Oxgodby.

Our narrator arrives from the city to the fictional pastoral village of Oxgodby to spend the waning days of summer restoring an old painting in a church. He holds a trite view of religion, which is unsurprising after learning of his time in the war; an experience many come back from with a harsher take on spiritual matters. If man is capable of such atrocity, such cold-heartedness and malice, how could God be real? Much less, benevolent? As such, Birkin is sarcastic with Vicar Keach, who has hired him.

Aren’t you supposed to be great supporters of nose-to-the-grindstone? Yet, here you are, in a public place, recommending malingering. (38) *a reference to Luke 12:27-28

Yet, as summer advances, Birkin becomes quite taken with Oxgodby, it’s verdant landscape, accompanying nature, the ideal northern weather, and even, its people. In this newfound rhythm, he matches its pace and experiences life in a new way.

The rain had ceased and dew glittered on the graveyard grass, gossamer drifted down air-currents, a pair of blackbirds picked around after insects, a thrush was singing where I could see him in one of those ash trees… (19)

Attention.

I sensed his resistance to Oxgodby delicately crumble with each passing day. The more he slowed down, the more he appreciated this new environment: he begins to notice the sights and sounds and his adopted routine as something to cherish, and not to be subjected to cynical derision. Birkin softens, and as he softens, so deepens his attention to detail.

Herein lies the theme of “A Month in the Country”. If we are paying attention to Birkin’s experience, Carr is nudging us to slow down and have an appreciation for the fleeting moments which make up our lives.

Most beautifully, Birkin develops a curiosity for the painter whose work he is tasked with renewing.

Here I was, face to face with a nameless painter reaching from the dark to show me what he could do, saying to me as clear as any words, “If any part of me survives from time’s corruption, let it be this. For this was the sort of man I was.” (35)

His restoration becomes more than a payed gig as he realises that real human sweat and personality went into this painting. Life is breathed into it, it is not just colour on a church wall, but an expression of another man, once alive and breathing, thinking and feeling, hoping perhaps to be remembered beyond his own lifespan through his work. One of the deeply entrenched motivations for making art, is to leave a lasting mark. We create to have our voices and vision made more broadly known and better understood, but I believe there is also a drive within us to be thought of as subjects of interest by generations to come.

In a mere century after we are gone, it is likely that everyone who knew us will also be returned to the ground. We will be but a name in a census record, family Bible, photo on a hard drive somewhere. All that will be left to convey who were really were will be the art we leave behind. Be it a journal, drawings or paintings, a Substack (…that thought makes me wince, honestly), or recordings, we have an opportunity to reach into the future.

The Vicar’s wife.

Birkin takes a liking to the Vicar’s wife, Alice Keach. She reminds him of Boticelli’s “Primavera” - his artist’s eye not lost on the reader. He daydreams of being with her, entertaining the thought that she is “wasted” being married to a Vicar. Remarking that, “at least it wasn’t Baghdad, so he couldn’t drape her in a yashmak and other men could still cast an admiring eye on his doe-eyed bride”. (44)

And I wondered about Keach and his wife and how the oddest people meet and then live together year after year, look at each other across hundreds of meals, watch each other dress and undress, whisper in the darkness, cry aloud in the marvellous agony of sexual release.” (43-44)

The growing affection he feels for Alice begins to make sense when we learn his wife, Vinny is a philanderer. She becomes an important part of our understanding Birkin - he is, in his heart, a lover. One gets the sense that the war is what ruined his optimism, and that he was never meant to be a pessimist. Had he come of age in peacetime, perhaps his life would have played out differently because he might have been able to more boldly exercise his artistic lovers-spirt. He finds it for a time in Oxgodby, at least.

There was so much time that marvellous summer. Day after day, mist rose from the meadow as the sky lightened and hedges, barns, and woods took shape until, at last, the long curving back of the hills lifted away from the Plain. It was a sort of stage-magic - “Now, you don’t see; indeed, there is nothing to see. Not look!” Day after day it was like that and each morning I leaned on the yard gate dragging at my first fag and (I’d like to think) marveling at this splendid backcloth…I had a feeling of immense content and, if I thought at all, it was that I’d like to go on and on, no-one going, no one coming, autumn and winter always loitering around the corner, summer’s ripeness lasting for ever, nothing disturbing the even tenor of my way… (61)

His feelings for Alice are not the backbone of the novel, but what they add are potent. He loves her, yet respects her, and her marriage, so he keeps things to himself. The only moment of confidence is when he tells her she is “beautiful”, but hides it behind his propensity to have an artistic view of life, removing emotion from it. Little has changed, despite the increasing secularisation of society. We come of age, we marry, and sometimes, it is to the wrong person. Some will initiate a separation if this is the case, but a silent number suffer through it, in the name of preserving the peace or doing the right thing. Relics of a Protestant past still poke through to guide many a conscience. Perhaps we meet our proverbial soulmate later in life, after we have already established a household? What then? Do we pass it by, or do we navigate the discomfort of being honest with ourselves and take on the chance to build a life more well-suited and peaceful? It is a conundrum as old as romantic love, that is to say, eternal.

We all have our own reasons and guiding principles. We make our own decisions and live with them. Yet, however foundational our beliefs, I think there remains a part of all of us as we age that will wonder what could have been had we followed different paths in life.

I should have lifted an arm and taken her shoulder, turned her face and kissed her. It was that kind of day. It was why she’d come. Then everything would have been different. My life, hers. We would have had to speak and say aloud what both of us knew and then, maybe, turned from the window and lain down together on my makeshift bed…my heart was racing, I was breathless. She leaned on me waiting. And I did nothing and said nothing. (129)

The fallen painter.

Birkin too falls in love with the painting, noticing more and more detail as he progresses. A portion of it depicts souls suffering in hell, and Carr goes on:

So, each day, I released a few more inches of a seething cascade of bones, joints, and warm-riddled vitals frothing over the fiery weir. A few wretches were still intact…two demons with delicately furred legs clutched him, one snapping his right wrist whist his mate split him with shears… (74-75)

Birkin must be the man. The incessant march of time and inevitability of fate, the two demons, refusing his wishes to remain suspended permanently in this glorious Oxgodby summer.

He comes to fall in line with the village’s cadence and discovers how natural and happy it makes him. He picks up on the ability of its residents to take joy in simplicity, in home-life, and an unhurried way of being and adopts it as his own. In the city, he may have never entertained this lifestyle as an option. It makes me think about how where we are raised and where we spend our time feeds in to our worldview and sets the tone and pace of our lives.

I have been fortunate enough to spend years living in rural areas, as well as in cities. In hindsight, I’m acutely aware of how each setting dictated everything from my diet, physical activity, to my spiritual beliefs, and sense of hope. Firmly, I think that we should experience a variety of lifestyles, because what if what is most natural is something we have never been exposed to? There is a lesson in Birkin’s brief sojourn in Oxgodby: geography matters and sometimes it can be the difference between our joy and our misery.

Cruelty of time.

The cruelty of time becomes apparent at the close of “A Month in the Country”. Birkin has spent the waning weeks of summer in a suspended state of peaceful adoration; adoration of nature, art, and the beauty of Alice Keach. To have a sense of reverence for both the procession of time and for our surroundings changes everything! We can busily scurry about the world, stocked with plans and hobbies and work, head down to earn promotions and accolades, but miss the whole point. We’re made to love: to love people, to love the works of our hands and expansion of our minds, to love art and the process of discovery and growth, and settle into a genuine appreciation for the life we’re granted here.

Ah, those days…for many years afterwards their happiness haunted me. Sometimes, listening to music, I drift back and nothing has changed. The long end of summer. Day after day of warm weather, voices calling as night came on and lighted windows pricked the darkness, and at day break, the murmur of corn and the warm smell of fields ripe for harvest. And being young… (104)

Birkin’s transition into a more reflective and curious person is what makes his time in Oxgodby so full and memorable. We’re taught through his experience that attention is the key to a rich life.

It makes me think that in these past five years, I have gravitated to the world of literature and writing just in time. Technology and its conveniences are furiously sucking up so much of our time and expanding into our daily lives that if we are not careful, we will be consumed by it. An over-reliance on A.I. and other facets of modernity will atrophy the experience of millions, replacing what was once a cognitively robust life with the shallows of sameness and mind-numbing, soul-sucking habituation.

Maintaining an ability to hold nuance and pay attention to a book or a project for longer stretches of time will eventually become the most valuable of traits. It requires dedication and a passion for being human in a changing world. Machines can do marvellous things, but we cannot let them replace the ways we feel, create, and interact with other people or make art. Noticing in and of itself is a form of art, and one worthy of perfecting.

“A Month in the Country” reminds me that the most important parts of life are the most human. The way we love and can articulate ourselves so exquisitely is uniquely human and should be highly regarded and protected at all costs. So too is it important to ebb and flow with life. To hold adoration for the moments which pass and hold on to them loosely, precisely because they will inevitably slip through our fingers.

Birkin wonders how different his life may have played out had stayed in Oxgodby, but he has a stark, convicting realisation:

…people move away, grow older, die and the bright belief that there will be another marvelous thing around each corner fades. It is now or never. We must snatch happiness as it flies. (104)

Oxgodby had become a slice of heaven in a life which was at times a hell: wartime and his unfaithful wife depleting his stores. He needed all that rural living had to offer: the satisfaction of a slow and steady job well done, the beauty of the church painting and Alice Keach, the companionship he found and a peaceful way of living. Even if Birkin wants to stay, he knows he cannot. Time advances, people change, we grow old. Eventually, nothing is the same. No moment, however satisfying or profound can last forever. This is the heartbreak of heartbreaks.

The Vicar dismisses him before the project can be finished, Alice never knows his true feelings, and on one of his final days in town a letter from Vinny, his estranged wife finds him. She is calling him home. He resolves to go, knowing, “she will go off again, would come back again. And I should be there.” He chooses the city and his imperfect marriage over the tranquility and beauty of Oxgodby in the end, because he knows to overstay would be to ruin the glory of that waning summer. He loved his time there, so he let it go, allowing it to be a magnificent memory which he remarks, “…stays as I left it, a sealed room furnished by the past, airless, still, ink long dry on a put down pen.” (135)

Perhaps, to resist the forward march of time and the impending passing of moments is to tarnish them. Better yet, we stay on the look out for the most meaningful slices of life, attentive, ready to notice when they arrive so we can best appreciate them. Be it a birdsong in the morning, a play, a painting, a romance - a trip to a place long longed for, a moment of profound realisation or coming of age. All of them will hold their place in our memory, but we have to be paying attention for any to take hold.

We can ask and ask but we can’t have again what once seemed ours forever - the way things looked, that church alone in the fields, a bed on the belfry floor, a remembered voice, the touch of a hand, a loved face. They’ve all gone and you can only wait for the pain to pass. (135)

As I close the final page, Olafur Arnald’s, “Near Light” plays in my mind.

I am fixated, I am found out, I am learning something new.

I had to stop for a moment this evening and put pen to paper, because I am sure all of us have had this moment in our reading lives and it is worth discussing. It most often occurs when we are in that flow state, rapt with attention after having developed a sense of empathy for a character or their situation. When we are steeped in the deep lore and in the details we begin to more easily feel into the story and think, what if it were me?

What if that were my problem, or my loss, or my adventure?

There is a moment in “Dune” which particularly stirred me this morning. Duke Leto has died, Paul Atreides and Lady Jessica are hiding in a tent in the desert after escaping would-be captors. They know the Duke; her partner, his father, is gone, and they both badly want to grieve but are stuck in their own way: Paul struggles to feel emotion at all until he can work out more clearly through what he will do next. Jessica finds tears rolling down her cheeks, but thinks to herself that it is a “waste of the body’s water”; due to the arid conditions on Arrakis, water (fluid of any kind) is at a premium and most precious. These are normal initial reactions, as they are in such a heightened state of striving for survival. At some point though, the levee always breaks.

How it gets me, to think that a person would have to suffer so, to extinguish emotion, even for a moment, because it could mean the difference between life and death. To have to move so abruptly feels inhumane and seemingly out of nowhere, I felt tears welling up in my own eyes. Yet, this is an experience shared by myriad people on different levels, from the dawn of civilisation.

She brushed the tears coursing down her cheeks, thought; what a stupid waste of the body’s water! But she knew this thought for what it was - the attempt to retreat from grief into anger…sobs shook her. (313)

Eventually, Paul and Jessica give in to grief, each in their own way.

There is no escaping grief. We have to feel it, to endure it, to let the body run its course with it. It is emotional, but also physiological. We think ourselves through it, try to reason with it, look for an explanation why such a sadness might befall us, but we must also feel it and let it have its way with us before we are able to come out the other side. We must, or we will never move forward. And, it is a thing that will resurface; grief demands a constant letting go to the process it imposes upon us.

This passage resurfaced thoughts of being with my father when he passed away prematurely a few years ago. I recognised my sadness, confusion, and anxiety, but also the good that grief has had in my life; the way it has reshaped my world view and demanded that I re-prioritise my hopes, fears, and expectations. It feels sometimes that without such experiences, a person does not stand much of a chance at discovering what they truly believe in or are made for. The onset of grief is a monumental opportunity.

We are not guaranteed the time we so brazenly assume we’re owed, and it was time that I begin to live like I believed that.

Yet, grief is not always a welcome teacher. Despite the lessons it has for us, to let it in and allow it to do its work is an art form and an exercise in trusting ourselves and showing respect to an age old process. Grief has always been and always will be. It has shaped multitudes, brought people to bitter ends, but also to bold new beginnings. It is an authoritative force that if wielded with the appropriate wherewithal and paired with the good work of listening to what it has for you and then acting upon it, can yield a satisfying and unexpected outcome.

Like taking a psychedelic drug and trying to have too tight a grip on reality or the outcome, seeking to control the grief only hinders the process. Grief is a lesson in letting go and letting the body and mind lead you to the other side, through to a better perspective and a renewed sense of self.

Sitting in that coffee shop this morning, I didn’t anticipate “Dune” to generate such a meaningful reflection, but I am grateful it did. We need reminded from time to time of the gravity of past experiences and how although they naturally fade into the background, remembering them is what keeps their lessons fresh.

Books, it turns out, are an effective way of remembering. Add it to the list of reasons why we read.

The sun is ever-present here, which may sound optimal to those in cloudier, wetter climes, but this sort of sun is oppressive. Even at night it’s pushing 100 degrees Fahrenheit, hence I prefer to be indoors as often as possible. Reverse hibernation, I call it. Parks and other outdoor spaces are abandoned but for the early morning and late evening hours. It makes for an odd sight. It’s agonising when you’re the type of person who just wants to be able to go outdoors at a moment’s notice for a simple walk and not suffer. The grass is dry, brown, and crunchy underfoot. The plants on my front porch are parched and despite getting water daily, appear constantly thirsty. I could imagine it all catching fire and spontaneously combusting. I will never make sense of why people settled here hundreds of years ago, despite all of these wide open spaces.

Stretches like this seem to exhaust and inspire my mind all at once. It is this heavy summer lull that saps my energy and finds me seeking the path of least resistance in most areas of life, to my dismay.

It stirs a desire for escape and adventure.

Taking to the sea.

A friend (…and sailing enthusiast) picked up a copy of Richard Henry Dana Jr.’s, “Two Years Before the Mast” (Before the Mast meaning, the quarters on a ship inhabited by the lowest ranking sailors and deckhands) for me last fall, and as I am planning on doing a re-read of “Moby-Dick” soon, I thought it might make a great appetiser.

There was the Age of Discovery, where from the mid. 15th-16th C. sailors from Europe sought new trade routes and seaways.1 Lesser known was the Age of Sail, which stretched from mid. 1400-1800s and influenced conflicts, trade, and ideas which shaped the United States.2 During this time necessity acted as a mother of invention; newer, more accurate navigation tools were created, like the magnetic compass, cross-staff, as well as the caravel and galleon ship designs. Cartography too saw immense advancements: Mercator’s projection emerged in 1569 and allowed sailors to plot straight-line courses (using rhumb) for the first time. The era also had a darker side; contagious disease could now travel across the ocean and the Transatlantic slave trade was also made possible by advances in maritime technology.

There is a witchery in the sea, its songs and stories, and in the mere sight of a ship, and the sailor's dress, especially to a young mind, which has done more to man navies, and fill merchantmen, than all the pressgangs of Europe.

Yet, in the minds of land-locked men during the last century or so of this Age of Sail, I get the impression that there was a sense of romance about going to sea: taking to a ship, partaking in the camaraderie of a crew, escaping the doldrums of land, your suffocating day job, and going on a quest toward something bigger than oneself. Be it a white whale, undiscovered land, or new ideas, there was this pull of the unknown, an attraction to the sense of danger, and the enticement of having a novel experience.

The opening lines of Moby-Dick are perhaps my Roman Empire:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. (“Moby-Dick”, p.1)

I’ve written about this in the past, but it is a subject that continually resurfaces: how do we adventure in a digital age? Can we still romance it and esteem the process of self-discovery through uncomfortable experiences, and the exploration of our natural world? What is our proverbial, “taking to the sea”?

Melville is daft enough to insinuate that getting to the sea is a strong enough prescription, even to cure a man’s suicidal tendencies. Sometimes indeed, what we need is new geography, fresh routine, and the reminder that mother nature and the broader universe are a harsh mistress. There is something about realising how out of control we truly are that is humbling and perspective altering in the healthiest way.

As we encounter a loneliness epidemic and see a rise in mental health concerns caused by our new inclination toward isolation, we hear phrases like, “it really is that damn phone” and “touch grass”. Though there is truth to this; putting your phone down and going outside in nature really can turn your day around, these experiences should not be the thing we turn to when we’re reached our breaking point. We ought to be living in the analogue and visiting the digital, not the other way around. Setting this balance straight is part of getting a new lease of our lives.

Maybe we don’t go to sea in a literal sense, but I am keen to identify modern equivalents. I have a sense that we need adventure and an excitement for exploration now more than ever, before it slips away and is replaced by our sanitised, dull digital bubbles entirely; even if it is merely embracing things like putting pen and paper and conducting an honest life assessment, reading more adventure-laden novels like, “The Count of Monte Cristo” or “Moby-Dick”, seeking out face to face conversation while being a better listener and asking meaningful questions of one another, and resolving to breathe more fresh air, we’re off to a damn good start.

Two Years Before the Mast.

Someone like Dana probably never could have conceived of the modern world with our conveniences, first-world problems, and sedentary tendencies. A law student at Harvard, he left in 1834 after measles left him with poor eyesight to join the merchant ship Pilgrim on its journey from Boston, around Cape Horn and along the coast of California. As intended, the experience cured his eyesight and he was able to resume his studies upon returning to New England, a fact that gives me immense pause.

I can hardly tell which predominated, a desire to cure my eyes, my love of adventure & the attraction of the novelty of a life before the mast, or anxiety to escape from the depressing situation of inactivity and dependence at home. (Richard Henry Dana Jr.)3

“Two Years Before the Mast” was an account of sailing life that ended up being a remarkable contribution to the industry as well as providing detailed accounts of California’s coast and its indigenous people which were scarcely documented. He used this experience and his legal schooling to promote significant changes such as the amount of power a Captain may wield, the rights of seamen and their legal recourse. Dana helped to make the lives of sailors and the environment aboard a ship more humane and civil, and his work notably inspired Herman Melville’s. We have in part then, Dana’s writing to thank for Moby-Dick.

He was a man of the moral high-ground on land as well. Apart from his positive impact on maritime life, he also provided free legal aid to those captured under the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, which stated that any escaped slaves must be returned to their owner and even demanded the compliance of any and all citizens of free states.

He writes eloquently about the differences of life at sea, such as the sunrise which cannot be adequately captured other than by eyes who have witnessed:

Much has been said of the sunrise at sea, but it will not compare with the sunrise on shore. It wants the accompaniments of the songs of birds, the awakening hum of men, and the glancing of the first beams upon trees, hills, aspires, and housetops, to give it life in spirit. But though the actual rise of the Sun at sea is not so beautiful, yet nothing will compare with the early breaking of day upon the wide ocean.

There is something in the first grey streaks stretching along the eastern horizon and throwing an in distinct light upon the face of the deep which combines with the boundlessness and unknown depth of the sea around you, and gives you a feeling of loneliness, of dread, end of melancholy for boating which nothing else in nature can give. This gradually passes away as the light goes brighter, and when the sun comes up, the ordinary monotonous sea day begins.

Dana has an ability to penetrate us. Watching a sunrise is a universal experience, yet, we take for granted that it must be accompanied by birdsong, the slow and steady brightening of fields and mountains, dark street corners and cathedrals, and the sounds of daily waking up in its every iteration. Sometimes, depending on your vantage point, Dana tells us, it has none of these things. And here he touches on something sublime: it is not the sun rising alone that makes it beautiful, but all of the accompanying facets of nature and humanity’s reaction to it which gives it such magnificence. The sun is just one part of the broader symphony.

Only a pair or eyes at sea would make this observation and this is why opening ourselves up to adventure and new experiences is so vital. Without different perspectives, we are confined to a one-dimensional way of seeing the world, and as such, our faculties more infantile than if we were more apt to be adventurous.

In one of his most poignant accounts, he presents his sincere reaction to a man falling overboard and drowning:

Death is at all times solemn, but never so much as at sea. A man dies on shore - his body remains with his friends, and “the mourners go about the streets”; but when a man falls overboard at sea and is lost, there is a suddenness in the event and a difficulty in realizing it, which give to it an air of awful mystery…at sea, the man is near you - at your side - you hear his voice, and in an instant he is gone, and nothing but a vacancy shows his loss. Then too, at use - to use a homely but expressive phrase - you miss a man so much…There are no new faces or new scenes to fill up the gap.

It demonstrates how the isolation of the sea can wear on a man and how it raises the stakes. When you lose one of your crew, you do not just feel the void, but you witness the void left in death’s wake. You are abroad, outcast, land out of sight, and no one is coming to take his place or pull his weight on the next watch. Such an absence is really experienced and felt differently than on land. How many other parallels are there to this that we can think of in our own lives too? Dana is teaching us to be grateful for the time and company we are given and to remember that in an instant, either our own life, or that of one we rely on can end.

Considering this, shouldn’t we feel some urgency to re-evaluate the thoughts which regularly fill our mind and the daily acts of our hands? Are they leading us toward flourishing? This is the potent perspective that adventure and new viewpoints can provide us.

The poetic nature of Dana’s writing is certainly deeply felt. He would die in Rome in 1882 where he and his wife spent their final years, and is aptly buried in the same cemetery as two the world’s most prolific poets, John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley.4

Modern (lack of) adventure.

I think a lot about adventure these days; probably because it is so hot outside and my 9-5 renders me cubicle bound, under fluorescent lights, tapping away as I linger on thoughts of travel; new sights, new sounds, new tastes, new faces, and of all the ways I will be physically active as soon as possible. It’s a feeling most of us can identify with; we clock in, clock out, go home, and lose ourselves in film or novels or storytelling of some kind or another instead of living those stories out.

When we choose these paths (I do not forget my own decisions put me in that chair and that at one point in time, past Dylan wanted this…) it is often because the structure of society suggested it would be best for us: we are rewarded for towing a certain line, showing up to work, being productive, and not causing a stir or daydreaming too noisily. It’s dull, but it pays the bills…and to show some gratitude, my day job is not a bad one, for which, I am truly grateful. Yet, underneath the satisfaction of pay day, if we’re listening, we’re probably yearning for something a bit more exciting or at the very least, the freedom to do this necessary work on our own terms.

With (essentially) the entirety of our planet having been mapped by now, none of us will set out to discover uncharted lands, and I think we can make peace with that.5 What is more pressing to realise, is that if we do not fight it, our lives will become constrained and simplified into rote routine, an acceptance of mediocrity, and be centred around a 6-ish inch device we are increasingly tethered to.

There is a meaningful experiential difference between working on a merchant vessel for a year as a change of pace, and deciding on what new series to watch or restaurant to eat at. And yes, I understand, it isn’t really about taking to the ships. Such an act isn’t practical or as applicable to our 21st C. lives, however, it is about the intention we set for ourselves, and I believe the parallels are consequential. Perhaps we don’t go sailing, or mountaineering, or safari, but we must begin to view the world with a sense of adventure and seize upon all the ways we can, “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life” as Thoreau implored in Walden.

But Mr. Dana was writing history without knowing it. Nowhere else can we learn so well what sea-life is (or rather used to be) to the sailor…He visits the western coast of this continent to find almost the same savage and unmanned shore, against which the first wave of the Pacific had broken. He saw what the seals alone had looked on for immemorial ages. He comes back after a score of years to find a powerful commonwealth, with a cattail already wellnigh the match of modern Naples in population, and more than the match in commerce of Venice in her bloom.6

In going to sea, Dana understood what it was to be a deckhand and discovered entirely new perspectives he would have otherwise missed. He experienced those many birdless sunrises and the void felt after one of your crew falling overboard, along with storms, icebergs, and the misery of seasickness. He witnessed the unfair treatment of sailors and a captain’s tyranny: things he would have no language for should he have stayed on land. Though these could be perceived as objectively negative and to blame for his suffering, Dana carried them with him back to Massachusetts and in the process, developed an empathy which compelled him to become a maritime lawyer and advocate for men at sea, improving conditions for many who followed.

Finding our sea.

This is why we are healthier for stepping out of our comfort zones and being curious about exploring the world, even our small corner of it, in new ways. We ought to find our own sea and return from it better, wiser, and more seasoned appreciators of life. Even if said sea is one we navigate in between shifts at the office, kid’s school events, and paying the bills. It is still worthwhile.

It is a mindset as much as it is a physical journey. I wrote here in 2023, “Perhaps though, it is still time that we begin mourning the moments when we have not accepted even the smallest adventures or opportunities for intrigue and resolve to seek more of it according to our own circumstances and abilities.”7 That was two weeks before I had surgery for thyroid cancer. Leading up to that procedure, I envisioned myself waking up in hospital with uncertainty behind me, eager to recuperate so I could begin to seize more of each day and create a lifestyle I was both more proud of and content with.

It is interesting to reflect nearly three years later and identify where I have succeeded as well as fallen short. In many ways, it did change me for the better, but I can also spot where I returned to lax habits and lost a sense of urgency and appreciation for life that I had in the months and year immediately following that health scare. And so, this call to LIVE is incessant! It is the sort of thing we must be attuned to, creating the conditions for it to run in the background at all times so that we are ready when the right conditions arise and opportunities present themselves.

This call echoes through eternity; from the words of Shakespeare in Sonnet 60,

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end;…

Wordsworth’s, “Walden”,

I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

and Rilke’s, “Letters to a Young Poet”,

We must accept our existence in as wide a sense as can be; everything, even the unheard-of, must be possible within it. That, when you come down to it, is the only kind of courage that is demanded of us: the courage for the oddest, the most unexpected, the most inexplicable things that we may encounter.

A tale as old as time, a story told ad infinitum across generations remains as relevant now as it ever has been. When we look around it is easy to become depressed by the enshittification of culture, the overwhelming silliness of our myriad conveniences, the decay of decorum, and a loss of a sense of shared history, values, and meaning, we need to remember that adventure and self-discovery still matter and are quite possibly, the remedy to our negativity.

Wisdom is earned and those plans you have set for a decade from now when the time will finally be “right” are not guaranteed to come. Maybe now then, with seriousness, you assess your life and where your sea may be. Go to it with enthusiasm and perseverance, eager to learn, grow, and eventually flourish as you return more thoughtful.

I look out the window now, evening approaching, the sun radiating its hottest part of the day, but am not so much despondent as when I began writing. I am reminded that so much of my life experience is what I make it. I am the captain of my ship and can sail accordingly.

Invictus (William Ernest Henley)

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

I had been feeling heavy all day, awoken by my subconscious the night before seemingly just to worry. My mind was flooded with hypothetical miserable scenarios, feeling acutely sensitive to even the most benign concerns in my life at present, making much out of problems easily solved.

Early on in the novel, Morris communicates to the reader that this experience is nothing new:

…(I) woke up again not long after in that curiously wide-awoke condition under which we feel all our wits preternaturally sharpened, while all the miserable muddles we have ever got into, all the disgraces and losses of our lives, will insist on thrusting themselves forward for the consideration of those sharpened wits. (45)

It is probably the mere happenstance of reading an account of an experience I am familiar with, but moments like this make me wonder if there is a collective energy, a shared consciousness among us, across time even. There may be a great conspiring essence, because I could feel with certainty as I read these lines that the universe knows my plight, and if we are perceptive, we all would notice. It is serendipity with an existential twist that I think is happening here, waiting for us to recognise it.

This mid-night terror, the heaviness of waking when we ought to be asleep is an eternal shared experience. As worrisome as it is, there is a peace in knowing we aren’t alone. We should be encouraged, keep our wits about us, and remember how well connected we are to generations past and generations future through our participation in life.

It felt like fate: to have this uncomfortable nighttime waking and then to select a new novel from my shelf that very next day which almost immediately mentioned my grief by name and assuaged it. I worry that we often gloss over occurrences like this these days and are quick to deny anything potentially mystical about our world, but it is truly fantastic if you really sit with it and I think, ought to be explored.

It begs the question, what exactly is all of this?

England: 2102.

In “News from Nowhere”, first published as a serial in the British socialist newspaper Commonweal, our narrator (from the 1890s) wakes up in a future utopian England: 2102 to be precise. It is orderly, pastoral, and almost eerily peaceful. Curiously, he asks questions of the various “guides” whom he encounters about how they arrived at such a seemingly perfect reality.

Passing through he discovers how various facets of their world; the economy, social welfare, city planning and the commons, as well as aesthetics have been de-regulated, de-politicised, and returned to the people who have improved upon them. He learns this society of the future came into existence slowly, following a worker’s revolution (instigated by both violent and non-violent events), to work as a collective and leave behind individualistic habits and systems in favour of human cooperation and flourishing. Here, community comes first, everyone takes part in raising and educating children, and they learn by doing and by deciding for themselves which role they want to play in society. In this way, each kind of labour becomes artwork: it is done by those who genuinely enjoy and take pride in it. Hard work is embraced purely because it is healthy and good for the body.

They claim to have remedied depression; referred to as the “Blue devils” or “Mulley-grubs”, by living a more communal life. Everyone does their part, people care for and watch over one another, simply because people are inherently worth it, and there is a pure joy derived simply from living and sharing in the human experience with one another.

A slew of changes have taken place, to name a few:

Private land-ownership has been abolished and the entire countryside serves as common space. There is an emphasis on beautiful surroundings, expansive green spaces, and architecture which inspires creativity and awe.

There is no marriage and thus, no divorce; there are no, “…law courts to enforce contracts of sentiment of passion.” (93)

The men have no longer any opportunity of tyrannising over the women, or the women over the man…the women do what they can do best and what they like best, the men are neither jealous of it nor injured by it. (93)

Money is not exchanged. Goods and services are rendered simply because they are needed for society to carry on.

… in the last age of civilisation man had got not a vicious cycle in the matter of production of wares…they had gradually created a most elaborate system of buying and selling, which has been called the World-Market and that World-Market once set a-going forced them into making more and more of these wares, whether they needed them or not. So, that while they could not free themselves from the toil of making real necessaries, they created in a never-ending sham of artificial-necessaries, which became under the iron rule of the aforesaid World-Market, of equal importance to them with real necessaries which supported life. By all this they burdened themselves with a prodigious mass of work merely for the sake of keeping their wretched system going. (124)

They have even done away with prisons and criminal law.

The Academy is criticised: one of his guides says that Oxford has changed and it is now for, “…real learning, knowledge cultivated for its own sake - the Art of knowledge.” (105)

Because there is no more poverty, life has slowed. The cooperation here is so profound, the concept of working to earn a living is a historical artefact. As such, people can learn at their own pace, follow curiosity, and choose what it is they desire to know.

…the information lies ready to each one’s hand when his own inclinations impel him to seek it. In this as in other matters, we have become wealthy: we can afford to give ourselves time to grow. (105)

Art is not what it was in the past, now, it, “has no name…because it has become a necessary part of the labour of every man who produces.” (160)

It would even seem that competition has all but been eradicated, due to its lack of necessity in the current order.

Furthermore, our standards of honour and public estimation are very different from the old ones; success in besting our neighbours is a road to renown now closed, let us hope forever. Each man is free to exercise his special faculty to the utmost and everyone encourages him in doing so… (113)

The world we want and what may never be.

Throughout this novel, I thought back to my graduate courses in International Relations and Global Security. We would entertain questions about what might provide for the greater good, which political and economic approaches might suit humanity best and debate how deeply a people should rely on their government to provide for their basic needs. The coursework encouraged us to be more pragmatic and taught that adherence to the Liberal international order was essential for our future safety and success as a species.

It is an understandable approach. Despite its flaws, I would argue that it has served us fairly well since World War II, especially in terms of keeping the peace, but recent international developments, including a rapidly growing wealth gap, the erosion of diplomacy, and post-truth politics leave a vast majority yearning for a better system which more articulately represents our individual concerns and provides a secure future for our children, grandchildren, and beyond.

I felt a short-sightedness in what I initially described as Morris’s wishful thinking, but as I read, an ache grew in my heart for all that we could have but do not because we tend to rule selfishly, are often averse to change, and are clouded by religious and political biases. But then too, what is life without wishful thinking? We could point to a number of accomplishments and improvements made over the centuries and trace them back to tiny seeds of perceived outrageous ambition.

If I accept the mystical in our world, as I pointed out a few paragraphs ago, why then should I count out enthusiastic optimism as preposterous?

As I am doing the arduous work to be a reformed-worrier and ex-complainer, I was struck by how self-aware Morris made me through this text. Much of my despondency is rooted in doubt that meaningful positive changes will likely ever spread and take hold in our world. I have a tendency sometimes to let what is entirely out of my hands, like the state of global politics, control my emotions and I want to let some of that go without losing my earnestness.

Hope as I do, my conscience responds to Morris’s idealism by deciding to reconcile with the fact that I have not made peace with the world I have inherited. I find myself upset because I have been so desperately hopeful for a more equanimous reality that still feels so far off. I hope in this precious present moment, to find some radical acceptance of the disparity between our shared reality and what I wish for humanity writ large.

Like most things, the answer to our societal ills lies somewhere firmly between our current flawed arrangement and Morris’s lofty vision of utopia. In America, where we possess so much wealth, the only thing keeping us from enacting healthier changes is the selfish ambition of decision-makers and this is where a lot of frustration is born. It could be done, but while we can know this, as mere citizens without sway, we must hope while also relinquishing the anxiety that watching a sinking ship causes. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done and I would not have expected a story about a utopia to lead me here, rather than get to work dreaming even bigger, but so it has.

When the civilised World-Market coveted a country not yet in its clutches, some transparent pretext was found - the suppression of a slavery different form, and not so cruel as that of commerce; the pushing of a religion no longer believed by its promoters; the “rescue” of some desperado or homicidal madman whose misdeeds got him into trouble amongst the natives of the “barbarous” country - any stick, in short, which would beat the dog at all. Then some bold, unprincipled, ignorant adventurer was found…and he was bribed to “create a market” by breaking up whatever traditional society there might be in the doomed country, and by destroying whatever leisure or pleasure he found there. He forced wares on the natives which they did not want, and took their natural products in “exchange” as this form of robbery was called, and thereby he “created new wants”, to supply which the hapless, helpless people had to sell themselves into the slavery of hopeless toil so that they might have something wherewith to purchase the nullities of “civilisation”. (125-26)

Lessons from utopia.

I didn’t love this story, but I would recommend it for its messaging: we can take pleasure in our labour and creativity and have something better. Cooperation and letting go of too tightly held ideologies and prejudices is essential for this progress.

It is vital for our imaginations to swim in the sea of idealism sometimes. It washes away the cynicism brought about by this difficult and imperfect world, and helps to focus on the better parts of our nature and enormous amount of possibility which stands before us. Having worked in some difficult environments earlier in my career, I quickly hardened and adopted a brand of callous pessimism that was meant to protect me. I couldn’t go to work everyday with a naïve outlook, I’d never survive those 8 (or 16) hours.

While it served its purpose, it has taken a decade of therapy, wrestling with myself, and learning to place more trust in others, to fully rediscover my joie de vivre. I have not spent enough time purely enjoying the present moment and revelling in the beauty or discovery of the most delicious aspects of being alive; choosing instead to ruminate on worst case scenarios or complain as I took a glib view of humanity. Regret is all it ever wrought. It is time wasted that I will never recover, and the older I get, the more I feel a deeply serious need for optimism and cooperation.

Let it balanced, yes, but we should choose it all the same.

In my January essay on “East of Eden”, I wrote about how much more difficult it is to “articulate and live out what I am for and truly believe in”, than to disparage others and complain. This sentiment has stayed close to me all year and re-appears in my writing consistently, proving it is a trait I am ever-perfecting and not a moral upgrade so easily accomplished: that is how I know it is so worth pursuing. “News from Nowhere”, while radical is the type of novel which reminds us of our great potential, both personally and on a grander scale. Perhaps it may never be feasible but we should ask, what can we glean from the details Morris describes? How people in his England of 2102 treat one another and how they view the collective is so important. It should encourage us to live positively and more cooperatively in our own personal lives.

Spending even a short, quiet, conscientious moment each day considering these things can make our personal corners of the world a much more liveable place, and you can imagine that when done by millions of us, would expand outward exponentially.

I first read Bohumil Hrabal’s, “Too Loud a Solitude” in 2021 and at the time felt it was important, but didn’t really have more to say. Much of its message and value lie hidden unless you seek further reflection. Like many of the world’s greatest stories, it has taken a second visit with these pages to make more sense of it and uncover a more honest opinion.

I wonder sometimes what these musings and book reflections I type here do for the world and how much that even matters. I am immensely grateful for everyone who reads my work and the conversations I have with strangers that grow out of that, but it’s easy to get lost in the noise of Substack and online reading culture. One can wonder, “Am I saying the “right” things? Does anyone ever read the entirety of my articles? Why don’t I have more engagement? Why am I spending so many hours of my life doing this for free?” But, at the end of day, these are all things we’re contrived for ourselves that ruin our experience and override joy. It is after all, all about the books, reflections, conclusions, conversations, and how we apply them to our lives, not about the status or attention we accumulate.

And so, I read and write, sometimes into the void, and that is okay. In fact, it is beautiful. In this way, “Too Loud a Solitude” is a perfect story for this moment.

*spoilers ahead*

The beauty in text.

“Too Loud a Solitude” begins with a few exquisite lines about how precious books can be when we give them the attention they deserve.

My education has been so unwitting. I can’t quite tell which of my thoughts come from me and which from my books, but that’s how I’ve stayed attuned to myself and the world around me for the past thirty-five years. Because when I read, I don’t really read, I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and such it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel. (p.1)

Haňťa does not read, he experiences. The language is perfect because it is palpable.

Think about savouring a delicious meal when you’re especially hungry or the refreshment of a cold drink on a hot, humid day: those are made special because the experience is elevated. There is something underlying the act of merely eating or drinking in those situations that adds to the process and stirs a special sense of appreciation. Attention is the difference. Attention will turn any moment, even the most mundane, into something more significant.

As he reads the books he rescues from the compactor, Haňťa seems to understand the gravity of his reality: books are being destroyed en masse, but books and the wisdom held within them are the answer to the problems of his troubled society.

It happened by accident. He refers to his education as “unwitting” over and over. Incidentally, being tasked with destroying books means you are privileged to hold each one in your hands and even read them. He brings them home, one by one, filling his small apartment with as many books as will fit. Haňťa has been exposed to hundreds, likely thousands of the greatest literary works and by dint of exposure developed an affection for them. Not only has he found this appreciation for books, but he has, as Hrabal puts it, become one with them and the stories they hold. He writes that he unsure where his thoughts end and the books begin.

His existence is steeped in contrast: his physical surroundings are unpleasant; dark and wet, putrid and cramped, but the books and all they possess, possess him with a romantic disposition for life. Perhaps his circumstances are more dire than our own, but subjectively speaking, we too can find a haven within the texts we love; an escape from the noise and insight into ways we can make sense of the chaos of life and live beautifully ourselves.

I glue my eyes to the text and read out the first sentence like a Homeric prophecy; then I place it carefully among my other splendid finds in a small crate lined with holy cards someone once dropped into my cellar by mistake with a load of prayer books and then comes my ritual, my mass; not only do I read every one of those books, I take each one and put it in a bale, because I have a need to garnish my bales, give them my stamp, my signature… (p.15)

Text in solitude.

Haňťa becomes lost in his own meditations against a darker backdrop. One of the things he has come to appreciate is the value of being in solitude with text. He says on page 17:

…when I start reading, I’m somewhere completely different, I’m in the text, it’s amazing. I have to admit I’ve been dreaming, dreaming in a land of great beauty, I’ve been to the very heart of truth…

Reflecting on the way my perception of reading has been distorted by time spent online, I am slightly disturbed. Here is Haňťa, who in dire circumstances, with no one else to talk to about the books he loves (much less a publishing platform for his thoughts), esteems them for what they have always offered humanity: insight, entertainment, philosophy, distraction, lessons for living. His is a pure love which makes me check my own motivation.

I genuinely love to read, but sometimes I become lost in the pursuit of engagement online. Instead of fully enjoying a text, there is periodically a voice in the back of my mind urging me to read faster, to savour a bit less, and to get on with writing that next essay for fear that people will lose patience and unsubscribe. What have we done? While simultaneously creating a place book-lovers can unite and discuss and share appreciation, which is a beautiful concept, we have commodified that experience and thus, cheapened it.

You have to be able to let the expectations go and love the process.

We should be mindful of our motives and remember why we love to read. Don’t let our overtly online culture detract from the joy of reading or the journey of forming your own opinions. I’m grateful to read book reviews and input from academics and common readers alike, but when I step away and log off for a bit, and read just for me, I am reminded of how soon we can forget why we began reading in the first place.

I can be by myself because I’m never lonely, I’m simply alone, living in a heavily populated solitude, a harem-scarum of infinity and eternity, and Infinity and Eternity seem to take a liking to the likes of me. (p. 19)

And here, I think Haňťa reminds me of a crucial point: solitude spent with books is inherently valuable. Taking time to be alone with them, free from what other’s think, is a gift you can give yourself anytime.

Text in a fragmented world.

As I made my way though “Too Loud a Solitude” I began to wonder: what defines this current “attention crisis” and why is it so difficult for people to simply put down the screens and read more?1 Haňťa is an autodidact who reads an exceptional amount, a lot of which is cognitively demanding; all while drinking beer at an incredible clip and working under physical duress. Yet, a lot of us will return home from a day in an air-conditioned office and claim defeat, saying we’re “too tired” to read.

Not to make light of things or negate our own issues, because I think overly-simplistic comparison like this can be unfair at times, but we are alive at a period in history where humans have more free-time than ever. The problem despite this, seems to lie in the society we’ve created for ourselves and the permissiveness we give ourselves to be intellectually passive.

Our environment is unnatural. We’re constantly being pulled from one thing to the next; multiple screens, notifications, advertisements, and an outrageous amount of commercial options. It’s no wonder we arrive home and are cognitively exhausted even if we didn’t expend an unreasonable amount of mental energy during the day. Not to mention, there is essentially no true silence outside of our own homes and that noise can wear us out. We can tame our devices to be more attention-respecting, but many of our workplaces thrust Teams or Slack and AI upon us, forcing upon us a barrage of needless pings and mind-numbing tools, on our way to earning a living.

I notice this when I go out to a café: I can leave my phone at home, bring only a book and my journal, and set out to have a relaxing, deep experience, but I cannot silence the music on the speakers, or the videos the person next to me is playing out loud, or the people on calls around me. Our homes are our only refuge so they should be organised in a way that respects the value of quiet, of solitude, and of cognitive restoration.

You can plan to regain focus by doing things like, reading for 30 minutes a day, deleting your social media, and minimising notifications, but the more I lament the predatory attention economy, the more I believe with gusto that we need to be more radical about protecting our ability to focus, to think independently and critically, and to maintain the prized skill of sitting with a book for an extended time and thinking for ourselves about what the stories we read mean to us. The consequences of losing these things is already becoming apparent, but by no means is it too late to prioritise them.

If Haňťa can, so can we.

Maintaining resiliency.

Haňťa’s world changes in a day. He tours a new facility where they compact books and even plain paper in a much more efficient manner than his own. He is struck by how impersonal the process is and the pace at which the workers in this factory move. No one has time or inclination to read anything that comes in to be compacted, much less to rescue it from the presses. Although his profession is to remove books from society, he recognised their importance and became an artist in the practise of rescuing them, sometimes even wrapping them in paintings by Cezanne or Monet to add to the beauty of his projects. The new way of doing things is wildly impersonal and workers exist merely to fulfil a quota. Observing this, Haňťa feels that he is not meant to carry on. His work would become meaningless if forced into conformity.

If carrying on means giving up on artistry, on attention and appreciation, why bother? This thought does not just hit home, it careens into me violently.

I have always believed that human creativity and cultivating depth of experience is what gives our lives such life. As our world disincentivises these things more each year, by giving way to convenience over friction, short-cuts over learning, and bypassing the need for us to create the skills which most enhance our time on earth, I understand why losing faith in humanity is so easy.

Under the weight of his solitude and overcome by the horror of the future he sees coming, Haňťa ultimately turns on his press, crawls inside and clinging to a text by Novalis, is crushed to death. His work rescuing texts and his suicide are both protests against a way of living he cannot abide.

I feel an immense weight and grief at the realisation that someone like Haňťa might look around at the imperfect world they live in and rather than endure to beautify or improve it, relinquish optimism and go down with the ship. There are moments in my life, when I have felt a sense of this in bouts of depression or uncertainty, but I have thankfully always found a way to unearth some resiliency, remembering with a resounding “YES”, that there is so damn much more to persist for and plenty of beauty to be enjoyed.

Even if my surroundings or circumstances are not entirely to my liking, there are always those almost cringe-worthy moments to hold on to: reading (of course), sitting with a coffee, listening to music, appreciating birdsong on a walk, or getting lost in a pleasant thought. At the very least, it feels like there will always be something I can cling to and derive enjoyment from, but for Haňťa, there was not even a sense of that.

Every beloved object is the centre of a garden of paradise. (Novalis)

One of the things which makes this story most poignant is how banal Haňťa’s life is. It embodies the idea of the “boring apocalypse”. I’m sure many of us now thought that there would be some great, epic occurrence which changed our lives and our world overnight, but in reality, the rise of nihilism and apathy and this widespread deeply unserious approach to life, has been brought on slowly by boring yet persistent technological developments: the algorithms which now choose for us or the advent of AI all come out of the pursuit of a more convenient life and were never meant to be destroyers of joy or our human experience, but, they are. This crept up on us all as we adopted one new technology and then the next without question, until we paused, look around and thought, “wait…we never asked for this.”

We can relate to Haňťa because his world and our own are boring on the surface, yet soul destroying underneath.

So, here we are. Alive, but not fully. Informed, but not in agreement on facts. Entertained, but to the point of boredom. It has all had a reverse effect. And, this is why we see a slow yet predictable rise in appreciation for analogue habits, for slowing down, and a craving to be independent, autonomous decision makers again.2

Haňťa, a destroyer of great texts, is also a saviour of them. His work is an attempt to maintain a grasp on intellectual freedom in a time of oppression. Perhaps his life would have been better in another time and place in history, yet he embraces his own unique experience and destiny. His story acts as incentive to battle against the nihilism of our day and recognise that the future depends on our optimism. Even as he lived, “unhappily happy”, he created a purpose for himself and found beauty among the wreckage of a society gone awry.

I hope those of us who cherish books and take pleasure in stories can be ardent supporters of optimism in an age of apathy. I hope we remember why we read.

We do it for pleasure, because prose and poetry have a special power over us and a mystic way of speaking to our greatest hopes and fears while helping us feel emotions we sometimes do not otherwise understand. We do it to stay connected to the past and learn from it. We do it to better ourselves. We do it because the written word is a beautiful and timeless thing. It is especially important too, that we make space from time to time, to read in solitude with a quiet appreciation for the indestructible written word.

It resonates loudly in this day and age of constant connection without substance, cheap and ubiquitous entertainment at our disposal, and the breakdown of social discourse. Though I think about these issues frequently, reading this gutted me in a way other dystopian stories have not. Forster hits dangerously close to home from over a century in the past. It has me not only more on guard about my own technology use but curious about how the problems we face today are the same as ever. What keeps us from solving them? What gets in the way of our own personal growth and inability to put down the screens and think genuinely hard about the impact they have on our health, relationships, and sense of self?

“The Machine Stops” has forced me to confront a slew of thoughts I entertain but have not truly explored to any particular end. I want to follow them to a place of greater depth and make real, actionable change in my life. Most importantly, this short story has me re-focused on digital privacy and getting back to some of the analogue habits I have let slip away in recent months.

At only 25 pages, it welcomes you as un-daunting. Yet, it manages to hit you in the gut in a way a longer text might not be capable of. Sometimes, brevity is most effective medium.

*spoilers ahead

Vashti and Kuno.

We are first introduced to Vashti, a woman who is steeped in the Machine lifestyle. She knows “several thousand people” Forster notes, but it soon becomes clear that while human connection has expanded, it is not personal; intimacy has declined. For the most part, humans remain in their rooms and access information and other people remotely. Her son, Kuno, lives on the opposite side of Earth, and as the story opens, he is calling her with news. You can sense even on page one, she is irritated by his reaching out because it delays her daily plans. Even the slightest divergence from the routine is almost too much to handle.

Already, this story was conjuring images of people (like you or me) that we see and interact with everyday, engaging with the world primarily behind a device, lost in the online discourse and without a sense of how casual adoption of certain technologies are stripping from us ways of living which have provided meaning for centuries.

People never touched each other. The custom had become obsolete, owing to the Machine. (p.9)

Forster’s understanding of how humanity would react to such developments in technology, environmental crisis, and political dysfunction is admirably on point.

Juxtaposed to his mother, Kuno is innately curious and rebellious. He summons Vashti to an in-person visit, afraid to transmit his news over a communication system which one can imagine is likely surveilled, as we are used to today. Though put off by this idea, she acquiesces and travels by air ship to see him.

Her journey is arduous in a first-world problem sort of way. She complains about the windows, shutting them as they pass over the Himalayas, ignoring the glorious view, annoyed by a “rosy finger of light” which leaves her unreasonably irritated. I stop and think about how awestruck I would be at such a majestic view. Will screens eventually keep us from appreciating nature’s transcendent beauty?

Upon arriving, she learns the gravity of Kuno’s dilemma: after navigating his way to the Earth’s surface, being discovered and dragged back underground by the Machine’s security apparatus, he has been threatened with “homelessness”, which as Forster describes, can be equated to an excommunication where you are exposed to the toxic air above ground and left to die. Jarred by this news, her first thought is not his life, but about why he would circumvent the legal way of travelling there, with an “egress permit” and respirator. Her worldview is self-centred and she has no room for questioning or exploring outside the bounds of what the Machine provides.

After all, she seems to have everything she needs and more. I think about our loneliness epidemic, and all the souls around the world right now in their rooms - nervous and wanting more, yet reluctantly content with such banal conditions. Things feel okay because they are never bored and technically, have plenty of people to talk to, even if not face-to-face. Bread and circuses also comes to mind.

There were buttons and switches everywhere - buttons to call for food, for music, for clothing. There was the hot-bath button, by pressure of which a basin of (imitation) marble rose out of the floor, filled to the brim with a warm deodorised liquid. There was the cold-bath button. There was the button that produced literature. And there were of course the buttons by which she communicated with her friends. The room, though it contained nothing, was in touch with all that she cared for in the world. (p.4)

Vashti leaves fitfully after they argue about her religious-like reverence for the Machine and its text, “The Book of the Machine”.

You talk as if God made the Machine…I believe you pray to it when you are unhappy. Men made it, do not forget that. Great men, but men. The Machine is much, but it is not everything. I see something like you in this plate, but I do not see you. I hear something like you through this telephone, but I do not hear you. (p.2)

Civilisation evolves.

Despite their emotional encounter, they go years without speaking and societal changes emerge. First, respirators were abolished. This, of course, is to deter anyone from trying to visit the surface. Underneath this is the concept that, “First-hand ideas do not really exist. They are but the physical impressions produced by love and fear, and on this gross foundation who could erect a philosophy.” Rather, second-hand ideas are what ought to truly be appreciated because they have been removed from “direct observation”, something the Machine defines as “disturbing”. This theoretically further disincentivises anyone from becoming too curious. It starts with eliminating access to the surface and expands to deterring curiosity about alternative belief systems or leadership structures; promoting ignorance as a means to keeping the peace.

…there will come a generation that had got beyond facts, beyond impressions, a generation absolutely colourless, a generation ‘seraphically free from taint of personality. (p.18)

Then, a state-sponsored religion is formed revolving around the “The Book of the Machine”. Rituals developed and a latent form of persecution emerged toward those who did not accept the book in the right framing: they were under constant threat of being outcast; “homeless”; executed by the state.

The Machine is the friend of ideas and the enemy of superstition: the Machine is omnipotent, eternal; blessed is the Machine. (p.19)

These two changes integrate a more formal kind of servitude which is far more severe than one’s self-imposed isolation in a cell of their own making. Now, the citizens of the underground are living under duress - if they do not adhere to these edicts, they risk consequences, and even death.

What began as a utopian vision eventually devolved into an authoritarian state. The emphasis on order, control, convenience, and predictability effortlessly lends itself to the construction of more strict environment. The Machine was made for mankind to overcome nature and to ascend. Yet, nature re-asserts itself violently by reminding man that his own worst attributes and tendencies are inescapable.

Man is the measure.

In introducing the story as “my mediation…”, Forster gives it a fable-like air. It’s purpose is to present a warning to readers to second-guess any technology which is pushed upon you, and to consider what you lose when you adopt a new way of living.

Consider how streaming services and their algorithms chip away at our ability to develop a sense of taste, how to search for art which we genuinely enjoy and how to articulate why we enjoy it. GPS, though beneficial, reduces our capabilities of navigating by paper map or having a sense of geographical direction. Texting makes it easy to communicate but in a way that is almost too easy. There is little room for depth and specifics. The way we speak to one another becomes more and more shorthanded and we slowly lose a grip on language, its power and breadth. These are only the more mild losses. I think the worst is probably yet to come if we’re not more self-aware.

The good news is, it isn’t too late.

A quote from mid-way through the story also seems to resonate this way. Kuno, speaking to Vashti, emphasises his realisation that our humanity has innate value and is, in fact, a higher and deeper way of living than the Machine can provide:

Man is the measure. That was my first lesson. Man’s feet are the measure for distance, his hands are the measure for ownership, his body is the measure for all that is lovable and desirable and strong. (p. 12)

Forster implies that man needs imagination, not optimisation. Regardless of how useful AI will actually turn out to be or how much more peaceful technology might be able to make us as a species, we will never outrun our nature. Technology will always come in to conflict with our innate sense of self and human identity. He insinuates that in the Machine, stasis is equated with peace and utopia, but still it fails. Moving underground, replacing the sun with synthetic light and artificial surroundings while providing for people’s every need, was supposed to perfect the human existence. While perhaps exciting at first, in time it eroded into a dystopia.1

And, like us today, the people living in Forster’s Machine were not provided the future they were promised - this feels like a deeply consequential development. The biggest names in Silicon Valley have preached about AGI as if they are conjuring gods, even if it still feels like it is best used as a glorified search engine or data collator.2 These overvalued products are being built for profit over usefulness. Imagine a world where the first consideration was how AI could best serve humankind as a whole and not extract such exorbitant environmental resources: data privacy, protecting the human intellect and creativity, and ensuring these tools do not access systems which could render destruction at the push button, would all be a priority.

There are more mindful examples emerging: one of them is Euria, a Swiss AI model. Prompts are not used for training or advertising and it’s company’s “Geneva data center captures heat from servers and systems, channeling it into the local heating network, potentially warming 6,000 homes.”

In his 2026 Encyclical Letter on AI titled, "Magnifica Humanitas”, Pope Leo XIV wrote, “…it is not enough for artificial intelligence to make us more efficient or connected; it must also serve to build a universal human family, with shared rights and duties, where digital proximity becomes a real opportunity for encounter and mutual care.”3 What seems to be most lost on tech. and AI’s biggest proponents are all the ways in which these things separate and degrade us. In the Machine, citizens have no need to interact physically. There is no sense of robust community because everything is offered in isolation. Having access to information is incredible, but not at the expense of removing human relationships and in-person discussion.

“We do not possess technical answers, nor do we seek to displace those with expertise”, the pope said in his May 25 presentation. "But we bring a wisdom concerning the human that our present time desperately needs: every person is unique and irreplaceable.”4

A diplomatic, peaceful, and healthy future is not simply the natural product of technological progress. We have to intentionally drive it in that direction. You could even argue that technological progress, as it has played out in the past couple of decades, has led to a decline in such things. Humanity progressing toward societies which flourish, enjoy peace, and understand how to work effectively with nuance, differing backgrounds and opinions, is done gently and carefully. We can start in our own lives by thinking more deeply about our own relationship to things like our devices, social media, and AI.

Something critical I think Forster wants us to draw from “The Machine Stops” is that although we may think we know what is best for us, to proceed in a way that eliminates the perceived inconveniences, subtly, and gradations of life would ultimately leave us adrift, lonely, and terminally integrated with that technology in a way that would be our own un-doing.

Eventually, Vashti and Kuno reunite after the Machine slows and is in its final throws. They spend their last moments together in the darkness. He says to her, “I am dying — but we touch, we talk, not through the Machine.” His wish, to be an inhabitant of a more physical world without a technological intermediary is finally and briefly realised. He expresses to Vashti in his last words that “humanity has learnt its lesson", and that surely tomorrow, another Machine would not be re-built.

As he spoke, the whole city was broken like a honeycomb. An air-ship had sailed in through the vomitory into a ruined wharf. It crashed downwards, exploding as it went, rending gallery after gallery with its wings of steel. For a moment they saw the nations of the dead, and, before they joined them, scraps of the untainted sky. (p.25)

The Machine (for lack of a more succinct way to express our current state of ubiquitous intermingling with technology) which we inhabit provides, but in a manufactured way, and fails to satisfy our deepest needs or fulfil our potential. Until you break free and find a positive balance, you have no inclination of how much more vibrant life could be. The technology we adopt will define how we see the world and interact with it. It will determine the goals we set, what we think we are capable of achieving, and limit us within its boundaries, rather than us independently deciding what those limits should be. It is the difference between viewing life as something romantic, to be savoured, or as a problem to be solved, calculated, and metric driven.

I fear an algorithmic way of living because of what it keeps us from realising within ourselves and appreciating what our world has on offer. Kuno chose to access his own resolve and create an existence which inspired him; one built by the power and curiosity of his own human mind, emotion, and a desire to explore, while Vashti acquiesced to the Machine, adopted it as inevitable, and reduced herself to a warm body, alone in a room, pushing buttons, watching screens.

Her existence gave only the illusion of life.

The World Cup has come to America and I am revelling in the fact that one of my favourite footballers, Harry Kane, is here in Dallas today as England play Croatia in their tournament opener. “God Save the King” rings out as I type. The beautiful game, in all its glory has brought more than just exciting sport to America (and Canada, and Mexico), it has me feeling some robust hope in humanity.

In the lead up to this event, there were reservations about the country’s ability to host this event with a welcoming spirit. Visa issues, an on-going war with one of the participating nations, and a general inability to conduct itself diplomatically cast doubt on America’s fitness to create an appropriately warm atmosphere.1 Not to mention, FIFA’s cartel-like handling of tickets. Yet, what we are seeing is the human spirit, in all its glory, triumphing. Amidst the generalised framing of America as hostile to outsiders and resistant to cooperation, travellers from Europe, Asia, Latin America, Africa, and the Middle East are seeing first hand that the people here are genuinely, some of the warmest, friendliest, and most curious on the planet.

Videos are making the rounds online: the Japanese have arrived here in Texas and are trying BBQ for the first time (and loving it). Scottish supporters descended on New England, drinking Boston bars dry and attending Red Sox games. On Sunday, the Dutch, who shipped their famous orange bus across the Atlantic, marched through the streets of Arlington to the stadium and the city embraced this tradition as locals joined in. In downtown Dallas last night, Croatians filled the streets with flags, painted faces, and checkered red and white jerseys singing and dancing. Even the Fort Worth rodeo attracted a large contingent of English, all singing “Sweet Caroline” at the top of their lungs.2

The Londoner Pub, which hosts Arsenal matches during the Premier League season, sold $40,000 worth of beer alone in one evening and ultimately, had to close their doors early due to overflow.3

One of the most moving displays of all has unfolded in Lawrence, Kansas, where Kansans came out to welcome the Algerian team. Tickets to their open practises quickly sold out, the University of Kansas marching learned the Algerian national anthem, and thousands of people in what some often (un-rightfully and condescendingly) call “fly-over country”, enthusiastically arrived and engaged in good faith and conviviality with the team and their supporters who crossed an ocean to enjoy the beautiful game.4

They donned Algerian scarves and let them know that this is the heart of America: not what you see on television, not what our politicians say.

“Seeing five to six hundred people that first evening, fans that were waiting outside our hotel, it really gave me goosebumps,” said Algeria head coach Valdimir Petković ahead of Tuesday’s showdown with Argentina.

We needed this: a reprieve from miserable energy and negative press. It is a reminder that at our core, we - the human race - are able to not just cooperate and get along, but to coexist and set aside differences to share in some pure JOY and acknowledge our shared love and value of life. The vocal minority, the ones who see through eyes clouded by hate and prejudice give America a dirty reputation. Be assured that most of us here have a more nuanced and optimistic worldview.

This coming together is the sort of event which provides a glimpse of how we can resolve our crisis of imagination and build toward a smarter future which we can all be proud of. It directs us to focus on moving forward inclusively, rather than languishing in distracting, negative narratives which can suffocate the human spirit. It feels like for a brief moment, we have escaped the harshness and bleakness of the oppressive digital realm and entered into the real world again, where our biology can interface more honestly and without ulterior motives.

Rob Hopkins, co-founder of the Transition Network, talks about how so many examples for a healthier and more robust future are already right in front of us and in action. Things like the Nordic economic model, cycling culture in the Netherlands, the social order and Shinkansen of Japan, the Vauban neighbourhood of Freiburg, which is car-free and focused on a quieter, greener way of living, are all examples of ways people’s lives can be made better in an environment more conducive to our flourishing. When we realise our capacity to cooperate and communicate intelligently without prejudice across boundaries and lifestyle differences, we begin to unlock real human potential and feed positivity.

We’re all so privileged to be here, alive and well, sharing hopes and fears. It is refreshing (and vital) to remember that we can be more united and not let the politics of the day or the attention economy steal from us what is rightfully ours: our human fraternité.

Miller wrote “The Crucible” after a visit to Salem in 1952 made him recognise parallels between the Salem Witch Trials of 1692-93 and the American political practise of McCarthyism in the late-1940s-50s. He later also cited concerns for justice, political manipulation, and fear of the supernatural.1 Named after U.S. Senator Joseph McCarthy, McCarthyism was an attempt to spread fear of Communism and deter Soviet influence throughout the country in the face of the Cold War with the Soviet Union. In many cases, one did not need to be an outspoken Communist or sympathiser, but merely unwilling to stand publicly against it. Civil servants, employees, academics, left-leaning politicians, celebrities, and the gay community were the most heavily scrutinised.

Miller took an oppositional stance to the Cold War and was questioned by the House Un-American Activities Committee, which was eventually disbanded on 14 January 1975. Others who were targeted included, Albert Einstein, Robert Oppenheimer, W.E.B. DuBois, Langston Hughes, and Leonard Bernstein.

Good and evil.

Something I found unique about “The Crucible” are Miller’s asides which offer more insight into his writing and the themes behind it.

Amidst Act One he writes:

…we conceive the Devil as a necessary part of a respectable view of cosmology. Ours is a divided empire in which certain ideas and emotions and actions are of God, and their opposites are of Lucifer. It is as impossible for most men to conceive of a morality without sin as of an earth without ‘sky’. Since 1692 a great but superficial change has wiped out God’s beard and the Devil’s horns, but the world is still gripped between two diametrically opposed absolutes…the necessity of the Devil may become evident as a weapon, a weapon designed and used time and time again in every age to whip men into a surrender to a particular church or church-state. (37-38)

And, it holds true today. Fervent religious movements continue to lobby for the enforcement of moral values via policy - policies which not every citizen may agree on, or perhaps even as antithetical to their own world view. That is to say, some believe that the common, normative values we as a majority already hold and, for the most part, adhere to with very little friction, are not enough. Admittedly, policy is tricky: we are a diverse people with an array of religious beliefs and there are economic, social, and other infrastructure related concerns to consider. Not everyone will be satisfied all of the time, but a better balance can be pursued.

It should be striking to us that four centuries later, rather than settling on a solidified and consistent commitment to public order and morality in a way which best suits us as a diverse nation, we swing wildly back and forth between a strict interpretation of morality and the law (heavily imbued with ideals borrowed from an Evangelical Christian reading of the Bible) and an exceedingly loose kind of permissiveness. Neither are healthy and this imbalance makes it more difficult to achieve a substantial level of social progress or human flourishing.

He goes on:

In the countries of the Communist ideology, all resistance of any import is linked to the totally malign capitalist succubi, and in America any man who is not reactionary in his views is open to the charge of alliance with the Red hell. Political opposition, thereby, is given an inhumane overlay which then justifies the abrogation of all normally applied customs of intercourse. A political policy is equated with moral right, and opposition to it with diabolical malevolence. Once such an equation is effectively made, society becomes a congerie of plots and counterplots, and the main role of government changes from that of the arbiter to that of the scourge of God.

The results of this process are no different now from what they ever were, except sometimes in the degree of cruelty inflicted, and not always even in that department. Normally the actions and deeds of a man were all that society felt comfortable in judging. The secret intent of an action was left to the ministers, priests, and rabbis to deal with. When diabolism rises, however, actions are the least important manifests of the true nature of man. (38-39)

The “Devil” (an analogy for whatever politics are opposite to your own preferred persuasion) is a convenient concept used to claim virtue, silence dissenters, disqualify and remove opponents, and spark the riotous, political polarisation we have witnessed unfold worldwide in recent years. Miller notes presciently as well, religious leaders were the arbiters of ones intent and now, it has become the subject of public discussion. People are “cancelled” or have their pasts dredged up in hopes of derailing their career progress - it is a nasty business. And yet, in selfishness and malice, we continue. We fail to learn how a more clear delineation of private life and personal beliefs versus who we are in public can serve the greater good and provide a more calm, orderly, and steadfast society.

A morality enforced.

A morality enforced upon the people is inauthentic. For it to have any real meaning and substance, we have to come to it of our own accord and of our own desire. Morality, happened upon by any other means except one’s own introspection and understanding of what is right and good, feels performative, like a façade. This is not a new idea: in his Nichomachean Ethics, Aristotle contends we must appreciate the virtues and take pleasure in them, not simply go through the motions to give the appearance of a virtuous life.2

The parallel point in ethics is that to make progress in this sphere we must already have come to enjoy doing what is just, courageous, generous and the like. We must experience these activities not as burdensome constraints, but as noble, worthwhile, and enjoyable in themselves.3

Free speech is also a key component of human flourishing. When we feel fear on any level to speak what we truly believe or to live according to our principles, we are not fully alive. This can come in all shapes and sizes. It can be a simple as wanting to hide your sexuality or political opinions for fear of social judgement or condemnation. It can be a serious as a concern that your livelihood may be taken away if you do not share the beliefs of your employer.

We should all aspire to live in a society that promotes a level of free speech and individuality wherein no one should fear any sort of reprisal for simply being themselves and exploring different perspectives or ideologies, so long as it does not involve physical harm to another. There should exist a general freedom to be curious and room to make mistakes and this can be accomplished while still maintaining social order.

Following the Trials, the community would quietly rescind excommunications and payed compensation to the living victims. “To all intents and purposes, the power of theocracy in Massachusetts was broken", Miller writes in closing. In hindsight, the people of Salem and in New England at large recognised their error in judgement yet, different iterations of “witch hunts” and prejudices have endured in societies worldwide.

The convergence of art and politics.

There is a discourse in literary theory about whether or not political readings of Classic texts is appropriate, but I think that to avoid it entirely is to risk missing out on the ability to apply certain lessons from these stories in our own lives. Clearly, some books are political and some are not. Some, like “The Crucible”, could be read in a vacuum and stand on their own aesthetic merit while simultaneously speaking more broadly with the intent of sparking political debate or a conversation about right and wrong, good versus evil. “The Brothers Karamazov” and “War and Peace” speak to morality, faith, human emotion and human experience on a very deep level. Yet, they are still exceptional works which stand as exemplary alone and possess the resilience to endure over two centuries. There a multitude of examples, past and present.

While we can discover great lessons as we read, to pry too deeply and go looking for an angle to satisfy your own world view, is to misread entirely. Reading should be primarily an aesthetic experience but there is room for political interpretation when it is intended to give the words some room to breathe, to settle within your own life and experiences, and leave space to let them make you better for having read them. This is one of the most wonderful parts of reading and an apt way to approach this play.

“The Crucible” was an artist’s answer to politics.4

I am making a claim for art as a communion of the human spirit and therefore by definition something [which] cannot be nationalistically confined or even used politically, for both political and national concepts are concepts of exclusion, devices for the wielding of worldly power…

I believe that once we assent to the idea that high policy alone is sacred, and that every other value can easily be sacrificed to it, we shall have abdicated our independence as writers and citizens.5

Miller hoped to convey that art should not be coopted for political ends or be stifled by any personal agenda. Art is for all and should remain independent.

“The Crucible” reminds us to be vigilant against creeping government censorship and overreach and as such, will be relevant in societies across the world from generation to generation. We are not free when policies dictate our political and moral belief systems or get between us and artistic expression. As such, I was pleased to learn that this play is still being taught in my local high school. The day when stories like this are hidden from the next generation; the future influencers of society and policy makers, we should cry foul.

To bend over backwards, we could point out that (of course) there were many differences between The Salem Witch Trials and McCarthyism. Life was far more difficult and oppressive in 1690s New England than it was in 1940-50s America for obvious reasons, however, what is important is the shared spirit behind the rhetoric used by those shouting “J’Acuse!” toward suspected witches and those alleged of unpatriotic activity four centuries later. The desire to draw hard and fast lines between those who do or don’t belong in an attempt to attain some idealistic vision of a more pure or worthy population has forever been one of the most toxic aspects of religious and political oratory. We should not presume it doesn’t linger on today or be any less vigilant. There is still a long way to go.

Passing it on.

When I sat in my English class junior year reading this play, I couldn’t wait to be done. I would look out the window and think about all of the things I would do after the school day. I was naïve to the value of literature then and it was lost on me for some time. However, I’m grateful for the fact that for a few years now, I’ve coming back to these books in adulthood and can have mature conversations about them with my school aged kids as they encounter these same stories.

Nobody in my house growing up did that for me, but I’m eager to do that for mine. And this is all it takes: an excited and aware mind willing to impart upon youth the lessons we would be afraid to see lost on them. There is fear in some circles of the Humanities fading and of literacy declining, but if you are in your 30s or 40s with children of your own, regardless of what happens in schools or society at large, you can teach them of the wealth that is literature. Education is broken in many ways, but this shouldn’t be an excuse to not raise a more literate and higher-minded generation. The faults in education should be motivation to take up your own study, make up for what you missed out on, and fill in the gaps for the current generation of students.

I am not sure what “The Crucible” is telling people now, but I know that its paranoid center is still pumping out the same darkly attractive warning that it did in the fifties...The thing at issue is buried intentions—the secret allegiances of the alienated heart, always the main threat to the theocratic mind, as well as its immemorial quarry. (Arthur Miller, The New Yorker, 14 October 1996)

I love how books will change with you as you grow, taking on new meaning and revealing more of their beauty and value over time. What felt boring in 2004 might enrapture you in 2026. Getting older has its many silver linings. I’m glad I had this Sunday experience to be reminded of how sometimes a re-read is more worthwhile an experience than ones first encounter with a novel (or play). Continue coming back to books, time and time again.

After some writing and a few stunning compositions from the “Hamnet” soundtrack, I sit down with my coffee, pull my moderately comfortable chair more closely to my desk and open Outlook. Junk, junk…one that can wait until later, and then, I am greeted with an email to all staff marked “urgent”.

It read, more or less: “You are now authorised to use Copilot to summarise emails and write email correspondence. Please remember to double check your work when using AI.”

I should feel grateful right? It took this long. I know friends who have had this pushed on them, mandated even, since last year. The nature of my work saved me from this for a little while and even now, it can only be used lightly, but as much as I try, it’s hard to feel any sense of appreciation for the delay or minuscule impact: it feels like something vital is being stolen from us, in exchange for the small bit of good these tools can potentially provide. My coworker calls from over the cubicle wall, “Dylan…did you see this about Copilot?” I sigh, “…yes.” To my satisfaction, he remarks as he deletes the email, “No way am I using this.”

Generally speaking, I’m of the opinion that AI is going to fail to live up to the expectations of even its most ardent supporters. It will sparkle and fade into a much more mundane type of daily usage. What I worry about most is the impact of generative AI on art and people developing an over dependence on it as a search tool, eroding cognitive faculties and critical thought.

The good news is that the ability to have a proper attention span hasn’t gone away; the hard part is reconciling our bad habits and providing ourselves with the right conditions. It is a battle which has to be fought on the personal front.1

I’d recommend this interview between Tristan Harris and Nate Hagen on The Great Simplification podcast for some sane and encouraging news about AI amidst the slop and impending doom around every corner. It offers us a “species rite of passage” moment as Tristan points out. It isn’t too late.

Feeling.

I’ve been writing a lot in my journal lately about the struggle to feel given the current state of things. There are stretches of quiet reading, writing, walking, and focus built in to my routine, but something has been lost somewhere deeper, in the soul of it all. Perhaps it is a reflex from negative past experiences to harden myself for fear of feeling future pain, or could it just be that I have been living in the shallows lately?

Recalling my teens and twenties, I reminisce how a new song or particularly well-written and artistic film more easily rendered me speechless or brought tears. I’d listen to music on repeat, discovering something new with every revolution. This usually ended with me, guitar in hand, writing feverishly.

This track from The Civil Wars comes to mind: the hours I spent playing it, trying to write something as poignant for my own set.

In recent years though, juxtaposed against what feels like an enormous amount of character growth and self-discovery, an underlying stoicism has developed: and I despise it. Setting the misguided understanding and cultural fascination with stoicism aside, it proves useful in certain moments, yes, but now, I want to shed this more callous exterior and render my soul more human again; more vulnerable, empathetic, and tender; better able to connect with art, people, and have genuine interaction without pretence.

What frustrates me most is how the digital obsession has wormed its way into each crevice of our world. It is hardly avoidable. You could leave your phone at home, go out to a store or café or on a hike; anywhere else, and somewhere along the way, you would be subjected to the ambient sounds of other people’s phones. It is its own kind of noise pollution. You can set personal boundaries and do everything right to protect your peace, and still fail to experience quiet.

AI feels like a harbinger of the further decline of our attention and the human ability to honestly access our own emotions. This includes intimately knowing how we feel about the state of the world, a piece of music, our career path, a work of art, or our relationship to others. The external input is so intense and the distraction so incessant, we are consistently robbed of opportunities for reflection: when the most important feelings tend to arise; the feelings which create new opportunities for growth, we have already moved on.

I am well in-tune with the negative side-effects of AI and social media, and even still am (very) susceptible. It makes no matter who you are, how much you know, or how aware, your mind is still wired in such a way that the ease and instant gratification of a screen can hijack it. No one is immune and that is why it’s so essential to develop your own guardrails and boundaries. We can’t wait for Silicon Valley to respect our attention, because they never will.

What we risk losing.

Should we give ourselves over to the misleading promises of AI, I cannot help but worry that we will lose much of what makes us human, including our ability to feel, and articulate those feelings. Even if it does only turn out to be nothing more than a glorified search engine or research tool in the long run, the impact will still be tangible. We have all seen the “slop” and the edits, the misleading deep fakes…and this is as bad as this technology is ever going to be. It only gets more convincing from here. Now is the time to devote ourselves to something higher.

The future of style and what it means to be human is at stake.

These findings suggest a scenario where machines, originally trained on human data and subsequently exhibiting their own cultural traits, can, in turn, measurably reshape human culture.2

In the face of this, I want to cling to the things which are timeless and products of total human creativity and artistic expression.

Adam Walker of Close Reading Poetry goes deeper here into how AI is flattening our language and as a result, our thinking. Since embarking on my pursuit of reading more Classics, what is most stark is the difference, and I would say, the decline, of the English language over time. By resisting AI, embracing and experiencing the greatest writers, and by patiently and consistently improving our own language, we can enrich and bring a unique voice into our shared future.

T.S. Eliot reminds us of the need for a new voice as we carry on into the future in “Little Gidding”:

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.

The potency of humane art.

The final scene of “Hamnet” wrecked me. It is one of only a few cases where I can say, the film perhaps outdid the novel. And, I thought the novel was refreshingly imaginative and spectacular. I wept, then watched it again and wept some more. It channels emotions which are so enduring across time. If you are a parent, you feel it profoundly. Everyone involved, on and off screen, deserves praise. It feels like the sort of thing we should never want to relinquish: the product of an author’s honest use of her artistic creativity; the result of years of thoughtful research and writing: entirely constructed from the power of her imagination.

Exceptional literature and film will always exist, but despite its existence, if we lower our bar to that of AI generated and/or short-form content and if that is the majority of what we take in, we are missing out on so damn much. We have to ask ourselves, what will we allow our attention to settle on to make this already short life that much more beautiful?

We should be most willing to be moved! Even if it makes us uncomfortable or sad or angry or unsettled. A friend recently reminded me that this is what art is for. This is what enriches our human experience and encourages our flourishing.

When death comes.

Each time I contemplate my relationship to technology and art, my thoughts culminate in some type of inner-argument about the way I am currently living and how I will reflect upon my choices when death comes. A few weeks weeks ago during a conversation with one of our children my wife said, “I don’t think it matters how long you live”, to make the point that it is the experiences we have in whatever time we are granted which matter most.

It’s an argument made so many times that I think it risks losing its pull. We engage in rote thinking and projecting so often, it is good to direct ourselves from time to time to the more thorough practise of sincere reflection and a re-assessment of our beliefs, priorities, and routine.

When it comes to this sort of thing, Mary Oliver doesn’t miss.

“When Death Comes”

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
 
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world, either.

The thing is, ending life with the satisfaction that you have lived, not simply visited, begins in this moment, with this breath.

Wherever you are now could be the beginning of a richer life; one you will look back on fondly and with pride. We say this over and over, we know it intellectually, but for some of us, myself included, it is a good time to be reminded how much more gratifying life is when you move with a higher awareness. Life change does not hinge on just one point of total and enduring course correction. It is a series of starts and stops where we take stock of things. We live for a while, we notice we are off track, check-in, refresh ourselves and carry on more rightly.

Life is a series of noticings.

I don’t want to be constantly derailed by the warm glow of digital distraction or reduced to someone who cannot make a decision without consulting a machine. I want to be curious, attentive, and freed up to notice.

Chekhov’s Laevsky and future optimism.

After reading Anton Chekhov’s, “The Duel”, Laevsky comes to mind. He starts off a drinker, gambler, and womaniser - living an addictive and impulsive life. Unhappy in his relationship, bored by his geography, and disenchanted by even the beauty of nature, he hides behind his intellectual and jovial exterior and when pressed, cannot provide a reason for why he lives in such a way.

At the outset, he is the kind of person I wish not to be. Yet, he “discovers a world outside (his) egocentric concerns”, and I think we too ought to have faith in a more promising future.3 At present, the future sometimes looks like the hell that is the unavoidable and overwhelming onset of ubiquitous AI, surveillance over-reach, the elimination of what little privacy we still retain, and an incessant buzz of notifications as what it means to be human becomes fuzzier until it fades completely.

We can resist the trends, and I do believe, that more than less of are on the same page here.4 By pursuing a more analogue, deeper experience we can create a future with its own voice; one that is respectable and more accurately conveys the optimism and great potential humanity holds. That potential is still present underneath the bleak headlines, the slop, and your supervisor’s call to use AI in the workplace. Believe it.

This means choosing silence in a noisy world. It means putting down the device, reading the greats, looking for quality works of art to learn from, and fleshing out your thoughts in a journal and with other curious minds. It requires a commitment to living more slowly and deliberately and embracing the harder work of honing your skills the same patient and committed way those before you have done for centuries. It worked for them and will work in futurum. For that is human and what is human will never fail us.

Oscar Wilde called, Henry James’ “The Turn of the Screw”, ‘A most wonderful, lurid, poisonous little tale’, and I have to agree. It first appeared in Collier’s Weekly as a serial from 27 January to 16 April, 1898 and has been the subject of many adaptations. Most recently, and probably most well-known to current readers, “The Haunting of Bly Manor” (2020) - which I recall briefly attempting a few years ago and it not holding my attention.

The book, as in most every case, is far better an experience.

*as with my other reflections, spoilers are present.

Narration.

Creatively, it opens around a fire: the narrator is telling the story to a small group of friends who are both diverted and disturbed by the tale: he reads from a manuscript written by a now deceased governess who, “charged with the care of two young orphans at their country estate, becomes locked in battle over their souls with a pair of resident ghosts”. 2

“The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as on Christmas Eve in an old house a strange tale should essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till somebody happened to note it as the only case he had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child.” (1)

The blueprint is a familiar one: an isolated woman is presented with a secret and embarks on a pursuit to discover the truth, while also needing to maintain her grip on reality and satisfy day-to-day responsibilities. James takes this and injects it with details that imbue the tale with an uncanny energy and takes it down a road that shifts unpredictably. It was familiar and at the same time, brand new.

James’ writing took some sinking into, but once I grasped the flow, it was nothing but a pleasure. He ascribes great detail to Bly, all of the action taking place, and with proper care, constructs a beautifully gothic environment abounding in mystery, unease, and the sense that evil prowls the grounds, just beneath surface of human perception: perhaps, awaiting until someone least suspects to make itself known.

As “Turn of the Screw” is being told fireside in a casual manner with the governess’s manuscript our only source, we’re left without another point of view and this also adds a wonderful element of perplexity. Who is to say if our governess is a reliable narrator? It is for the reader to decide.

Deception.

The children (Miles and Flora) are well behaved, as the governess takes great steps to reinforce to us. She writes that the children’s gentleness makes them “unpunishable” and that they were an “antidote to pain”. (29) In their presence, she forgets about her problems as if under a spell. It colours every scene with a faint tinge of dark magic.

Bly is cast as a serene and mystic setting, which adds a sense of uneasy comfort. It isn’t that the reader would suspect Bly incapable of producing danger or possessing malevolence, but raises suspicion and creates apprehension:

It was the first time, in a manner, that I had known space and air and freedom, and the music of summer and all the mystery of nature. And then there was consideration - and consideration was sweet, Oh, it was a trap - not designed but deep - to my imagination, to my delicacy, perhaps to my vanity, to whatever in me was most excitable. The best way to picture it all is to say that I was off my guard…” (22-23)

Even as the governess sees the apparitions (Quint and Miss Jessel) on multiple occasions, she continues to return to this dreamlike state, hypnotised by the wonder of the grounds, the polite manner of the children, and the fact that she is removed from the chaos and routine of the outside world, even if it be a new sort of chaos she is encapsulated in. It is this removal from society and presence in an unfamiliar world which is most subtly unsettling. She writes, “I walked into a world of their invention” (42), as if to say they have the children innately have the upper hand despite their youth, and emphasises that she is merely guest at Bly: out of place, out of control, and susceptible to their trickery.

James ebbs back and forth between scenes of apparitions, and those where the governess is absolutely smitten by Miles and Flora, enhancing the suspense. You’re left wondering who is in charge at Bly: are the children even children at all? Have they been corrupted? Are they possessed, or wholly human? At times, it feels like Miles and Flora are the sole architects of the governess’s perception and manipulating her mental state. All the while, she is being drawn in, lured by a strange sense of duty to them, willing to take greater and greater effort to preserve what innocence they have left and keep them safe.

And, isn’t that the job of a governess? One can see, when viewed strictly through the eyes of a parent or guardian, that the obligation she feels as protecter is only natural; it is instinctual and so very human. We have an innate sense of responsibility to care for children, even at times, to our own discomfort or detriment. In many ways, it renders us vulnerable and that element comes through in “The Turn of the Screw”.

Any clouding of their innocence could only be - blameless and foredoomed as they were - a reason the more for taking risks. (55)

This cultivates a sense that the governess is at the whims of Bly and whatever metaphysical elements might be at play. She grows more self-conscious and suspicious and her mental health appears to gradually erode. Her reaction when Mrs. Grose finally seems to believe that she is seeing the ghosts of Quint and Miss Jessel is one of condescension. Even though she desperately needs her to believe in the presence of genuine ghosts for her own sanity, she still cannot fully rest in her acknowledgement:

But she (Mrs. Grose) was a magnificent monument to the blessing of a want of imagination, and she could see in our little charges (the children) nothing but their beauty and amiability, their happiness and cleverness; she has no direct communication with the source of my trouble. (64)

This is as if to say, regardless of whether or not she believes her, she will never know how unsettled the governess is because she is not experiencing Bly through her eyes. I loved this detail because it elevates the sense of horror by further isolating her from Mrs. Grose, her only other source of help, and raises the concern that she is spiralling further out of control; perhaps most startlingly at the whims of the Miles and Flora.

She in turn however, has a moment where she feels guilty about putting her troubles on Mrs. Grose, making her, “a receptacle of lurid things…” (66), which sets the entire story even more off-kilter and tilts the responsibility of everyone’s comfort upon the governess, almost even framing her as part of the problem.

The governess adds, “She offered her mind to my disclosures as, had I wished to mix a witch’s broth and proposed it with assurance, she would have held out a large clean saucepan”, which is a wildly apt way to capture the sentiment of this scene. James lets not a single word go to waste!

The psychology of Bly.

As the novella crescendos and asserts itself as one of the most famous ghost stories in the history of literature, our narrator is drawn further down in a spiral of madness.

It is easy to simply see the governess as a psychiatric patient in waiting, however, if we open up to the idea that the apparitions of Quint and Miss Jessel are indeed really dead souls who’ve returned to Bly with a score to settle, it makes the entire experience that much more mysterious and delightfully haunting. There is a tendency, with the breadth of scientific knowledge we now possess to immediately explain everything suspiciously supernatural away, but I would hate to lose a sense of imagination: the state of the modern world does its best to strip it away from you as it is. I found that when I was thinking over “The Turn of the Screw” this afternoon, as ambiguous as the conclusion is or as unreliable as our narrator may be, it excites me more to entertain the existence of ghosts, the presence of something a bit dangerous and untoward, and simply embrace the mystery.

I can hear again, as I write, hush in which the sounds of evening dropped. The rooks stopped cawing in the golden sky and the friendly hour lost, for the unspeakable minute, all its voice. But there was no other change in nature, unless indeed it were a change that I saw with a stranger sharpness. The gold was still in the sky, the clearness in the air, and the man who looked at me over the battlements was as definite as a picture in a frame. (25)

Psychological torment is its own unique kind of disturbing, which I fully appreciate, but getting some solitude with this novella, perhaps by candle light as rain falls outside, and letting yourself too be a visitor at Bly, imagining the eeriness of the expansive grounds and empty staircases at night, having an encounter with Miles and Flora, seeing and hearing things you cannot quite describe, is a more complete experience.

I like to picture someone sitting down with this in 1898, Collier’s Weekly in hand at the end of a long day, and fully answering that call to believe as you read. I’d like some more of that in my daily life.

The Devil as art.

As the story ends, I wonder if James means to say, Quint is in fact the Devil when the governess, trying to direct Mile’s attention to the apparition, exclaims and points in Quint’s direction, “Peter Quint - you devil!” (124) Or, is she referring to Miles as “you devil”, and stating that it is Quint he ought to be looking for? He does ask, “Whom do you mean by “he”?”, as if to imply that he sees nothing and the governess has been hallucinating all along.

There is a lot to be left to the imagination which makes for a story that lends itself to introspection. I found myself wondering what I really think about the supernatural and how the human mind, under the right conditions, can see and hear things which aren’t really there. How deeply do I believe in hauntings and things the eyes aren’t privy to? It is a fun and I think, important path to meandre down sometimes. Escaping the physical world and wondering what may exist beyond our senses is part of constructing a more robust personal philosophy and sense of meaning. This sort of speculation helps us situate ourselves in the world and more concretely decide what we believe reality to be.

We are also left to wonder if Mile’s death is caused by Quint and some devilish intervention or, more horrifyingly, perhaps the governess in her madness and drive to protect him, hugged him so tightly he suffocated.

I like what James says in the Preface to the New York Edition:

I recognise again, that Peter Quint and Miss Jessel are not ‘ghosts’ at all, as we know the ghost, but goblins, elves, imps, demons as loosely constructed as those of the old trials for witchcraft; if not, more pleasingly, fairies of the legendary order, wooing their victims forth to see them dance under the moon.

It seems that he was cleverly aiming at a broader interpretation.

Returning to the quote at the top of this essay, where he refers to the Devil as “EXPRESSION!”, James is invoking evil in the name of art itself.3 Perhaps, “The Turn of the Screw” is less a glorification of all the Devil’s presence may imply and more of a rhapsody on the uncertainty and fallibility of the human mind amidst an environment of ambivalence and stress. Perhaps, it is a creatively spun story about an actual haunted manor and the fate of the victims who wander inside.

The beauty and artistic value of “The Turn of the Screw” lies in what it withholds: it’s ambiguity is the horror. We are left to decide for ourselves what we believe about the supernatural and evil in our world and that makes it enjoyable on a deeper level.

Stories which leave the reader alone with their imagination to parse and decide for themselves are a special kind. They trust the reader to think independently, to come their own conclusions, and do not presume our ignorance. I can appreciate when an author respects my intellect and ingenuity as a reader, and welcomes my own unique conclusions. In this delectable spooky novella, James does just that in a sensationally satisfying way.

Occasionally, I hold a small funeral for the years I’ve spent as a cog in the machine and could have otherwise spent doing things that make me feel most alive. Many before me have done the same though, and still led lives of great worth: there are certainly silver linings, I just have a penchant for dramatic self-reflection.

Until not so long ago, I thought that everything I wrote had to be publish-worthy as soon as possible and that if it didn’t come out how I wanted after the first pass or two, it wasn’t worth continuing work on, but I don’t see it that way anymore. The piles of journals in my closet and amount of unfinished drafts I have here is both unsettling and promising: it reminds me that good ideas live within me and that it is mostly a matter of focused application and engaging more honestly with the rhythm and routine of writing.

Poem from a Thursday morning:

Drip. Smell.
Hear the coffee.
The sound of potential.
See. Feel.
First light slowly stretching,
across yards and down streets.
Breeze. Birds.
All the Earth rises.
Stretch: mind and body.
Face the day with hope.

(14 May 2026, 0737)

It feels like I came to this mindset too late in life, but better late than never, however overstated, always rings true. Letting go of perfectionism is benefitting me in every area of life.

Writing is always how I’ve processed the world around me. When I was younger, it was through lyrics. Songwriting went so naturally with my interest in guitar and it felt like an effortless way to breathe life into emotion.

One of those songs, “Burden”, turned 13 yesterday and deserves to be shared:

The burden on my heart won't fade,
No hope to lighten this load.
Picturesque as it may be, this desolation brings me to my knees.

And it's no one's fault but mine.

The ripple of the ocean's water, as your ship sails away.
I cannot break my gaze though I've lost you.
I wonder where you will go? I wonder where you will go?

I've wandered for too many miles,
In the fog of my own mind.
There's nothing like that colour green,
I see it again a thousand times.

And it's no one's fault but mine.

Climb the mountain, burn it down
Flood the valley to begin again.

The ripple of the ocean's water, as your ship sails away.
I cannot break my gaze though I've lost you.
I wonder where you will go? I wonder where you will go?

Along the path to now, I gradually grew up. Sometimes the process of becoming an adult naturally hardens you, and any vulnerability you previously had disappears. It isn’t just felt in rising cynicism, but also, in a disbelief in yourself that can grow weeds around your hopes and dreams, obscuring and smothering them.

It doesn’t happen overnight; it is more like the death of a thousand cuts. Eventually, it can even feel childish to express yourself in ways you would have had no apprehension about when you were younger. If you are not careful, the natural joy, awe, and wonder of being human fades away and you become like those all-too-serious adults you told yourself you’d never emulate.

Look at the children though. Does their “childishness” not look like joy to us now?

Negative experiences, the harshness of others, tough breaks, and the process of having to take on more responsibility can callous our more sensitive side. We learn that if we ignore the parts of us that have been hurt or need attention, it’s not so hard to carry on. Meanwhile, they sit dormant, arising when we least expect or desire them; usually interrupting us when it’s most inconvenient.

It is the attention to those parts though, that heals us.

With that in mind, I come back to the basics: sitting and writing; being honest with myself, even when I do not have a specific direction. I am reading a wider variety as to have more to draw on; more masterclass examples and stories to turn over in my mind. Exposure to a breadth of literature also leads to a well-defined sense of taste, which is important if you want to know what moves you, why it moves you, and what you should be contributing to the world artistically. Be consistently curious and you will better know what you’re uniquely qualified to speak to.

In rhythm and routine we will find joy and downstream of that, results. In vulnerability and honesty we will find the things most worth saying, and downstream of that, healing. You have to genuinely love the craft before any ambition of success. If you are able to derive pleasure without an audience, you have already won.

I realise this afternoon, how content I am, and that what I want most is simply to devote more time to the act of reading, the process of writing, and to take deeper pleasure in this wondrous little life of mine.

For those of you who start this book and feel like it is merely narcisisstic whinging, please…keep going. Trust me.

*as with most of my reflections, spoliers await.

The novel can feel slightly scattered at times, especially early on, but it brims with potential all the way to its conclusion. I wondered if it would address questions of the supernatural or metaphysical at first, then it felt like it would either become a romance or murder mystery. It mantains a gothic undercurrent throughout and kept me on my toes, which I revelled in.

Its easy to see why “The Sea, The Sea” may not be for everyone, but there is something about stories which portray everyday life, even the most banal parts (I think of Charles’ obsession with food…) which I find fascinating. On the surface, it is everyday life, but Murdoch deftly traverses the psychological complexity underneath. We all have more intricate parts and more interesting stories which lie waiting to be noticed and explored.

Shruff End and the sea.

Our narrator, Charles Arrowby, is a theatre man; an allegedly well-known producer from London. He’s come to the English coast to write his autobiography at a coastal home called Shruff End. As we read, “The Sea, The Sea”, we are reading both his diary and the beginnings of a memoir - he is still working out the format, which feels a bit eratic at times. Initially, the tone is inconsistent, but as I settled in, it took on more of a mirror like quality, reflecting the ebb and flow of the day-to-day human experience. I wonder if Murdoch meant for the prose to reflect our everyday lives: never neat and tidy, sometimes out of sorts, complicated, and at the whims of emotion, but balanced somehow between what we can control and what simply comes at us. We manage it all the same, to the best of our ability, one day at a time.

Charles’ story telling is ultimately defined by his profession. He sees the world through the lens of a play. Even when he is not working, “all the world is a stage…”.

Emotions really exist at the bottom of personality or at the top. In the middle they are acted. This is why all the world is a stage, and why the theatre is always popular and indeed why it is exists: why it is like life, and it is like life even thought It is also the most vulgar and outrageously factitious of all the arts. (33)

Appropriately, his life at Shruff End is drowing in characters, not just in the sense that they are characters in the novel, but that the likes of James (Charles’ cousin, who becomes more influential to the plot later on), Lizzie, Rosina, and Peregrine all exude a pecularity and avant-garde aesthetic about them. They descend upon him adding drama and tumult to his stay at the sea; ironically so, considering he left London to find solitude.

Despite him romanticising his problems and having a penchant for drama, Charles is a man of simple pleasures. He enjoys food and ascribes to it very precise rules. He takes great pleasure in his walks, in swimming, and in lounging around Shruff End nude. His inner life feels rich, which I appreciated. He is lonely, but also at ease, free from the drama of London. He admits, “what a lot of energy in my life I have spent escaping from women…” (70) and one feels a sense of acceptance on his part that his narcissistic disposition makes relationships especially difficult and that he is most happy, living quietly and single, making Shruff End by the sea a seemingly perfect Prospero-esque idyll.

One thing I found most enjoyable is how Murdoch makes the sea its own character. This is far and away my favourite aspect of the novel. It’s easy to set a story in a particular geography and describe the surroundings, but it is more ambitious and effective to write the scenery in such a way that it overflows into the lives of your characters and you can hardly tell when one begins and another ends. She accomplishes this effortlessly and it brings an impeccable dimension to things.

It is cloudy and the sea is a dark blue-grey, an aggressive and unpleasant colour. The seagulls are holding a wake. The house feels damp. (69)

Incessant romanticising.

When Charles runs in to his first love, Mary Hartley Fitch in town one day, he immediately becomes preoccupied. He writes earlier on in the book that he does not need the love of a woman, yet, his actions demonstrate otherwise. His obsession clouds his view. He acts irrationally, even dangerously. He cannot comprehend why Mary would not return this feeling or why she refuses to leave her husband for him. The world it seems, revolves around Charles.

Its interesting to note, the first section of the book is labelled as “pre-history” (pg. 1-88, Penguin classics) where things feels more Charles-centric; we are feeling him out and developing prejudice. His ego, selfishness, and narcissism feel like the centre of the story; other characters are defined by his opinion of them and seem to hold him high regard. However during the “history” portion (pg. 88 onward) you begin to experience the reality of the situation. You’re able to see clearly that it is the incessant romanticising of his affairs which is the most problematic part of his life and his narration is not trustworthy.

From my perspective, it is the influence of the threatre-life that derails his sanity. He’s been so deeply invested in production that he can no longer see everyday life as anything but a show; a show where he is the main character and all action is filtered through his biased psyche. He treats others correspondingly and overanalyses every experience with an excessive weight it does not deserve. I think about how most things that happen to me are not directed directly to me, but are just the sequence of life events playing out. I do not control most of it, I simply exist and it just happens. There is nothing inherently special about my existence or the kind of person I am that warrants suspicion of the universe when things do not go as I’d prefer. No - this is how life is, full stop. However, this is not so for Charles.

To him, everything feels like an affront. This is why he descends into obsessive madness and cannot refrain from pestering Mary, begging her, and ultimately holding her against her will in his home.

Marriage.

Throughout, there are myriad subtly condescending statements about marriage. I suspect that Charle’s outlook on the institution was a result of Murdoch’s own experience, which was less than conventional. Although married over fourty years, she openly had affairs with others due to his stated disinterest in sex.1 Bayley apparently thought sex as, “inescapably ridiculous, and Iris was happy to have multiple affairs with both men and women…”2

‘Every persisting marriage is based on fear,’ said Peregrine, ‘Fear is fundamental, you dig down in human nature and what’s at the bottom? Mean spiteful cruel self-regarding fear. whether it makes you put the boot in or whether it makes you cower. As for marriage, people simply settle into positions of domination and submission. Of course they sometimes ‘grow together’ or ‘achieve a harmony’, since you have to deal rationally with a source of terror in your life. I suspect there are awfully few happy marriages really, only people conceal their misery and their disappointment. (158)

It is one of Hartley’s replies to one of Charles’ many fits of begging which sent me into a spiral of thought and self-reflection. It made me see more clearly why marriage is such a precious experience:

I live in long-times, not in sudden present moments, don’t you see - I’m married, I’ve got to go where I am. (326)

When we get married, we promise our life, time, and attention to another person, and in doing so, transition from an existence geared toward the pursuit of spontaneous, solo living. We enter into a cooperative, forward-thinking and more routine-oriented experience. In doing so, we’re building something bigger than ourselves and enter a state which humbly demands selflessness. It is a sacrifice, yes, but one we ought to be joyful for, because the return when you fully embrace this idea, is honesty, vulnerability and a deeper understanding of not just your partner, but of the world at large.

Minn’s Cauldron.

The whirlwind of growing uncertainty, obsession, and tension culminates into the most significant moment of the novel; the beginning of Charles’ modest, slow, and imperfect ascent to self-realisation.

When Charles is pushed into Minn’s Cauldron (a rock formation just off the coast near Shruff End) he begins to see the grip he thought he had on his life was an illusion. His egotistical nature demands he control the minutae and after his fall, the second part of his journey slowly takes shape. As a theatre director, he was in control of not only his cast but a captive audience, and now, he is faced with the truth of his vulnerability at the hands of another and the unforgiving sea.

Afterward, Titus (Mary’s son) also falls into Minn’s Cauldron and dies. Murdoch intentionally never resolves whether he was pushed or fell.

Regardless, after his death, Charles speaks to how he feels he is seeing the world and its beauty through “Titus’s eyes…”. (385) This is the first occasion I can think of where he exhibits a willingness to see life from the vantage point of another. In that moment, he is rendered more honest, and for a brief time is able to let go of his desire to force life to bend to his will…even if he carries on seeking to exact “the immediate transformation of misery into revengeful purposeful rage” upon Titus’ killer. (387-88)

My favourite moment in the entire novel unwinds from this experience:

Falling, what the child fears, what the man dreads, is itself the image of death, of the defencelessness of the body, of its frailty and morality, its absolute subjection to alien causes. Even in a harmless fall in the road there is a little moment of horror when the faller realises that he cannot help himself; he has been taken over by a relentless mechanism and must continue with it to the end and be subject to consequences. ‘There is nothing more I can do.’ How long, how infinitely expansible, a second is when it contains this thought, which is an effigy of death. A complete fall into the void, something which I had imagined on aeroplanes, is of course the most terrible thing of all. Hands, feet, muscles, all the familiar protective mechanisms of the body are suddenly useless. The enmity of matter is unleashed against the frail breakable crushable animal form, always perhaps an alien in this hard mineral gravitational scene. (361)

My god, Murdoch is a master. She illuminates the human experience in such a beautiful way. As I read, I cannot help but examine my own self and the ways in which my life experiences have affected the path I have taken on an entirely new level.

Subtle redemption.

I found the culmination of “The Sea, The Sea” a gratifying one. Murdoch leverages James’ presence and influence to interrupt Charles’ obsessive and self-aggrandising behaviour. He presents a key moment for self-reflection.

It’s not an eternal thing, nothing human is eternal. For us, eternity is an illusion. It’s like in a fairy tale. When the clock strikes twelve it will all crumble to pieces and vanish. And you’ll find out you are free of her, free of her forever, and you can let the poor ghost go. What will remain will be ordinary obligations and ordinary interests. And you’ll feel free. (349)

Charles wants to hold on the illusion desperately; to the idea that he and Mary are destined to be reunited and that fate has conspired they meet again decades later. James is a voice of reason here. He knows it is healthier to be rational, to cut through the fog of love and obsession and see that Charles’ decision making is clouded. It has become the torment of his existence. He came to Shruff End for mental clarity and instead, has landed in a den of maniac infatuation.

Not tot be overlooked are Charles’ confessions of his domineering treatment of the casts in his plays. “I fostered my reputation for ruthlessness, it was extremely useful.” (37) He may be successful, but he is an obsessive and unpleasant type to work with. Unbeknownst to him, his trip to Shruff End will become a reckoning with this identity and behaviour. In hindsight, the novel feels very much like a psychological adventure. Shortly after arriving to his seaside home, he sees a “monster rising from the waves.” (19) I take this as his subconscious being haunted by his nature and the person he had become in the London scene. There is something under the surface, slowly emerging, nudging him to confront the egomaniac within.

It is against this backdrop that James slowly emerges to the foreground as a influential and pseudo-redemptive figure. I didn’t expect this, especially because Charles expresses such envy for his cousin: he writes about how James was more educated, adventurous, and a well-travelled war hero. He speaks self-loathingly about his time in the theatre in comparison, calling his work, “magical delusions” and that he would, “victimize an audience every night”. Yet, James acts as a catalyst for Charles’ restoration. Despite his jealously toward James, “he remains under James’s influence and is always recalling something James has said.”3

Charles Arrowby’s story is one of subtle redemption born of a precarious awakening. He grows from a cynical and self-centred protagonist, from a biased and unreliable narrator, to having a more thorough understanding of his moral shortcomings. By the end, he accepts his condition and can release his delusional infatuation with Mary. Though not a full transformation, we can tell he is increasingly self-aware and get the sense that this noticing is a step toward his relinquishing this self-absorbed version of himself and carrying on more humbly in life.

Murdoch’s structure suggests she generates frustration throughout the first part of “The Sea, The Sea” to enhance our sense of gratification at the close. We are, at first put off by Charles, to the point where sometimes it might feel hard to continue reading. The last thing I expected was for him to show any amount of vulnerability, or to acknowledge, and seek to fix his flaws. She adds to this journey with a mystic, pseudo-gothic backdrop: Shruff End is isolated and seems haunted. There is his vision of the sea monster and the sensation of “spiritual evil” being afoot - the sea and all its expanse adds a sense of eerieness. Charles’ obsession creates tension and references to ghosts make us feel as if something metaphysically unsettling is at play, deeply in need of healing. This moody layer adds to a sense of religious atonement and absolution when we arrive at Charles’ moral reckoning.

Most importantly, I think the fact that his redemption is fragile speaks to how we rarely ever heal all at once. Growth is a process. We remain imperfect and make mistakes even after realising our own faults and misinterpretations of reality. Like a ray of sunlight slowly drenches a room at the bookends of each day, so do we come to terms with ourselves.

“The Sea, The Sea” is far and away one of the most enjoyable books I’ve ever read. It is a wonderful aesthetic experience and also serves lessons for life. I sat at my desk the other day, stuck on my angle for this essay wondering about my life without this story. I thought about how many novels we are denied, simply through the fact that the sheer volume or multi-lingual nature of them means that potential life-changing reads are left undiscovered. As such, I feel fortunate to have been part of a community where it entered my milieu.

Without it I would have lived. But, having experienced it, I am confronted with relevant new perspectives on marriage, self-concept, coming-of-age, and renewal; none of which I would have encountered without “The Sea, The Sea.”

This is why we read.

The right novel can shift our worldview and make life far more majestic.

I wish I could convey the ambiance: my warmly lit living room, the breeze of a storm gently enters through open windows, bringing with it the scent of rain, the scent of freshly damp earth. It is a shame I cannot make this post scratch-and-sniff, because it is something special . It’s interesting how a storm touches a place so deep inside of us; like we’ve been alive for a thousand years and know so intimately the importance of it saturating the ground. I read recently our brains are more sensitive to the smell of petrichor than sharks are to blood: something to do with our ancestors discovering fresh sources of water.

No wonder I feel so full of life this morning.

Murdoch.

It is cloudy and the sea is a dark blue-grey, an aggressive and unpleasant colour. The seagulls are holding a wake. The house feels damp. (Iris Murdoch, “The Sea, The Sea”, 69)

“The Sea, The Sea” by Iris Murdoch has been capitivating me the past few days. I’d love to tell you I am devouring it, but this book demands a slower read. 80 pages in three days feels just right. I can understand why someone wouldn’t enjoy it, but it is impeccably suited to my taste. There is a vulnerability in the writing which connects me to Charles. We are not alike, but at times, the way Murdoch writes his thoughts reminds me that there is some of him within me. I can be prone to pretentiousness, enjoy simplicity almost to a fault, and at times linger in regret; with the tendency to view most decisions I have made as, “the wrong ones”. In the moment of course, we know not the path they will take us down. I have learned to be content with the understanding that I was only doing the best with the knowledge I had a the time.

There are such chasms of might-have-beens in any human life. (84)

In reality, I am comfortable and content, but I suppose its in our nature. We second guess, we wonder, we cannot help but imagine alternate lives that didn’t come to fruition. Even if the reality of the present is quite nice, to be wholly satisfied is not our natural state. As I get older, it feels less like a problem to be solved and more a useful trait to be drawn upon to inspire the realignment of priorities moving forward.

Taking notes.

My journal was a good friend this morning. I have been taking down quotes from this novel and writing small reflections as I go. I’ve only recently started keeping a stream of consciousness alongisde my readings, but it is helpful for recall. I also think it makes my essays much more robust. You can take on a book without keeping notes or a compendium of your feelings as it undulates to its end, but doing so brings it to life. For myself anyway. There is no “right” way to read.

Her lips were pale and always cold; and when, with my eyes closing, I touched them so childishly with mine, a cold force pierced me like a spear, such as a pilgrim might feel when he knelt and touched some holy life-renewing stone. (78)

The book gods.

How interesting is it that I found “The Sea, The Sea” in an Austin second hand shop for $5 two weeks ago, and in such good shape? I saw it, kept walking, then had to step back. “Oh…this is on my to-read list. Cheap too. Nice condition. I should leave with this book.” I was planning to venture into more Shakespeare (the Henriad specifically) after finshing “We”, but sometimes, I wonder if the book gods take pleasure in interrupting our plans and presenting us with an alternative that is perfect for that most immediate moment in our lives. I could not have chosen a better book for right now.

Short and sweet is the mood today, but before I sign off to dive back into the life of the at times, insufferable Charles Arrowby, I’d encourage you to watch this conversation between Henry Oliver and Jared Henderson from The Honest Broker. It’s a really down to earth, wonderful discussion on the state of literary criticism, taste, the importance of poetry, and how reading may or may not influence our character.

Bon samedi, bon dimanche. Enjoy your weekend, may it be restful and replete with good books and cups of coffee.

*As with my other book reflections, spoilers await.

Reading “We” provoked both a sense of pleasure and anxiety. It is captivatingly structured and features some beautiful prose; I love how Zamyatin paints such a precise picture. The way the story is told pulls you into this liminal space; a very uncanny state similar to that of my other most recent read, “I Who Have Never Known Men”. Some of the all-seeing, over-reaching aspects of OneState, the setting for the novel, may not always exist here and now in the physical or political sense, but they are certainly perpetuated in the digital realm across all borders.

I thought about order and routine and the importance that identity has in human flourishing. The citizens of the walled city of OneState merely survive in a government-enforced version of “happiness”, but it is not happiness in the natural sense. They are regimented, constantly observed, and sacrifice personal freedom and privacy for the sake of social order. It is only happiness because the state says it is happiness and they exist under a very well-controlled illusion that this is the embodiment of a society perfected.

In OneState, people no longer have names. They are assigned numbers. OneState is ruled by The Great Benefactor, who is essentially a king who never loses an election.

We have nothing to conceal or to be ashamed of; we celebrate our elections openly, honestly in the light of day. I can see how all give their votes for the Benefactor - all can see how I give my vote for the Benefactor - and how can things be otherwise since all and I are the one We? (138)

All rules and laws are sourced from reason: logic, order, and mathematics are seen as the pinnacle of human achievement, because they produce sound, predictable results, and inspire people to live as a We as opposed to, an I. Everyone is a subject to the all-knowing, all-seeing OneState; subjugated, asking no questions, even when punished. Instead, sanctions are met with a sense of duty, even honour. At one point, D even refers to it as a “right” to receive punishment. (118)

There is no individual. There is no freedom. Routine is strictly adhered to.

It is for you to place the beneficial yoke of reason round the necks of the unknown beings who inhabit other planets - still living, it may be, in the primitive state known as freedom. (1)

The only privacy built into their lives is for sex, and even that is carefully planned: your needs are scientifically determined by the state through testing, then, you must book a ticket with the individual of your choosing and only then can you draw the curtains on your glass house. As such, there are no deeply personal intimate relationships in OneState: everyone belongs to everyone else, in every sense. The familial structure has also been done away with and children are raised by the state.

It’s natural that once hunger had been vanquished, (which is algebraically the equivalent of attaining the summit of material well-being), OneState mounted an attack on that other ruler of the world, Love. Finally, this element was also conquered, i.e., organised, mathematised, and our Lex sexualis was promulgated about 300 years ago, “Any Number has the right of access to any other Number as a sexual product. The rest is purely a technical matter…you fill out a declaration that on your days you’d like to make use of Number (or Numbers) so-and-so and they hand you the corresponding book of tickets (pink). And that’s it. (19)

Published in 1924, but not in the author’s native Russian until 1988, the novel serves as a dystopian archetype and inspired Orwell’s “1984”.

Self-awareness.

Our narrator is D-503. D is the lead architect of a spaceship, the Integral, whose mission is to spread, ‘mathematically infallible happiness’ into the universe. “We” is told through a journal format, which is especially fitting because the real intrigue of the story is his growth and the rising level of self-awareness that allows him to see the reality of the oppressive system he lives in and works for. These are D’s writings which outline for any future aliens who may encounter Integral, the details of OneState, in hopes that they too will enact reason as their guide.

D is upstanding in the eyes of the state. He enthusiastically abides in every sense and is exceedingly proud of his service on the Integral project. He even busies himself solving mathematical formulas in (what I will loosely call) his free time. He is the type of person who nowadays might be a proponent of data collection and mass surveillance, insisting that it doesn’t hurt those who have nothing to hide and can be used to deter crime and contribute to a safer society. He is bought in, patriotic, a defender of and contributor to, OneState’s system. At the outset, its hard to believe he would ever come to a place of doubt and eventually openly rebel, but I think this serves as a poignant reminder that sometimes, even the truest of believers in anything can change their minds if they dare to be curious enough and more objective. There is great power in free-thought.

His allegiance slowly comes under threat after meeting I-330. As one of his assigned sexual partners, she takes the opportunity to begin to convince him that he ought to second guess OneState and join her cause in an insurrection. It starts slowly: she drinks alcohol and smokes tobacco in his presence, both substances which are banned by OneState and tempts him to stay with her past the prescribed Personal Hour they are allotted. She instructs him on how to get sick notes to get out of work so they can spend time together and gradually ups the stakes until she convinces D to try and sabotage the Integral project.

They meet up multiple times at what they refer to as, The House of Antiquity: the only opaque building in OneState. It serves as a museum for their ancestor’s way of life…how we live today. D is fascinated by the house and is clearly inquisitive about that ancient way of life, something I-330 takes advantage of as she slowly pulls on that thread. I thought too that it was a great jumping off point because it is what seems to light the initial spark of curiosity for D’s eventual introspection and realisation that to be an individual, with an imagination and creative thoughts is not a crime.

We > I: identity and happiness.

We’re used to having the freedom to choose our personal world view and image: we dress ourselves, curate our artistic tastes, decide which politics to support, and with few exceptions, live as we please. However, if you’re even at least partially aware that the state or corporations are keeping tabs on what you say and do and like or dislike, you might begin to subconsciously hide certain things about your personality and seek out more private means of communication or worse, resign yourself to not speaking authentically at all. In many ways, I suspect that because of the tech-laden lives most of us have adopted, we don’t live as freely as we think we do. We may suppress certain political opinions online or in certain circles or try to signal our allegiance to some such cause because if we don’t, the group will disown us. It feels like with every passing year, there is less and less room for the most truly outspoken and honest kind of communication. We worry it might be met with unpleasant consequences: anything from ridicule online to a misunderstanding with a family member or loved one, to the loss of a job or excommunication from a place of worship; and so in turn, we shut ourselves down, hole up in our own little world, cover our eyes, and hope the state of the world improves one day.

This is no way to live and “We” demonstrates how unhealthy this dynamic can be.

Once D gets a taste of freedom, even in the face of severe consequences at the hands of OneState, he is overcome and can see himself as an I, at last. For a moment, he became wholly individual, elevated above the crowd because he dared to see reality for what it truly was.

It was totally strange, intoxicating: I sensed myself above everyone; I was…myself, something separate, a world; I stopped being one of many, the way I’d always been, and became just one. (135)

This is the type of freedom we can all aspire to. In certain circumstances, in some places, the risk is high, which compels me to think all the more that our identity; those beliefs which are nearest to our heart, our sense of justice, compassion, and creativity, should be vigourously protected.

Love.

Underneath all of the other themes, I can’t help but feel like Zamyatin is also signalling the importance of love and lasting intimate connection. D comes to love I-330 deeply, and its nothing he’s ever felt before. He even stops seeing O-90, the woman he is most intertwined with at the outset of the novel, because of I and the effect she is having on his life. There is a lot at play: you get the impression he and O are as close as two people could get to being soulmates in OneState when this story begins. His love for I is also complicated by the fact that she more or less inserted herself into his life because of his status surrounding the Integral project. Regardless of her malicious intent, D comes to love her and this love is what compels him to rebel, to finally act more freely than he ever has before.

As he falls for her, he is becoming more like the Ancients he so constantly derides for their relationship habits and ideals, but underneath it, you get the sense that his humanity is crying to be released. There is an intense feeling of repression and it feels bound to boil over the more you read. As his feelings develop for I, he is becoming more human and discovering something so deeply ingrained in all of us; the desire for the joy and comfort that comes from being in a romantic relationship. Its such a natural state for us as humans that it is hard to imagine being deprived of it.

Oh, if only I could stand up right this minute and - even if it choked me - scream out the whole truth about myself. So it would be the end of me, so what! At least for one second I’d feel that I was clean, I’d feel that all the thoughts had been swept out of my head, and I’d be like the tender sky. (120)

This quote runs through D’s mind on the Day of Unanimity, when all citizens of OneState cast their vote for the Benefactor in total openness. I-330 is there to undermine it by causing a scene but is stopped by the Guardians (OneState police). It is unfathomable he would ever sacrifice his allegiance to OneState until he meets I and develops feelings for her. Love can change our mind. Love can inspire grand works of art, and it can make us do things we’d never previously imagined: go against our own principles, resign previously held opinions or beliefs, or finally take up the cause which we feel we’ve been deigned to defend.

Since love is forbidden in OneState, there is less room for acts of the heart, which is to the state’s benefit. Part of the allure of love and its reason for leaving us satisfied and empowered, is its ability to inspire. Zamyatin must have appreciated then, the capacity love has to both soften and embolden us, and understood the necessity it plays in a healthy, happy life. By showing us a society without love, we can see more clearly our intense need for it.

All I want is one thing: I-330. I want her to be with me every minute, each and every minute, only with me. And all that stuff I just wrote about on the Day of Unanimity - nobody needs it, it’s all wrong, I want to cross it out, tear it up, throw it out. Because I know (maybe this is blasphemy, but it’s true) that the only holiday for me is being is being with her, only if she’s next to me, shoulder to shoulder. (117)

Reason and imagination.

The highest thing in man is his reason and what the work of reason comes down to is the continual limitation of infinity, dividing infinity into convenient, easily digestible portions: differentiation. This is exactly what constitutes the divine beauty of my element, mathematics. (56)

Reason is pointed to as the be-all-end-all; necessary for social order and productivity. D insinuates multiple times that lack of reason is to blame for the ills of the Ancients. Reason is the new religion in OneState.

It made me think a lot about my personal progression from an Evangelical Christian, to atheism, to the more open-minded agnostic I am today: I recall that death of a thousand cuts, spurred by reading more curiously and an innate interest to understand what life is really about. Reason was an integral part of my journey, but eventually, it felt like it was robbing me of my deepest sense of mystery and even, hope. Though Zamyatin doesn’t say the quiet part out loud, the continual praise for reason throughout the novel makes you realise how it is merely one of many components which serves our intellectual and moral growth.

As the references grow, although they are positive from D’s perspective, the reader becomes immune to his praise for reason. Initially, it was slightly tempting to think that OneState might be on to something: there are no issues on the surface, thanks to a rational construction of a routine-based community where everything is out in the open. You can see where it is going, but even still, you understand how a little bit of reason can go a long way in making life better. When over applied however, monotony ensues. Creative thinking becomes an impediment and there is no longer any room to embrace the things which make our lives most interesting: free-thought, the acceptance that maybe the imaginary just might be true in small ways, and the gift we have to dream up fantastic things and give meaning to our lives beyond just randomly winding up here in the cold, dark, void of space on some depressing spinning rock.

Reason in the extreme dulls our senses and kills the imagination. I was once a staunch materialist, sure that was nothing invisible or beyond this mortal life. I presumed death was akin to our experience before birth: there is nothing, it is a formless, infinite, dark. Yet, as I continue to grow and discover a deeper love for fiction, I can see how the imagination is essential not just to our sense of optimism and pleasure, but it stokes a part of us which is deeply fulfilling. Fiction can tell the truth best, and it usually does so in a way which is nuanced and more compelling than reality. Someone could have told me some anecdote akin to the story of “The Brothers Karamozov”, but it really reached inside and stirred my heart because it is conveyed through such a rich story. In this format, it led me to seriously question everything I had ever believed and re-evaluate my life choices.

I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there - that is living. (Dostoevsky, “The Brothers Karamozov”

The same can be said of poetry: I could be lectured or read an essay on the importance of making the most of my time, but reading Sonnet 60 is far more moving and this sort of emotion is more likely to make me examine my own life in honest and vulnerable ways.

“Like as the waves toward the pebble shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end;” (Shakespeare, Sonnet 60)

As I read “We” and watched D evolve to understand why life is more vibrant when we indulge our imagination and enjoy a bit of fantasy, it made me ask myself if I am stifling my creativity in any way, or if I am too married to routine and a sense of predictability. I started to see where I was hindering my own emotional growth in exchange for comfort or a sense of surety. The fact of the matter is, no one among us can say for sure the grander purpose of our lives, if any. And, no one has ever truly died and returned to enlighten us with the truth of what happens when we shuffle off this mortal coil to assuage our doubts or fears. (…dependant on what you make of near death experiences, of course.)

Yet, this is not worrying to me anymore. The mystery adds to the weight of my decisions and the ways in which I utilise my talents and time. Anyone who subscribes to a faith practise also knows that certainty removes any skin you may have in the game. If Jesus appeared and showed his hands and told the entire earth without a doubt that the Christian Bible is authentic and following him is in fact the one true path toward salvation and eternal life, this would immediately make that belief risk free and less consequential. It is precisely the not knowing, and the setting free of our imagination that gives substance to religion, to fiction, poetry, or any other art form.

Resistance and heartbreak.

The most satisfying part of this book for me, is D-503’s progression from staunch believer to dissenter. He begins his journal with unwavering praise for OneState’s organisation, order, and the wisdom of the Great Benefactor, along with plenty of derisive comments about the “ancients” and their “antediluvian” prose and poetry (38), shortsightedness, and selfishness.

He doesn’t come to see things differently until I-330 influences him. He finds her dissension oddly appealing and is drawn into the idea of rebellion with each subsequent meeting between them. She was the catalyst for his change. When the stakes are revealed, D cannot imagine abiding: OneState is planning to enforce a mandatory medical procedure on anyone showing agency, which will remove one’s “soul”.

You’re in bad shape. It looks like you’re developing a soul. (76)

He discovers that anyone demonstrating rebellion or original opinion is forced to be operated upon:

IMAGINATION: this is the worm that eats out black wrinkles on the brow. This is the fever that drives you to run farther and farther…in the place where happiness ends…the imagination is centered in a wretched little brain node in the region of pons Varolli. Expose this node to three doses of X rays - and you are cured of imagination. (153-154)

How, after becoming familiar with his own imagination, can D possibly let the state do this to all of its citizens? This is when he decides he is all in.

They say there are flowers that bloom only once veery hundred years. Why shouldn’t it be that there are some that bloom only once every thousand, every ten thousand years? Maybe we just haven’t heard about them up to now because this very day is that once-in-a-thousand years. (111)

Ultimately though, the gutpunch is in the ending. D attempts to hijack his Integral project, on its launch day, but is stopped and forced into an “imaginationectomy”. I-330 is executed. OneState has proven its might.

His rebellion is met with the fact that OneState has been in control all along. Regardless of whether he felt any autonomy, it was only from his perspective that he and I-330 ever had a chance to change anything.

It almost feels natural that this is how “We” ends: even the builder of Integral and one of the most true adherents to the mission of OneState cannot escape their grip in the end. If D cannot subvert the state, who then could ever hope to?

It has to end this way for the reader to feel what hangs in the balance: not just our imagination or our freedom to love whom we choose or how we prioritise our time, but it is the heart of our very lives; that which gives us meaning. The point is, these things we take for granted are in fact, the most important parts of our humanity. Without agency and freedom to create or choose for ourselves, we are reduced to machines, and mere subjects to the will of the state. At this point, we have lost everything. What is there to live for? What is the point of being alive if all we serve to do is the will of someone else?

Perhaps not all of us live in a truly authoritarian state where we are forced into giving up personal freedom for fear of government reprisal, but we have slowly entered a state where the norm is for us to relinquish our freedom of our own accord. We pay for “free” things with our time and attention, we carry devices that send intimate information about our personal lives to outside actors who use it to their gain, be it for advertising power or the advancement of a political ideology. When you examine this behaviour with even the slightest bit of scrutiny, you have to wonder how we got here.

“We” is a call to notice the power of imagination and love and to protect them both. It’s easy to be misled into thinking that the good life is one of ease and predictability. We’ve been told that success is owning the newest phone or living in a certain neighbourhood, or having a particular kind of job or partner, but in reality, it is a story contrived to give us the illusion that happiness can be obtained through material efforts. We are appeased by the convenience of technology, by delivery and streaming services, by 24/7 information, and by the feeling of comfort that comes along with it. That comfort though, is really good at keeping our truest selves at bay. Why live too loudly when we are suddenly so content to wake up everyday, go to work, come home, and live lives of quiet desperation at the hands of some screen? Even I will admit, some days, I find it quite appealing.

I got my first iPhone in 2012. If you would have told me then the way things are now, I’d have first of all, not believed you, and secondly, would have never thought I’d be the kind of person to live a life mostly online instead of simply logging in for an hour a day and getting back to my life. To my dismay though, that is what I became.

I have varying degrees of success when it comes to honing better habits, but ultimately I always come back to the same conslusion: I am most content when I am offline, free from opinions and advertising, the news, and whatever algorithm is there trying to coerce me into the next piece of content I should consume. Despite its usefulness, it has become a devil in disguise and without intention, can rob us of our most precious attributes: imagination, creativity, and individuality.

As we actively exist in a stage of history with so many unknowns, there is a tendency to want to dissociate. It sometimes feels as if it is all just war, rage, and mind-numbing AI beyond my four walls and it can feel very bleak. One way to flourish in such a world is to exercise the precious thing that is my imagination: to read fiction, to write with purpose, to be alone long enough to think for myself and understand what I really feel and know for certain what I love.

“We” made me realise that it is time once again to address how I spend my time and attention. It compels me to savour moments like these, where I can exercise freedom of thought and write with the windows open, listening to the rain ourside, for a while. It is simple, but that’s the point: there is no catch. What satisfies the human spirit most poignantly are these acts of individuality which are free of charge.

I didn’t intend to write a reflection on “I Who Have Never Known Men”. It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a satisfying of my curiosity, as it’s been recommended on more than a few occasions by trusted sources. I’m not always inherently drawn to dystopian novels but appreciate the introspection they bring along with an increased awareness of history and current events, as it leaves you wrestling with the plausibility of it all.

Saturday evening I cracked it open at bedtime and would have finished it in one sitting had I not succumbed to my need for sleep. So, Sunday morning, in the serene setting that is being the only one awake in your household for a few hours, I took to a corner seat in my living room and revelled in it.

*as with all of my reading reflections, expect spoilers. If you haven’t read this yet, come back later.

The uncanny.

When the dystopian genre comes to mind, it stokes images of the end of the world, a civilisation teetering on extinction, in extreme peril, and/or in the immediate aftermath of an event so significant it is either changing life on earth as we know it (for the worse) or leaves our cast of characters reckoning with how to process the knowledge that things will soon come to end.

“I Who Have Never Known Men” leverages common themes in other dystopian novels, like “1984” or “The Handmaid’s Tale”, there is a 24/7 surveillance, a focus on the monotony of routine, the stripping away of human rights, dignity, and creature comforts in the name of control. It is also wildly uncanny. As bleak as the story is, it isn’t entirely unbelievable because panopticon-like observation, being off grid, and dealing with the complexity of human emotions are all things we are familiar with. M. Keith Booker writes in “The Dystopian Impulse in Modern Literature: Fiction as Social Criticism”, that, “…the treatment of imaginary societies in the best dystopian fiction is always highly relevant more or less directly to specific “real world” societies and issues.”1 With this in mind, Harpman has surely crafted a novel which sits perfectly well amidst the dystopian genre.

The Panopticon.

The panopticon, referring to Jeremy Bentham’s model for “all seeing” prison architecture, is a robust and commonly used analogy for the state of technology today. We willingly carry with us devices which give away our movements, habits, proclivities, political opinions, and social connections to the highest bidder, and in some cases (perhaps even, most) this data winds up in the hands of corporations or governments, sitting on a server waiting, in case it needs cross-referenced with a real-world event we may or may not have been a part of.

“I Who Have Never Known Men” opens in an underground detention facility. Forty women have been living in a cage for an uncertain amount of time, guarded at all times by six men armed with whips, deprived of privacy, human touch, and subjected to un-natural living patterns under artificial lighting and inconsistent meal times.

One day, the women are able to escape when an alarm sounds right as one of the guards is unlocking the cage for mealtime. The door is left open, the guards leave with haste and are never seen again. Some of the women express hesitancy in leaving, which speaks to how conditioned humans can become to even the most unpleasant environments. Upon venturing out however, the complexity of their newfound freedom arises. Who will lead? What will role will everyone assume? How will they decide where to explore?

Our narrator, estimated to be about 15 at the time, has only ever known this environment. She does not grasp the concept or value of privacy, and up until now, had not expressed much curiosity about their situation. But, at a certain point, we mature, become inquisitive, and want to know the why’s of living. That is where this novel picks up.

It was the following paragraph that really hooked me. The narrator is asking questions, but one of the older woman doesn’t see the point because in this environment, there is nothing she can do, she cannot execute upon any knowledge. In an angry fit, she replies:

Because I want to know! Sometimes, you can use what you know, but that’s not what counts most. I want to know everything there is to know. Not because its any use, but purely for the pleasure of knowing, and now I demand that you teach me everything you know, even if I’ll never be able to use it. And don’t forget, I’m the youngest. One day I’ll probably be the last and I might need to know things for reasons I can’t imagine today. (106)

She discovers, even in a grim, low-information environment sans books or even knowing how to read or write: curiosity. Curiosity being the spark of invention and a great motivator. It is dangerous if wielded well. Here, I feel the novel begins to make prolific observations about humanity, our nature, and the meaning of our existence.

The humanity of stories.

There is a moment early on where the narrator describes how telling one’s story is a “way to survive and the only way to be human.” She is writing these pages at the end of her life, this is her book. She is alone, terminally ill, and wondering if anyone will ever discover her body and remember her.

Perhaps nobody will ever come, perhaps one day, an astounded human being, arriving at the foot of the stairs as I did so long ago, will see the dark wood-panelled room, the neatly arranged bed, and an old woman sitting up-right, a knife in her heart, looking peaceful. (190)

She is the I in “I Who Have Never Known Men”. Her story is a tragedy from beginning to end; born at the edge of an apocalypse, some disaster either man-made or natural, shrouded in mystery. There is no satisfying explanation and so, her story becomes the focal point. We’re thinking about how this all came to be, but more riveted by her inner monologue and the experiences of these women as they struggle to survive.

We see amidst this struggle, humanity in its naked light. Despite the harshness, they still exhibit the best parts of us: the creation of community, support systems, knowledge-giving, provision of medical care, and sharing in both laughter and grief. Not even a cataclysmic event can rob us of what makes us, us.

In this light, I was rather comforted. They manage to create some semblance of order from chaos, certainty from questions, and structure from nothing in any small way they can. There are “rites and rituals, and related quests for knowledge and control…”, and it becomes a wildly intriguing examination of what it means to be human.2

The idea of cultivating the few pleasures to which we had access developed. Several of the women took a renewed interest in their appearance, and now we had scissors and combs - Greta had found two in the bunkers - we started looking after our hair. We twisted wire to make hairpins, and Alice, who’d been a hairdresser, made chignons for those who wanted to keep their hair long….we lived a peaceful existence. (111)

We do not derive our identity from technology, but we have been and always be human simply because we exist. There are patterns of behaviour we will always naturally settle into, regardless of geography or circumstances. The narrator’s quest reflects how intertwined survival and flourishing are with the acquisition of knowledge. She is learning for her own pleasure, for the benefit of the group, and for the sake of people she might happen upon in the future. She understands that knowledge could very well be the defining factor.

A lesson in optimism.

We could be alive at the edge of some apocalypse I suppose, but reading this made me feel a stronger sense of hope and optimism. We are living in a world that, despite its problems and the potential complications that A.I. brings/the possible loss of our humanity to machines, is still alive at a monumental moment where we have access to the most treasured works and wisdom in history. And, we are armed with the tools to access and analyse that information better than ever.

If we were to use these resources responsibly and with peace and human flourishing as the goal, we could embrace incredible technological advances that dramatically improves life on Earth and sets into motion wondrous and equanimous political and social movements. This should not as crazy as it does. We have the tools, but trusting humankind to coalesce and actually do something this selfless for the good of our shared future is probably very foolish. However, I want to believe because the alternative is harsh and lonely.

The women in “I Who Have Never Known Men” are beginning from scratch. Some of them remember the world from before the mysterious event which led to their incarceration, but without any of that world left to rely on, they are rendered relatively helpless. The only one who can see things with a sharper eye is the narrator, because she has never known any different. To her, isolation and hardship are the norm. Naturally then, she has a more level head on her shoulders, despite her young age. Those who remember running water, sturdy homes, grocery stores, and other conveniences, are grieving far more exquisitley.

Those of us here now, thankfully, did not have to start from nothing. We have centuries of innovation at our feet. This made me realise how much I take for granted everything from clean drinking water to my internet connection. I have to take a moment to marvel at how remarkable it all is. It only loses its lustre because I have become so accustomed to it the fantastic is reduced to mere routine. Life now is so easy, yet still we find plenty of reasons to complain and fabricate hostilities. When contrasted with the harsh mistress of a planet in “I Who Have Never Known Men”, it is easy for most of us to feel gratitude, even on some of the worst days.

Appreciating the natural world.

We never do discover if this novel takes place on Earth or on some distant planet. The landscape is sparse and bleak with little variation in the weather - there are no seasons. The women describe being given drugs which caused a loss of a sense of time, so perhaps they were transported.

I thought about how the turning of the seasons dictates the flow of my life and how even the 24-hour clock by which we live is a beautiful thing. I never saw these facts as good-fortune until I considered what it would mean to be deprived of them. We do not have to live by artificial means. We have access to a breadth of beauty and a variety of landscapes.

One also has to wonder if this is the result of an ecological disaster: did humankind set it in motion after centuries of neglect or was it unavoidable? Harpman describes the landscape beyond the bunker as depressing and stark - perhaps a nod to the spiritual state of these women.

I think about how I am well-traveled. I am educated. I own more house than I use. I try to keep my belongings to a minimum, but yet, my life is still a story of excess. I have so much shit that I don’t need. Contemplating the world of this novel, you realise how austentatious even the most middle class of us have become with our expectation of a certain type of possessions: smart phones, streaming subscriptions, $7 lattes. How does this affect how we think about our purpose? Our thoughts of death? Does this prioritisation of material wealth detract from our spiritual health? This novel had me re-examining my life and my perspective on what I feel entitled to, versus what I ought to be most focused on.

I admire the resilience of the narrator. She feels guilt after she comes upon the large, abandoned bunker with its running water, vast stores of food, and large bed. She has never known this sort of comfort. She even denies herself the bed at first, wanting to save that pleasure for later. She does not know privacy, much less the thrill of having a living space all her own. Initially, she can’t make sense of it and realises that she has never known herself because she has never had the peace and quiet required to be introspective. It was all survival before. We are reminded that something as seemingly simple as solitude and introspection are privileges not to be taken for granted. If you have it, take advantage of it.

I noticed too that I have yet to really figure out how to be genuinely content. Should I find myself unemployed or in a position of hardship, how resilient would I really be? How contingent is my happiness on what I own or my relationships? We tell ourselves of our potential for courage and tend to envision future success, but what if things really went went off the rails? What skills do I have and what ability is there within me to carry on if the world around me changed dramatically? What do I need to address in my own heart to reconcile with the excess in my life and my love of comfort? That feels like a wildly important place to explore, so why have I spent so little time doing it?

If you sit with “I Who Have Never Known Men” long enough, the alarming desperation of our existence comes to light.

Lastly, I must reflect too on how the ability to read these books and come here to write about them here is the result of good fortune. I went on a walk after finishing “I Who Have Never Known Men”, and asked myself, “Would I feel fulfilled if I were unable to read or write? What if I read and wrote and never published? How much of my identity is wrapped up in trying to sound like I know what I am talking about online?”

These women did not have pens or paper, our narrator could not read or spell until eventually, she was taught. I wondered what sort of value my existence has apart from my first world conveniences like producing content online or enjoying media. It makes me second-guess the value of what I do here and adds weight to my standards. I do not want my words to be mere entertainment or be cast into the crushing void of sameness that social media usually is. I want them to mean something. I want to cause you to pause and consider something perhaps you never have before or to see something previously hidden or finally feel an emotion you’ve walled yourself off from.

My god, we have been given so much - let’s be judicious, useful, and good keepers of what we have.

The Liminal.

There isn’t anything complex about “I Who Have Never Known Men”: at under 200 pages it is relatively short, the language is straight forward, and the plot, while weighty, is a simple to follow. It would be easy to read it on the surface level and still be satisfied, but to take notes and think over it for a while, you begin to notice how extremely poignant it is; rich with philosophical and psychological ideas which stir the reader to examine modern society, their own personal life, level of resiliency, and purpose.

It presents more questions than answers which makes it an invaluable story to the keen reader. If you are willing to really be one with this book, it allows you to know yourself better, to appreciate what you have more, and emphasises the importance of slowing down here and now and getting present with yourself and your surroundings.

It offers more than just a dark/uncanny dystopian plot. It has the potential to be one of the most meaningful and memorable novels I have ever read, which at the outset was most unexpected.

This story exists in a liminal space. Described so well by Bainbridge in her essay, “Jaqueline Harpman’s Trangressive Dystopian Fantastic in “Moi Qui N’ai Pas Connus Le Hommes”: Between Family Territory and Unknown Worlds.”

The text’s emergence at a time when one century is coming to an end, and the world is on the brink of a new era, fits the emerging patterns of liminality that seems to characterise “Moi qui n’ai pas connus les hommes”.

We’re left unable to place our narrator or anything about the story, which I believe drives the reader to be more invested; looking for clues or hints she may give away to make sense of which is way is up. Bainbridge says, “As readers, we are placed in a situation where we need to read between the lines of the story to try to make sense of it, and to wonder how and why the woman come to find themselves in this extreme situation.”3

She adds that the oscillation we experience between the familiar and the unknown is what makes this story so unsettling. Their experience is simultaneously relatable and foreign and exists on literal and symbolic levels. It is made even more frustrating and profound by its ending, which resists shedding any light on the how or why. The entire novel exists in this beautifully haunting liminal space between what we know of our own world and the discomfort of picturing ourselves enduring a similar fate, without a sterotypically satisfying conclusion.

There is no neat and tidy ending and really, no answers at all. I respect writing like this immensely; when the author dares to simply explore a slice of life, picked up in dimidio. This for me, is the core of what makes “I Who Have Never Known Men” so uncomfortable. We spend hours reading and are left hanging. What were the cages for and how did they end up in them? Why did they only discover one filled with men amidst all the other bunkers? Where did the guards go? What year is it? Is this even Earth?

Ultimately, does any of that matter? We are left with the narrator, alone at the end of her life, having survived incredible peril and coming to terms with her imminent death. Along her tragic way, she still had a very human experience: she lived in the company of others and had friendship, found resourcefulness within herself as she learned and grew, and experienced death first-hand which taught of the importance of tradition and ceremony, even if she was not quite sure why it felt right. It just did. She is ever in tune with nature and follows what feels natural.

It is fitting we have no answers because our narrator was deprived of so many answers herself. We, like her, are on this planet spinning in the void of space, exploring, learning, and trying to make sense of it. We, like her, will eventually die. We will also leave with many of our questions unanswered, regardless of how much we manage to learn in our short lifetimes. There is no direct moral lesson here, but rather, the opening of a door. The author is encouraging you to think in new ways, speaking in whispers to the reader who has ears to hear.

The world has been long before we arrived and will continue long after we depart. “I Who have Never Known Men” exploits that fact and leverages it as part dystopia and part urging us to accept our reality and use it as best we can. I hear a subtle voice underneath it all reminding us to tend our gardens well; be good friends, neighbours, parents, spouses - we do not know who or what we may need to rely on in the future. It is this which resonates across cultures and generations.

Reading between the lines, I fear we may walk away from this novel as seeing our inability to know the metaphysical with certainty as less of a beautiful mystery and more as a tragic fate. Perhaps though, it is up to us to pursue this question further and add meaning and beauty to our own lives as best we can.

We are so fortunate, after all.

*as with all of my reading reflections, expect spoilers. If you haven’t read this yet, do so, and come back later.

The scorpion.

Amidst the mid-morning crowd, I found a seat at a shaky, but empty table on the patio of Dripping Springs’ Mazama Coffee and opened “The Pearl”.

Steinbeck begins by describing Kino and Juana’s brush house. Roosters are crowing, pigs are waking up, birds are singing morning songs as the sun rises. The setting is La Paz, Baja California Sur, Mexico. Kino is a pearl-diver, husband and father. Steinbeck’s descriptions are monumental. From the outset we can tell that Kino and his family are part of the indigenous population living on the outskirts of a non-Native town with it’s “plaster houses”.

Early this morning, Kino notices a scorpion near their child, Coyotito, who is stung. Realising the severity of the situation, Juana insists that they go to doctor in town. Steinbeck emphasises that this is unheard of. The indigenous people of this village stick to their own and practise their own medicine, religion, and way of life. To venture into a more modern setting for assistance is to be avoided at all costs. If anything gets you to make an out of character decision however, it is certainly the imminent danger of your child.

The doctor in question, “…had once for a short time been a part of the great world and his subsequent life was memory and longing for France. “That,” he said, “was civilised living” - by which he meant that he on a small income had been able to keep a mistress and eat in restaurants.” (11) We see his true character immediately: he is likely more occupied with the thought of his enjoyment of life’s pleasures than upholding any oath he may have taken to care for those in need and do no harm. Assuming they have no money, he turns them away, which sends Kino into a rage - he punches the gate outside the doctor’s office drawing blood from his knuckles.

I cannot imagine the feeling of being turned away for service of any kind, much less medical assistance because of my race. I have never had to face such a fear or been subject of such treatment. Steinbeck tells an all-too-familiar story here; one which is timeless and sadly, resonant. The fact that people throughout history have acted as set apart and superior to others is one of the most appalling facts of humanity. It is the sort of fact that keeps me at arms length from believing in God, or any benevolent Creator or Overseer. It is, in part, what slowly inspired me to leave the organised faith of my childhood. What hurts most is that this behaviour continues and is even embodied in politics both in America and elsewhere, trending more as of late. Its policies intentionally subjugate minorities and those with non-traditional identities, faiths, or socio-economic status.

Reading “The Pearl”, I thought about this constantly: how have we not ascended beyond tribalism? All of the technology in the world could not make up for mankind’s moral shortcomings.

The pearl.

In chapter 2, Coyotito is stable and Kino goes out to hunt for pearls. Here, Steinbeck shines once more in his precision:

The beach was yellow sand, but at the water’s edge a rubble of shell and algae took its place. Fiddler crabs bubbled and sputtered in their holes in the sand, and in the shallows little lobsters popped in and our of their tiny homes in the rubble and sand. The sea bottom was rich and crawling and swimming and growing things. The brown algae waved in the gentle currents and the green eel grass swayed and little sea horses clung to its stems. Spotted botete, the poison fish, lay on the bottom in eel-grass beds, and the bright-colored swimming crabs scampered over them. (13)

He also does something incredibly poignant: he mentions throughout the novella the songs of Kino’s people and the way objects, such as the pearl, sing their own songs.

Now, Kino’s people had sung of everything that happened or existed. They made songs to the fishes, to the sea in anger and to the sea in calm, to the light and the dark and the sun and the moon, and the songs were all in Kino and in his people - every song that had ever been made, even the ones forgotten. And as he filled his basket, the song was in Kino, and the beat of the song was his pounding heart as it ate the oxygen from nis held breath, and the melody of the song was the gray-green water and the little scuttling animals and the clouds of fish that flitted by and were gone. (17)

We get the sense that Kino is moving with the world, as part of the world. There is no separation of self from nature. All is intertwined; the rhythm of the sea, the rising and setting of the sun, and the fate of all that moves upon this planet. As he finds this pearl, we can tell that it will have a profound impact on both Kino and the atmosphere of the village.

The venom.

A town is a thing like a colonial animal. A town has a nervous system and a head and shoulders and feet. A town is a thing separate from all other towns so that there are no two towns alike. And a town has a whole emotion. How news travels through a town is a mystery not easily to be solved. News seems to move faster than small boys can scramble and dart to tell it, faster than women can call it over the fences. (21)

Word spreads quickly through the village. I think this opening paragraph of Chapter 3 is so good because of how easily we can all identify with it. People are prone to gossip and nosiness, regardless of geography. When something of note happens, especially the overnight accumulation of wealth, people are not shy to speculate. We are immersed then in this village. Like fire in a dry forest, word of Kino’s pearl spreads swiftly.

This story felt like it was wrapping itself around me, as opposed to me simply being an observer.

As news spreads to the outside world, Kino and his family are suddenly not the ignored, ignorant natives, but they are sought after - not for their inherent value as people, but as material objects and the profit they may possess. The doctor, and everyone else are hoping that perhaps they could take advantage of Kino’s fragile state as the owner of newfound treasure. How accurate a portrayal of this often shallow and greedy world.

The poison sacs of the town began to manufacture venom and the town swelled and puffed with the pressure of it. (23)

Kino quickly senses the fragility of the situation and the danger he is in. He feels it not only from his community but a strange sense of precariousness also envelopes him.

…Kino knew also - that the gods do not love men’s plans, and the gods do not love success unless it comes by accident. (29)

I love the way this immediately elevates the tension: there is more at stake than gossiping neighbours or predatory businessmen; it is now a battle involving the divine, good and evil, honesty and deceit, pride and humility. There is this additional element that regardless of the decisions Kino makes, by merely possessing this pearl, he is opening himself, his family, and perhaps the entire village up to the wrath of the gods. The pearl is at once a promise of a better life and a harbinger of disaster.

There is something monumentally mythic about hubris, which I recently wrote about. We can sense in our bones it is ill-advised, a trait most undesirable. Kino especially, being so attached to the natural world which is at the whims of the gods, understands the more foreboding side of what his new acquisition could bring.

Avarice.

I picked the next few chapters up at Epoch Coffee in Austin’s North Loop, mid-afternoon. I didn’t intend to finish this novella in a day, but having had some time on the drive, it was all I could think about - so it was decided.

The doctor revisits Coyotito, providing much needed medication. He is helpful yes, but also quick to inquire as to the pearl. Kino insists he will pay him after he sells it. Kino also begins day-dreaming about all the pearl might provide for him and his family: new clothing, a new home, books and education for his son. As brilliant as the possibilities are, when night falls, he is haunted by the pearl’s very existence and paranoid about an intruder overpowering him and absconding with it.

And the beauty of the pearl, winking and glimmering in the light of the little candle, cozened by his brain with its beauty. So lovely it was, so soft, and its own music came from it - its music of promise and delight. Its guarantee of the future, of comfort, of security. Its warm lucene promised a poultice against illness and a wall against insult. It closed the door on hunger. (39)

The pearl has become an idol, a corruptor of Kino’s once content spirit. This is especially tragic because earlier we were able to see his life as seemingly in harmony with the world at large, happy in his brush house, a loving and caring protector his wife and son. Suddenly though, he wants more and selfishness invades, polluting his spirit. There is not much now to distinguish Kino from the doctor who refused his son care. He is becoming what he despises. Peace and mysticism are being displaced by his avarice. The promise of power and wealth is toxic. It is quick to ruin men.

He hangs his every hope on potential future wealth. It quickly becomes a defining moment in his life, even though he has yet to secure any tangible reward.

For Kino and Juana this was the morning of mornings of their lives, comparable only to the day when the baby had been born. This was the day from which all other days would take their arrangement. Thus they would say, “It was two years before we sold the pearl,” or, “It was six weeks after we sold the pearl.” (44)

Kino ventures out to sell the pearl, but is told it is merely a “curiosity”, and too large to be of any real value. He sees three different appraisers, two of which decline any offer, and the last offers 1,500 pesos, which Kino refuses as too meagre. Indignant, he is unwilling to part with the pearl unless it is for an exorbitant sum; the life-changing kind, the status-cementing kind, the sum he has been daydreaming of.

“He was an animal now…”

Kino insists that in the morning they must go to the capital to sell the pearl. Surely there he will find an honest buyer. However, seeing the madness it is inducing in her husband, Juana tries to leave with it in the middle of the night and rid her family of this turmoil. Overcome with rage, Kino followers her and her once loving partner strikes her in the face, knocks her to the ground and kicks her, reclaiming possession of the pearl.

Steinbeck uses a subsequent paragraph to look at his violence from the female perspective, which I thought was incredibly compelling. We are used to seeing the violent actions of men, say, in wartime or an act committed out of protecting their household as valiant or in defence of some greater good. There of course, could be necessity in some such circumstances, but when it becomes fetishised, it is not healthy. Sometimes, when men act this way, when it bleeds into the way they think about others and treat women, it is excused as men being men, and that men are free to live by some separate set of rules.

There was no anger for Kino. He had said, “I am a man”, and that meant certain things to Juana. It meant that Kino would drive his strength against a mountain and plunge his strength against the sea. Juana, in her woman’s soul, knew that the mountain would stand while the man broke himself; that the sea would surge while the man drowned in it. And yet it was this thing that made him a man, half insane and half god…” (60)

There are passages from great writers which stop you because of their wisdom. Often, they are the type which seem as an obvious observation of our nature, but because of how engrained we have become into a certain perspective or lifestyle, we cannot see beyond the veil we have created.

This description of men, their anger and sometimes flagrant use of violence gave me pause. We have become too flexible in our use of force. Conflict and war now feel like casual impulses; a decision which when made unilaterally or without nuance is socially excusable. If conflict weren’t brewing somewhere on the planet today, we might think it very strange. At the same time however, we are weary of it; tired of images of destruction on the news, saddened that innocent people die at the selfish whims of men. I think we all know this is not an optimal state of being. That we have not ascended beyond bigotry and war by now, makes me wonder if we ever will, even if it is well beyond my lifetime. I try to hope, but hope is hard.

Steinbeck goes on to note that despite the danger, Juana still feels she needs a man and thus, accepts Kino and this fault of his. She felt that the “quality of a woman…could cut through Kino’s manness and save them all.”

In this moment, Kino also kills a man who was following them, escalating the element of danger. Juana tries to remember good memories from before the pearl came into their life, but knows full well there is no retrieving it. Now, all that is left is for them to leave everything they know, as they will soon be pursued not just for the pearl, but also for this crime.

The devil.

They return to the village before fleeing to find their brush house is on fire, having been ransacked and set ablaze. Kino’s brother, Juan Tomás looks at him and says, “It is the pearl. There is a devil in this pearl. You should have sold it and passed on the devil. Perhaps you can still sell it and buy peace for yourself.” (65) After all of that trouble and violence, think about how much trouble and violence it took, there is some realisation of the curse of wealth or even its promise. Kino agrees, finally acknowledging how desperate things have become. He admits his attachment: “The pearl has become my soul…If I give it up I shall lose my soul.” (67)

The family flees the village, evading capture long enough to hide in a cave when a group of men finally come upon them. As Juana and Coyotito stay hidden, Kino sneaks out with his rifle, intent on killing them. But he is hasty. The sun will be up soon, he insists now is the only moment to act. Kino leaves the cave and at the same time abandons his family in a spiritual sense; still possessed by some darkness, still trying to save face rather than seek safety for his family.

He strikes, but in the immediate aftermath he does not feel secure.

Something was wrong, some signal was trying to get through to his brain. Tree frogs and cicadas were silent now. And then Kino’s brain cleared from its red concentration and he knew the sound - the keening, moaning, rising hysterical cry from the little cave in the side of the stone mountain, the cry of death. (87)

Juana is frenzied. Coyotito has been shot in the head.

They walk back through the “stone and plaster city” to their village, people sneaking nosey glances. One imagines they heard the news even before the family came through. Kino hears “the Song of the Family” in his mind. One imagines him heavy with shame and laden with guilt, as he begins to accept responsibility for his actions. It was not finding the pearl that was to blame, but his reaction to it and the preoccupation he allowed it to have.

At the water’s edge, Kino is bewildered to the point that the overwhelming emotion induces sanity at last. Something has to change. His son is dead; dead because of him. There will be no new clothes or books or education for Coyotito.

And so, Kino flings the pearl into the sea.

“And the music of the pearl drifted to a whisper and disappeared.” (90)

Reckoning with ignorance.

Steinbeck writes, “And the pearl was ugly; it was gray, like a malignant growth. And Kino heard the music of the pearl, distorted and insane.” (89) Kino’s eyes are clear. It is obvious now what should have been the day before, when life was normal and he was more content. There were no dreams of grandeur, just the happy sense of the everyday with his family among his village. Of course, there were challenges but nothing compared to what the pearl wrought.

“The Pearl” tells timeless parables: of good and evil, of the corruption of wealth and power, and of the two wolves within us. Yet, as well-known as these are, they continually need re-telling. Our species is not one to learn from prior mistakes, despite our ability to read history, to draw conclusions, and the perception that we can take more bold and confident action to prevent repeating our most appalling moments. We have to reckon with our ignorance, I think. We pull at lose threads and tempt fate and love to assume that our personal story, will be the exception to the rule.

As he writes in “East of Eden”, which I read and wrote on in January, “We have only one story. All novels, all poetry are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil.”

We witness it everyday, all around us: in offices, in homes, in politics, in every arena, in every plausible scenario. We are cursed with this dichotomy: sometimes were are prone to good, sometimes we are prone to evil - albeit to varying degrees, but both exist within each one of us and are exemplified in one way or another. We may go out of our way for a stranger, but in the same day, ignore the needs of our own spouse or child because we are “tired” or simply because we take for granted their presence in our lives, proximity begetting laziness.

“The Pearl” contains an age-old ethical dilemma which resonates as deeply now as it will in a century and as it would have a century before it was written.

I sometimes struggle with contemporary novels because they do not always seem to reckon with the weight of what we face as humanity. There is a time and place for the fluffy and lighthearted and I don’t begrudge that, but when I read, I tend to want to read for wisdom, for insight, for some of that truth that has been in front of me my entire life but I have overlooked out of my own selfishness or distraction. I am mining for pearls different from the sort Kino was haunted by: something I can build a better life with and pave a more ethical and loving existence out of.

*Henry Begler touches so tactfully on what is lacking in contemporary literature in his recent essay, “Inside the Even Bigger Whale”.

We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God. Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world – of all living things.

The danger and the glory and the choice rest finally in man. The test of his perfectibility is at hand. Having taken Godlike power, we must seek in ourselves for the responsibility and the wisdom we once prayed some deity might have. Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope.

-John Steinbeck, Nobel Prize speech (1962)

There is a compromise we make everyday as we try to live our modern lives with modern conveniences and modern sensibilities focused on forward motion, away from the past and into a future we presume will be more promising, just because it is the future. We make many assumptions and ask few questions.

I fear that we often make small choices which neglect lessons we should have already learned through the stories of history, both personally and on a societal level. “The Pearl” is a reminder to be clear-eyed and introspective. It makes me want to be more honest with myself and to feel greater acceptance for my decisions. The only way out of a rut of moral stagnation is through, via the elimination of distraction and clearing a place in your soul to feel vulnerable about your choices. This is how we develop a firm ethical foundation we can build our lives on. It is not handed to us. We must seek it out. We must be willing to learn from our past and from the stories we read.

Kino was flooded with desire because there was no moment of clarity. He could have sat with the pearl, gathered his wife and community around him, and sought advice on how to proceed. He could have been more generous and less quick to assume it would be a quick fix to all of life’s discomforts. Instead, he let the pearl create in him all that he most hated in others. It speaks to me that in this age of life-hacks there is really no such thing. We cannot bypass the most difficult parts of living if we want to thrive. Questions must be answered, pain must be reckoned with, and we must know what we stand for, unequivocally.

Steinbeck cuts so deep precisely because of his emphasis on ethical themes. Clearly, we still need guidance, and his stories will prove to be potent for centuries to come. This battle of good and evil is fought across every continent, in every home, and every presidential palace. It comes in many forms, some less obvious than others.

“The Pearl” warns against unchecked material desire, but it is also a subtle call to acknowledge our blind spots and to secure a moral underpinning to our life derived from a thorough knowledge of history and an intimate understanding of ourselves.

The Tao of the “The Pearl”

As I was perusing some academic reviews, I came across one titled, “A Taoist Interpretation of John Steinbeck’s, “The Pearl”.1 It describes how the Tao’s four principles, anti-materialism, anti-intellectualism, acceptance of what is, and becoming one with the Tao are all found in this story. There is an argument to be made that when we read it as a Western-centric parable we miss out on entire dimension which is only recognised through an Eastern or spiritual lens.

“The Pearl” may be most obviously read with Western implications, yet its most potent teachings are best excavated with a more supernatural element. Kino is overcome with material desires; wealth, education, and status, but what spoke to me more is the insidious spiritual destruction the pearl brings. It is greed on the surface, yes, but if we look a level deeper, we can see that greed is not just an unbecoming character trait, but a wickedness that upends the soul and rots the spirit - and that is the most important context. That is what makes you remember this story and suggests changes to your own life need be made. It quickly turns it from a tale of corruption in the physical world, to one with more significant, metaphysical consequences. 2

We’re reminded with this in mind, that perhaps life is more consequential than we realise. When the narrator notes, “the gods do not love mens plans…”, the stakes are raised, Kino is not in control, nor has he ever been.

It is this sense of control that we try so hard to force upon ourselves. We have built fantastic cities and mighty militaries; internet connections span the globe to even the remote places, and we have models to predict the weather, elections, and human behvaiour. There are weight-loss drugs which insinuate that if we become obese, we can revert to our more slender form with little effort.

We are building LLMs which bring the promise of, “the elimination all at once of most of the scourges that have haunted humanity for millenia.” At the same time, they also present an enormous challenge and threaten to undermine our very humanness: these two things can be true at once, and I think this is conveyed in “The Pearl”: yes, education and books will be beneficial to Coyotito because knowledge is precious and provides incredible advantages, but it goes beyond simply a desire for education when Kino is inhabited by the malevolence of the pearl. The highwire of desire is a delicate one to traverse and to be at peace and strive as we will, to be content we must be willing to say, even if nothing changes, I am grateful for this life experience.

In a paradoxical sense, Kino has entered the path to enlightenment while at the same time also fulfilling the promise made in Steinbeck’s famous passage in The Grapes of Wrath, that “man, unlike any other organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments.” (George, “A Taoist Interpretation of John Steinbeck’s “The Pearl”)

It is not until he loses his son and his home and is brought to a place of desperation, that Kino sees clearly for the first time that what matters most is existential peace, harmony with one’s surroundings, and contenment with one’s life. When I wrote earlier about learning from stories and history, I mean to say, we should be better at reading stories like “The Pearl” with our hearts open, willing to learn through study and not just mindlessly nodding as we go about making the same mistakes in our own lives.

It is a practise in focus. We have access to the most timeless insights and wisdom when we give the most attention.

To that end, I believe that everyone needs “The Pearl” in their life. It offers the reader an incredibly accessible lesson on how to be content, what to be on guard for, to protect your peace by being true to your character, and to know that there very well may be more at stake in life than what meets the eye.

Pierre meets the Mason.

At the outset of their conversation, they politely acknowledge their differences in thinking, that each presumes the other to have, “…fallen into error.” The Mason conveys to Pierre that wisdom is only something acquired “stone by stone, with the participation of all, over millions of generations”, beginning with Adam down the centuries. Pierre is made uncomfortable by this notion and tells the Mason he does not believe in God, thus eluding to the fact that he also cannot agree to his belief regarding the acquisition of wisdom. To Pierre, it is not a supernatural or faith-based process, but a pursuit rooted in scientific and philosophical inquiry.

The Mason insists however, that “He (God) is here, He is in me. He is in my words. He is you…He exists but it is hard to understand him.”

He continues:

Who are you? What are you? You fancy that you’re wise…but you are more foolish and mad than a little child who, playing with part of a skilfully made clock, would dare say, since he does not understand the purpose of this clock, he does not believe in the master who made it. It is hard to know him.

Pierre is struck with a “swelling heart, with glittering eyes”. In this moment, it does not matter if he believes the Mason, or in God for that matter. He is struck by his confidence and precision of language. His spirit is opening to something bigger than himself.

“He is not apprehended by reason, but by life.”, says the Mason.

The supreme wisdom is based not on reason alone, not on secular sciences of physics, history, chemistry, and so on, into which rational knowledge is divided. The higher knowledge has one science - the science of the all, the science that explains the whole universe and the place man occupies in it. To contain this science, it is necessary to purify yourself and renew one’s inner man, and thus, before one can know, one must believe and perfect oneself. And to achieve that, a divine light, called conscience has been put into our soul.

Our need for renewal.

At this moment, I could see this need for renewal in a broader sense; this need for modern Renaissance. However, to push back a bit on the point the Mason is making to Pierre, I wouldn’t associate this notion for renewal wholly with religion. I think that it begins with a realisation of our need for mysticism and revelry in the unknown. A few pages earlier, Pierre is struggling to get footing in his thoughts, like trying to work with a stripped screw, he cannot make progress, but just turns circles in the same groove.

Whatever he started thinking about, he came back to the same questions, which he could not resolve and could not stop asking himself. It was as if the main screw in his head, which held his whole life together had become stripped. The screw would not go in, would not come out, but turned in the same groove without catching hold and it was impossible to stop turning it.

The conversation with the Mason is the fresh perspective he needed to escape negative, cyclical thought patterns and spark a genuine desire for renewal, which begins with introspection. A veil is lifted. The thick haze over his thinking and world view, cluttered by years of selfish living, wore him into a weaker-minded individual, unable to be still enough to confront other ideas or to properly examine his own belief system or habits.

Many of us, myself included, must be able to relate to this. The gradual onset of increased screen time over the past decade and a half, the rise of echo chambers on social media, the ratcheting up of political discourse into toxic and violent opinion and behaviour, and even too, the rise in content for content’s sake - the perceived decline in artistic and creative quality and the emphasis on quantity; all of it has to some extent, eroded our sense of hope in our future and contributes to a less beautiful and full life experience.

We may even feel like Pierre, who tells the Mason, “..I hate my life.”

Disillusionment.

There seems to be this underlying shared disillusionment in society. We have witnessed in recent years, the enshittification of the internet, the erosion of public decorum, and what seems like a general trend of shrugging off personal responsibility. I’ve been absolutely fascinated and haunted by this. I’ve consulted cultural commentary after cultural commentary, and all that ever seems to happen is the mess of things I’ve tried to shove into my mind without actually lingering on any one particular thing or applying it to my own life for a meaningful amount of time, just confuses and isolates me further.

The one thing I keep coming back to that makes the most sense in explaining why so many of us feel flat, apathetic, or adrift, is a general tendency to eschew the mystery in life. Academia wants to teach us certainty. Those of us who came up through high school and university from the early 2000s onward, were steeped in the cultural rise of the new Atheist movement, which has now fallen flat. I was too once a Sam Harris and Christopher Hitchens enjoyer as I deconstructed the faith of my upbringing. There is no wonder though that this trend has faded and that people now seek more spiritual and mysterious qualities in the universe. As agnostic as I still am, I understand that humanity cannot truly flourish without embracing mysticism and without a grander sense of imagination. I believe that at our core, we all have a space reserved for these things and are incomplete without them.

Digital culture strips this from us, and as Dr. Adam Walker posits in a recent video, “we need to recover the symbolic imagination…our capacity to read art as dynamically engaging with the patterns of human consciousness and experience.” I encourage you to watch his presentation. It is wonderfully thorough and makes sense of a sometimes harder to grasp concept: a concept I have struggled to put words to for a while.

A timeless plight.

To return to “War and Peace”, the Mason encourages Pierre,

Look at your inner man with spiritual eyes and ask if you are pleased with yourself. What have you achieved, being guided by reason alone? What are you? You are young, you are rich, you are educated my dear sir. What have you done with all these good things that have been given you? Are you content with yourself and your life?

And, how many of us, 157 years removed from Tolstoy’s publication of “War and Peace”, are taking the time to ask ourselves these same, timeless questions? The sense of floating through life, of being on autopilot, distracted, and unhappy, is as old as humankind itself. Yet another reason we read old books is to uncover eternal truths and to recognise we are not, nor have we ever been, alone in our experiences. To be reading this novel right now, to see how it parallels current events in the physical world and deepens my own processing of how these events are unfolding and what the future may look like, along with what part I may have to play in it, is incredible. The classics are classic for a reason!

After Pierre acknowledges that he is so unhappy with his life, the Mason provides an answer, a solution to this self-hatred:

If you hate it, change it, purify yourself, and insofar as you purify yourself you will learn wisdom….When you arrive in the capital (St. Petersburg), devote the initial time to solitude, to examining yourself, and do not set out on the former ways of life.

And there it is: an eternal truth. Saying is often more difficult than doing, but the task remains the same: if we are unhappy, we must re-evaluate our circumstances, our thoughts, our deeds, and our intentions. It cannot be done by rote alone either, but requires honesty and a sense of vulnerability, a willingness to be wrong and to change our minds. This is the take-away from the conversation between Pierre and the Mason which we can utilise to our own good. Be it religion, poetry, or art, reading, writing or music, find your little corner of sanity, and create with imagination.

Find your purpose, which I know is not something so straight-forward, but begin by being introspective enough to feel what moves you. Develop a sense of taste and an idea for what you want to give back to the world. Pierre had wealth and education, but we can acquire these things ad nauseam and without sincerity and proper application, they mean very little. It is a tale as old as time, yet somehow, it does not stick from generation to generation.

Rediscovering imagination.

The collective unconscious surrounds us on all sides…it is more an atmosphere in which we live than something that is found in us. (Carl Jung)

Thinking of mystery and inspiration in life as something that envelops me, that it available at all times should my mind be perceptive to it, is freeing. There may be off-days or seasons of doubt, depression, or grief, but when we are ready and open our senses to it, hope and renewal are ever-present in the mysteries and deeper pursuits of life. Possibility here does not end with physics, but transcends the rules we live by on this planet. Be it faith or philosophy or simply a general openness to whatever is out there, freedom can be found from the bland and the slow depressing descent into banality we are facing culturally today.

A friend of mine likes to refer to this as the “boring apocalypse”.

We were texting the other day about how we have all of this technology, all of this possibility at our fingertips and what does humanity decide to do with it? Create things like DoorDash and LLMs and myriad other inventions that chip away slowly, mundanely at everything it means to be human. There are powerful possibilities in technological advancement (AI included), but too often, we seem to develop them in ways which do not lift us up, but weaken us. We have to push back against relying on these conveniences to remain healthy, sharp, human, and I also believe, happy.

Thinking, writing, reading, getting outside, doing new things in your physical body and challenging your mind by learning and constantly developing your world view are necessary if we want to flourish against the back drop of the boring apocalypse.

As Pierre finds a way to begin a new chapter of his own life after meeting the Mason, we too must have a raison d’être and a motivation to take more from life. It is all around us; it is in books and in art and in nature. Go. Find it. Don’t be afraid of a day of quiet, spent with yourself, the only person you can never be apart from. As such, your relationship with yourself; body and mind, is the most important relationship you will ever have. Best then to cultivate it with a proper amount of time and attention.

Let there be a “transubstantiation” as Dr. Walker says, of your intellect and an increasing sensitivity to the mystery, the beauty, and the ability to see the higher realms around us. Pierre encounters the Mason, continues to Petersburg, and we see he is ready for renewal when he arrives, informing no one, but keeping to himself and seeking solitude, reading and engaging in the deep work of self-discovery.

He understood the delight, previously unknown to him, of the possibility of achieving perfection and the possibility of a brotherly and active love among people….

This is accessible to us now, despite feeling a sense that culture is lost or that humanity is doomed to be forever at odds.

We are lulled into doomerism when we relinquish hope and stop exercising our imagination. We must return to the optimism we have lost, and it begins with us alone: quiet, honest, with the pure intention of rediscovering mystery, imagination, mythology, purpose, and a broader sense of possibility.

Hubris, or excessive pride, is warned against time and time again throughout classic literature. An oft-cited example in Homer’s “Odyssey” occurs when Odysseus, boastful and arrogant, incites Polyphemus to curse him. After blinding him and escaping imprisonment on Polyphemus’ island, the cyclops stirs up mighty waves around Odysseus’ ship and in the face of this, Odysseus shouts his true identity back to the shore (after earlier saying he was, “nobody”). In response, Polyphemus curses him: “Hear me Poseidon, earth enfolder, thou dark-haired god, if indeed I am thy son and thou declares thyself my father; grant that Odysseus, the sacker of cities, may never reach his home…”

As Calvin Brown writes in, “Odysseys and Polyphemus: The Name and the Curse”, “The rest of the Odyssey is devoted to the working out of this curse…he reveals his name, and thus makes it possible for Polyphemus to lay a curse on him. In pronouncing the curse, the Cyclops even pedantically repeats his name, the father’s name, and the address, in Odysseus’ exact words, to make sure that his imprecation is viable and accurately aimed.”1 Should Odysseus have fled more humbly, not shouting back his true name in arrogance once he thought he was amidst the safety of the sea, the cyclops could not have prescribed this curse.

His hubris sets the stage for all subsequent drama.

Cyclops, if ever mortal man asks you

the story of the ugly blinding of your eye,

say that Odysseus made you blind,

the spoiler of cities,

Laërtes’ son, whose home is Ithaca!

*Book 9, 548-552, Palmer Translation

Odysseus was proud and reckless, and to satisfy his anger, thinking he was now safe, chose to identify himself needlessly out of spite. Humility and grace could have spared him great trials, but surely would have left us a much less satisfying and substantive story.

Macbeth.

In Shakespeare’s Macbeth, the title character becomes all-consumed with the thought of possessing more power; a character flaw which more often than not leads to a demise of one’s own making. The Three Witches kindle this desire when they prophesise that he will be King of Scotland. Although their primary role “is temptation rather than prophecy, and equivocation rather than truth-telling…”, Macbeth does not recognise this and becomes more arrogant throughout the play.2 His hubris leads to his isolation and ultimately, death at the hands of Macduff.

Even in the final scene, engaged in a duel to the death, Macbeth is defiant:

I will not yield,

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet,

And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.

And thou opposed, being of no woman born,

Yet I will try the last. Before my body

I throw my warlike shield. Lay on Macduff;

And damned be him that first cries, “Hold enough!”

*Act V, Scene 8, 27-33, Signet Classics

Macbeth’s severed head is brought to Malcolm as proof of his defeat and a symbol for the consequence of unbridled hubris. He is a foolish hero whose ambition drives him to, “…duplicity and murder.” His commitment to ruthless, self-serving ambition, “sets in motion a violent, inexorable, and bloody chain of events.”3

T.S. Eliot wrote of Othello, he is a man, “…endeavouring to escape reality, guilty of bovarysme, the human will to see things as they are not.”4 The same could be said of Odysseus, Macbeth and countless other flawed heroes described over the centuries in literature, mirroring reality and acting as a warning as to how we should compose ourselves in the physical world.

War and Peace, and the present.

I crossed over page 300 in “War and Peace” Thursday evening, and arrived at a significant moment which Tolstoy writes so profoundly. Andrei has just been wounded and captured by Napoleon’s forces at Austerlitz:

Then too, everything seemed so useless and insignificant compared with that stern and majestic way of thinking called up in him by weakness from loss of blood, suffering and the expectation of imminent death. Looking into Napoleon’s eyes, Prince Andrei thought about the insignificance of grandeur, about the insignificance of life, the meaning of which no one could understand, and about the still greater insignificance of death, the meaning of which no one among the living could understand or explain. (293)

*Pevear and Volokhonsky translation

It feels an apropos moment to be reading “War and Peace”. Literary scenes like this one demonstrate further why we need to be reading the classics and teaching these novels to younger generations.

As we are witnessing the early days of what could be a lengthy war in Iran (perhaps even eventually developing into regional conflict, feeding on and furthering the instability in Syria and Iraq). There are numerous competing and heated opinions amidst a lack of clarity from U.S. and Israeli officials about its catalyst, the end-goal, and how other international leaders should proceed. Regardless of any of these questions, it seems clear that hubris is once more responsible for needless violence.

As violence ratchets up and spills over borders, it is easy to see how quickly and unpredictably war can escalate. The matter of national defence is necessary, and I cannot sit here and write in good conscience that diplomacy can solve everything, however, amidst the noise of news headlines and talking points, it is easy to forget the human element in all of this. The bar should be high…very high, for war. Political leaders should strive to exhaust all diplomatic efforts, exercise incredible patience, and consider feasible compromises while exacting total independence in decision making.

I am of the opinion that the goal of being a head of state or a member of some such cabinet should be to promote human flourishing, a significant part of which is the preservation of innocent human life, and there will always be collateral damage in war.

In this scene, Andrei, who admires Napoleon up to this point and aspires to his own military greatness, begins to see the human cost of war for what it is. How easy is it to talk and project ideas onto others from across borders? It is not until shots are fired, the smoke clears, and some amount of personal cost is experienced that the devastation of war; physical, mental, and moral upon humanity is revealed. Andrei develops in leaps and bounds here, maturing into a more multi-dimensional character: one we can empathise with and hopefully learn from.

Andrei’s essential passion, like that of his father, is pride. As with his father, it first manifests itself as love of glory. This passion Andrei expresses in his soliloquy before Austerlitz as follows: “I want people to know me, I want them to love me”. The glory-seeker’s need for love and recognition points out the connection between reason and the passions related to pride. Here, as so often, Tolstoi reveals himself to be the intelligent student of his acknowledged master Jean-Jacques Rousseau.5

I cannot help admire Tolstoy’s prescience in this matter.

Andrei goes from extolling Napoleon’s “extraordinary genius”, and “genius of his hero” (166/175) to being hurt on the battlefield, left vulnerable, his reputation and pride damaged, realising that perhaps personal glory should not be the ultimate goal in life. He sees the cracks in his hero and the reality of war. It is not as resplendent as he once thought it to be.

Hubris is highlighted repetitively in literature with the goal of making examples of flawed heroes, warning the reader not to worship or emulate them. Yet still, some of humanity’s most powerful figures take on the characteristics of an Odysseus, Macbeth, or Napoleon. They ignore rules and norms, place defiant and narcissistic confidence in themselves, are blind to warnings and deaf to the advice of others, pursuing glory and consolidation of power for its own sake.

Napoleon, supreme egoist that he was, ignored the significance of the omens until he and his host were completely and irrevocably committed to an undertaking that was doomed. Never did the gods punish hubris more severely.

*M. de Fezensac, The Russian Campaign, 1812.6

Writing as thinking.

Some might argue against writing on a novel before you’ve finished it, and I can understand why. I have some 900 pages to go in “War and Peace”, but was finding it difficult to proceed until I came here to speak to this scene. Writing always elucidates a novel for me. It is the act of thinking itself. Sometimes, it is necessary to stop, reflect, and write on key moments while reading, giving the story time to come into focus before moving on.

Signing off this afternoon, it feels like I can now open “War and Peace” back up, eager to discover where Tolstoy leads and what other lessons remain in store.

You may not progress quickly, but that is far from the point. It is there to help you remember to savour words, to strengthen that reflex of reaching for a book even in smaller windows of time, and to create a less structured environment where you mind can meander more freely without self-judgement. This book is not one you take notes on or look up countless words in: it is easier, less busy, and to be relaxed with.

The nightstand book is a reminder to put your phone in sleep mode, set it aside (or better yet, in another room entirely) and just read. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have some substantial period of time to devote; just 5, 10, or 20 minutes a night adds up. After a week, you could have read for an hour or more and maybe even have come close to finishing your text of choice.

I’ve read a few books this way, mostly shorter novels. Lately, I’ve found that collections of poetry suit this very well. I keep Shelley, Byron, Donne, and Shakespeare’s Sonnets nearby. Currently, it is Ovid’s “Metamorphoses” I am spending time with before drifting into the realm of dreams. A story or two fits perfectly into this allotted time and not feeling any pressure is refreshing.

I like to treat the nightshade book a little less seriously. I will flip around, for example; I’ve read Donne’s “Death Be Not Proud” many times as well as Sonnet 116, my favourite of them. And even within “Metamorphoses”, I have skipped ahead to “Orpheus and Eurydice” a few times just because it never gets old.

In a structured world where I must wake up to alarm, then commute to an office and afterward, schedule exercise, family time, and yes, reading something else that I am being more studious with, having a reading habit which is still sacred but less regimented is restorative and feels almost playful. It is romantic too in a sense - the freedom to turn to wherever I feel most curious or want to indulge in most in the moment. I can use this time to get a little bit lost or to memorise a poem; tracing words, whispering out loud by the soft glow of the lamp.

The nightstand book is an ageless practise. I like to think about my great grandfather and those before him reading in low light and how now, even admist this technology-obsessed, always plugged in culture, I can do the same. It satisfies me in a unique way and has taught me that no amount of time is too insignificant to read. Read a paragraph, a page; it adds up and you will be better and more satisfied for it.

Find something short; a novel or poetry collection, even non-fiction - whatever your heart is pulled to. Dedicate yourself to it briefly each evening and in the morning if you have the time. Get in the habit of reading in smaller increments and it will become a regular part of your day: between meetings or emails, in the waiting room, or in line at the store. Treating reading in a more impromptu way reminds me to slow down, restores part of my sense of self, and has changed the way I read for the better.

If you’re struggling to spend more time between the pages, find your own nightstand book and let it delight you until your eyes are heavy with sleep.

Reading consistently feels more important than the content of what I am reading. Sometimes we need something older, newer, more serious or more light-hearted to keep us going. Much like how we wouldn’t expect to be in the mood for the same genre of film every weekend, we shouldn’t expect to be enthralled by every novel we pick up. The performative tendencies of BookTok and Substack can potentially make us feel like we are inadequate readers because we don’t read a certain quantity in a year or like a certain genre, but if you are reading regularly, I wouldn’t worry about any of that. Find what you like, find what fits your moment and enjoy it.

Lately, all I have wanted is to be consumed by the words of something. Anything.

I started the year with “East of Eden” and “Stoner”, two novels which had me rapt and hungry for those moments when life would quiet down and I could read for hours. I suppose though, we can’t have that all of the time. Even though it feels like, with the litany of classics available, one could attain it. Perhaps because those two novels had such a profound effect on me, I am feeling let down by subsequent selections.

Sometimes, we need poetry.

Early on Saturday morning, with the house all quiet, when I felt stuck, struggling to settle into “Confessions” and be pulled completely in, I went to my shelf and picked up “Devotions” by Mary Oliver.

Sometimes, what we need is poetry. In that moment, and throughout this week, it is poetry which is moving me and keeping me glued to a page, rather than a novel, and I feel its benefits. Accepting the spirit of the moment and noticing that it calls for poetry is breathing life back into my creative spirit.

Poetry begins in trivial metaphors, pretty metaphors, ‘grace’ metaphors, and goes on to the profoundest thinking that we have.

-Robert Frost, “Education by Poetry”

I opened first to, “I Wake Close to Morning”:

I thought back to my late 20s, having just left my church and reconstructing my religious beliefs: what grounded me best and made me feel most like the supernatural were a possibility were those moments of hiking, travelling, or just watching a sunrise from my kitchen window, as darkness opened to morning, when I thought to myself that the mystery had to be so much bigger or more beyond us than any scripture could define. I feel God and the awe of the universe inside of me when I observe and take particular notice of nature and its state of complexity and grandeur. I don’t have to ask, “What is the “truth?”, I just feel it, and that is enough.

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, “A Defence of Poetry”

In her poem, “The Poetry Teacher”, I am reminded that artistic expression is a process and born of feeling, vulnerability, curiosity and honest effort. You don’t need anything new or nice or technologically advanced (especially the digital, or A.I.) to be creative. A routine can be helpful, but more productive than grinding it out even when you don’t feel inspired, are the moments when you settle into the here and now and are content with the reality of your moment.

Sometimes, the poetry which speaks most closely to our hearts is that which is relatable to the human experience and is willing to eschew the excess that we may think we need to create something beautiful, by just being and revelling in the beauty of the ordinary.

“The Poetry Teacher”

The university gave me a new, elegant
classroom to teach in. Only one thing,
they said, You can’t bring your dog.
It’s in my contract, I said. (I had
made sure of that.)

We bargained and I moved to an old classroom in an old building. 
Propped the door open.
Kept a bowl of water in the room. I could hear Ben among
other voices barking, howling in the
Distance. Then they would all arrive - 
Ben, his pals, maybe an unknown dog
or two, all of them thirsty and happy.
They drank, they flung themselves down
among the students. The students loved
it. They all wrote thirsty, happy poems.

I wept as I finished this poem, and at first, it felt stupid. I hadn’t responded to much of anything with tears in a long while and as emotionally mature as I am, I still have to fight against being conditioned in my youth not to cry. As I sat with it though, watching the morning light creep through the window and across my living room, I realised the utter weight of truth this poem possesses. The best of life is rooted in moments like this one. It doesn’t matter how put together we are, or how ideal our conditions are: it is real life experience where we find our best inspiration.

A dog. Spontaneous laughter. Authentic joy. Unexceptional surroundings. The simplest of things sometimes create the most wonderful conditions for art.

Poetry seems to hold a special potential which cannot always be attained through prose, however beautiful. When I visit a new poem it’s magnificent how every subsequent reading reveals new depth. Sometimes, the same words, when re-read, elicit deeper meaning as if it is living and breathing all these years after being penned. The poet is able to speak into life far more emotion and contain dimensions less rarely conveyed by other art forms. Poetry too, goes back generations and through the centuries, to the early days of human expression and as such, seems to activate something primordial, resonating especially poignantly.

I love to think about how we can enjoy the words of the epic poets, Shakespeare, Shelley or Thoreau, in the same way other greats did. Dante read Virgil and we can read them both. I don’t want to miss out on how meaningful that is. It is a beautiful, bountiful time to be alive and it is full of possibility, regardless of what some may say.

It is that spirit of wonder and hope that guides me this week as I quit trying so hard to make progress on any particular novel, but instead, revel in the art of poetry, appreciate it for what it is, and even try my own hand at it as well.