the way the men I know can.
From Interview: THE ART OF FICTION: JAMES THURBER. Paris Review, 3 (Fall, 1955), 34-49. Illustrated
This snippet made laugh.
I could picture Thurber in his mid 50’s, sitting in a bar with Mr. Hemingway and Mr. O’Hara and that alone is a picture to make me smile.
And that they were worrying about how old they were getting and that Mr. Thurber thought it was funny to the point of saying “I’ve never known a woman who could weep about her age the way the men I know can,” is but itself funny enough to make me laugh out loud.
For sure Mr. Thurber, who was being interviewed for this interview by George Plimpton, was having a great time tossing off the names of Faulkner, Hemingway and O’Hara with the confidence that he COULD toss off these names.
(I am reminded of the a story of Hollywood Movie Director John Ford going on a duck hunt with Clark Gable and William Faulkner and the conversation got around to writing and Gable says to Faulkner, ‘Who are the best writers right now?” Faulkner replies, “Oh Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck … and myself.” Gable says “Oh, Mr. Faulkner, do you write?” “Yes,” says Faulkner, “Mr. Gable … what do you do?” … The kicker is John Ford swore both were on the level.)
BUT I DIGRESS …
As a kind of post script to the James Thurber story, The Paris Review included this photo.
Notice the caption.
Notice it says CONSIDERABLY REDUCED.
By 1961, James Thurber was pretty much blind in both eyes.
One eye was damaged playing William Tell when he was a kid and the other eye went due to sympathetic eye syndrome.
When he died, EB White wrote in his New Yorker Magazine Obituary:
I am one of the lucky ones; I knew him before blindness hit him, before fame hit him, and I tend always to think of him as a young artist in a small office in a big city, with all the world still ahead. It was a fine thing to be young and at work in New York for a new magazine when Thurber was young and at work, and I will always be glad that this happened to me.
His mind was never at rest, and his pencil was connected to his mind by the best conductive tissue I have ever seen in action. The whole world knows what a funny man he was, but you had to sit next to him day after day to understand the extravagance of his clowning, the wildness and subtlety of his thinking, and the intensity of his interest in others and his sympathy for their dilemmas — dilemmas that he instantly enlarged, put in focus, and made immortal, just as he enlarged and made immortal the strange goings on in the Ohio home of his boyhood.
He was both a practitioner of humor and a defender of it. The day he died, I came on a letter from him, dictated to a secretary and signed in pencil with his sightless and enormous “Jim.” “Every time is a time for humor,” he wrote. “I write humor the way a surgeon operates, because it is a livelihood, because I have a great urge to do it, because many interesting challenges are set up, and because I have the hope it may do some good.” Once, I remember, he heard someone say that humor is a shield, not a sword, and it made him mad. He wasn’t going to have anyone beating his sword into a shield. That “surgeon,” incidentally, is pure Mitty. During his happiest years, Thurber did not write the way a surgeon operates, he wrote the way a child skips rope, the way a mouse waltzes.
Thurber looked in the mirror and asked I bet I can’t write today and then spit in the mirror and said I am going to write anyway.
sailors expression about weather: the weather is a great bluffer
As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.
Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time, waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.
Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
Letter to Mr. Nadeau, March 30, 1973. Letters of E. B. White, Revised Edition. Ed. Martha White. New York: HarperCollins, 2006.
For the first time this hurricane season, folks in the low country are been alerted to the possibility of water … lots of it.
We are are just miles from the Atlantic Ocean which is a lot of water to begin with.
We have roads that with signs that say, “Road Ends in Water.”
I puzzled over these signs for a bit, wondering why they didn’t say, “ROAD ENDS – 500 FT” until I figured it out that in an area with an 8 foot vertical tide, just WHERE the road ends is a matter of time and tide, but for sure, the road ends at the water.
Then a storm, though whether or not its a hurricane or a tropical storm, the weather people or the storm itself hasn’t made up its mind, is coming.
Storms bring storm surges or push more of the Atlantic Ocean up into the low country which is low as the name implies.
I do not worry a lot about storm surge, as I live in Bluffton, which as the name implies, is up on a bluff over the Maye River, it would take a storm surge of some 25 feet or more to get to me.
A storm surge of 10 feet on top of a high tide, would surely strand me here on the bluff as most of the local roads would be covered.
Then there is the coming rain.
Lots of it.
Then there is the malicious nature of this coming storm.
Though the folks who know don’t know what kind of storm it will when the storm is coming they do agree on two things.
One is that it is FULL of rain from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
The other thing is that the storm will get here to the coast between Savannah and Charleston and … stop.
Not that the raining will stop but the storm will stop and for anywhere between the next 10 to 48 hours, rain of Old Testament Bible stories will fall on us from the heavens.
When you drive through the streets of old Charleston, intersections have depth gauges to show how deep the water can get.
Charleston is about 2 feet about sea level.
During high tide, you can hear water roaring through the storm drains just inches below the road beds.
Drop 6 inches of rain at high tide on Charleston and you can figure out why those depth gauges on intersections have a four foot scale.
On its website, the city of Savannah has posted a city map that show which intersections will be flooded.
Savannah is also on a bluff above the Savannah River but it also has a storm water sewage system that is about 100 years old.
Some schools are already closing for the day, Wednesday.
And all of this is speculation.
I have worked with enough weather people to know that nobody knows nothing when it comes to forecasting.
As Mr. White writes, the weather is a great bluffer.
But we all take warning.
And as Mr. White writes, I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet.
I take heart both for the storm and the mess of life that the human race has made on this planet when I consider:
But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time, waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.
Now it’s not just younger people polluting our public spaces with Joe Rogan interviews and biohacking how-tos – it’s everyone.
I don’t think people even realise they are doing this.
Somewhere along the line this became normal – almost certainly during the pandemic, when we collectively decided that every conscious moment had to be filled with visual and audio content, before we were told to return to society.
Let’s just say we’ve struggled.
I believe this because when I’ve asked people to turn their devices down, they make one of two faces: either they look as if they are rousing from a century’s slumber or appear shocked at themselves, as if they don’t know how they got to this moment.
I don’t think people even realise they are doing this.
Quiet.
Real quiet.
I am coming off a bout of the Covid.
My ears were so plugged, I couldn’t hear a thing but the fact that my ears were plugged didn’t come to mind until later.
I was up late late at night, reading, trying to come up with the energy to get up and go to bed and it came to.
It was quiet.
So quiet.
Deathly quiet.
A quiet I haven’t experienced in years.
If not electronic devices, I am near enough to traffic that the steady hum is the down beat to my life.
Surrounded by noise.
I talk about the time when you could go outside in the summertime and someone had the Detroit Tigers and Ernie Harwell playing loud enough to hear/
I started thinking about that.
Back then there were only so many options.
Now the options for audio are limitless.
And somewhere along the line this became normal – almost certainly during the pandemic, when we collectively decided that every conscious moment had to be filled with visual and audio content, before we were told to return to society.
I am reminded of Alice Tyler and her book, Accidental Tourist.
We join our hero, Macon, on a plane trip to New York.
Ms. Tyler writes:
On the flight to New York, he sat next to a foreign-looking man with a mustache. Clamped to the man’s ears was a head¬ set for one of those miniature tape recorders. Perfect; no danger of conversation. Macon leaned back in his seat contentedly.
He accepted nothing from the beverage cart, but the man beside him took off his headset to order a Bloody Mary. A tinny, intricate, Middle Eastern melody came whispering out of the pink sponge earplugs. Macon stared down at the little machine and wondered if he should buy one. Not for the music, heaven knows — there was far too much noise in the world already — but for insulation. He could plug himself into it and no one would disturb him. He could play a blank tape: thirty full minutes of silence. Turn the tape over and play thirty minutes more.
