The Marginalian
The Marginalian

Annie Dillard on Unselfconsciousness

Walking through the white-walled gallery at the graduation show of one of New York’s most esteemed art schools, between beautiful young people with Instagram faces, I was struck to see project after project take up as its subject the least durable, most illusory aspect of human existence: the self. Where was the Iris Murdoch in these dawning artists’ lives to remind them that art, at its best, is “an occasion for unselfing”? And yet who could fault them: Not just their generation, but our entire culture seems to have forgotten that identities and opinions are the least interesting parts of people — ripples on the surface of the ocean of the soul, shimmering but shallow, pervious to every windsweep, irrelevant to the depths.

I was suddenly reminded of an essay by Annie Dillard from her 1974 masterpiece Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (public library), which won her the Pulitzer Prize and which I revisit frequently as basic irrigation for the soul. Its subject is Dillard’s experience of “stalking” a muskrat at Tinker Creek. Its object — like that of every Annie Dillard essay, of any great essay — is what it means to be alive.

Muskrat (Photograph: Tom Koerner/USFWS)

An epoch before it was imaginable that any fragment of the self could instantly face a worldwide mirror of millions, that any experience could be photographed and instantly become not only “a commemoration of itself” (as Italo Calvino so presciently put it) but a commodification of an inner world traded for likes, Dillard writes:

In the forty minutes I watched [the muskrat], he never saw me, smelled me, or heard me at all.

[…]

I never knew I was there, either. For that forty minutes last night I was as purely sensitive and mute as a photographic plate; I received impressions, but I did not print out captions. My own self-awareness had disappeared; it seems now almost as though, had I been wired with electrodes, my EEG would have been flat. I have done this sort of thing so often that I have lost self-consciousness about moving slowly and halting suddenly; it is second nature to me now. And I have often noticed that even a few minutes of this self-forgetfulness is tremendously invigorating. I wonder if we do not waste most of our energy just by spending every waking minute saying hello to ourselves.

After some passages bridging Heraclitus and Heisenberg in the virtuosic way that makes a piece of writing a symphony of thought and feeling, Dillard goes on to quote Martin Buber quoting an old Kabbalah teacher:

When you walk across the fields with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their soul come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you.

A decade later, speaking at Portland’s wonderful Literary Arts, she would hold up this passage as her favorite in her entire book. But I find her own words just as clarifying, just as sanctifying:

It is astonishing how many people cannot, or will not, hold still. I could not, or would not, hold still for thirty minutes inside, but at the creek I slow down, center down, empty.

Illustration by Maurice Sendak from Open House for Butterflies by Ruth Krauss

Long before neuroscience revealed how such moments quiet the activity of the brain’s Default Mode Network and put us in a salutary state termed “soft fascination,” Dillard describes that state from the inside:

I am not excited; my breathing is slow and regular. In my brain I am not saying, Muskrat! Muskrat! There! I am saying nothing. If I must hold a position, I do not “freeze.” If I freeze, locking my muscles, I will tire and break. Instead of going rigid, I go calm. I center down wherever I am; I find a balance and repose. I retreat — not inside myself, but outside myself, so that I am a tissue of senses. Whatever I see is plenty, abundance. I am the skin of water the wind plays over; I am petal, feather, stone.

This, perhaps, is what Willa Cather meant in her perfect definition of happiness as being “dissolved into something complete and great” that “comes as naturally as sleep” — a dissolution of the self into the totality of Being, or what Transcendentalist queen Margaret Fuller called “the All” in her own exquisite account of one such experience a century and a half earlier. This, too, is the pulsating truth at the heart of Dillard’s own oft-quoted insight — an indictment, today — that “how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”

Couple this small fragment of the infinitely soul-slaking Pilgrim at Tinker Creek with Loren Eiseley — another of humanity’s greatest essayists — on the muskrat and the meaning of life, then revisit Hermann Hesse on discovering the soul beneath the self and Annie Dillard’s classic meditation on the meaning of life lensed through a total solar eclipse.

BP

Isotopes, Vikings, Mars

We are perishable matter yearning for meaning, and time is both the matter and the meaning of our lives. “Time is a river that sweeps me along but I am the river,” Borges wrote in 1940. “Time is the substance I am made of.”

Around the same time, the chemist Willard Libby had a revolutionary insight that brought physics to the poetry of time, measurement to the mystery of this substance we are made of.

Discus chronologicus — a German depiction of time from the early 1720s, included in Cartographies of Time. (Available as a print and as a wall clock.)

Science is stratospheric, layering discovery upon discovery, continually changing the landscape of knowledge we call reality. The late 1930s and early 1940s were a particularly volcanic time in the life of knowledge. After physicist Lise Meitner prevailed against the odds of her time and place to discover nuclear fission while working with isotopes — nuclear species of the same element that have different numbers of neutrons in their nuclei — physicist Serge Korff theorized that neutrons produced in the upper atmosphere by the newly detected cosmic rays would interact with the abundant isotope nitrogen-14 and become carbon-14 — an unstable isotope of carbon, also known as radiocarbon.

Like all air molecules, radiocarbon makes its way from the atmosphere into living matter — it goes into your lungs with every breath you take, then into your bloodstream, into your digestive system and out of it, into the soil, into whatever grows in the soil, tagging everything along the way with the isotope.

Libby, building on this cascade of discoveries and on his own Manhattan Project work in uranium enrichment, realized that you could measure the amount of radiocarbon in an object and use the isotope’s half-life — the amount of time it takes for radioactive decay to exponentially vanquish the unstable atom, a constant for each element and around 5700 years for radiocarbon — to trace time back and establish the age of the object.

So began what geologists and archeologists would call the “radiocarbon revolution.”

Art by Vivian Torrence from Chemistry Imagined by Roald Hoffmann with Carl Sagan.

Today, radiocarbon dating has been used to discern the age of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the shroud in which Jesus’s crucified body was swathed, to discover the “wood wide web” of mycorrhizal communication by observing how carbon isotopes are exchanged between root systems, to reveal the biochemical pathways beneath the mysteries of photosynthesis and the metabolic pathways of molecules in the human body, to map disease prevalence and solar activity across time.

But one of the most unexpected and revelatory uses of radiocarbon dating has been to locate an entire civilization in space and in time.

In 1960, months before Libby was awarded the Nobel Prize for his discovery, Norwegian explorer Helge Ingstad and archaeologist Anne Stine Ingstad (who happened to be married to each other) discovered the remains of Norse buildings in Newfoundland — astonishing evidence that the Viking civilization had reached the edge of North America, vindicating the feat of Icelandic sagas that historians had considered mythic hyperbole.

The question became not whether but when it happened.

Viking Ship by Andreas Bloch, late 1800s

Excavations went on for eight years. When a few logs of juniper and fir turned up among the archaeological ruins, no one thought much of them.

Meanwhile, radiocarbon labs were being set up around the world — dozens of them by the end of the 1960s, finding unimagined uses for this young science that suddenly banked the river of time. But time takes time — as historian Eleanor Barraclough recounts in her altogether fascinating book Embers of the Hands: Hidden Histories of the Viking Age (public library), it wasn’t until decades after the excavation that researchers realized the Newfoundland wood samples were a once-living record of solar activity. Barraclough writes:

Three of these wood samples bore the marks of a cosmic storm: a spike of the isotope carbon-14 from a solar event that took place in the year 993. They counted forward from the spike in the tree rings to the bark, which gave them the number of years between the cosmic storm and the tree being cut down. This told them that the trees had been cut down in 1021, giving them the only secure year when we know that the Norse categorically had to be present on the edge of North America.

The year the Ingstads completed the Newfoundland excavation, NASA began working on two space probes headed for Mars. They called the program Viking — across time and space, across technologies and civilizations, that same irrepressible human yearning to broaden the known world, to make contact with another.

Carl Sagan and a Viking lander in Death Valley, California. (Photograph courtesy of Druyan-Sagan Associates, Inc.)

When Ray Bradbury sat down with Carl Sagan and Arthur C. Clarke for a historic conversation about Mars and the mind of humanity, he captured this elemental impulse:

It’s part of the nature of man to start with romance and build to a reality.

This will always be our romance — to know the unknown, to transcend ourselves, to touch the edges of reality in the finite time we have. Longing may be the only thing in the universe with a half-life of zero.

BP

Václav Havel on How to Live with Your Greatest Failure

Václav Havel on How to Live with Your Greatest Failure

Few things in life are more devastating than to give something your all and still fail. Not the “fail better” of startup culture, not the “fail forward” of self-help, not the failure that is childhood’s fulcrum of learning, not the inspired mistakes that propel creative risk, but simply that helpless and harrowing moment when you face the abyss between your will and your powers, your values and your choices, your ideal self and your real self. It is without redemption, such failure. But it need not be without reward. Admitting failure, especially moral failure, is hard enough — to others, where the temptation to displace blame and make excuses seduces most, but most of all to oneself. Accepting it is even harder — but it is on the other side of acceptance that the true reward of failure is to be found.

That is what the great Czech playwright, essayist, and poet Václav Havel (October 5, 1936–December 18, 2011) explores in an extraordinary feat of soul-searching and reckoning with the human condition, found in his Letters to Olga (public library), one of the most moving books I have ever read — the living record of his imprisonment after being found guilty on charges of “subversion” for his plays criticizing the communist regime and his human rights work defending the unjustly persecuted.

Václav Havel

In the summer of his forty-sixth year, Havel recounts a moment of moral failure that shaped the course of his life:

Dear Olga,

Five years ago something happened tome that in many regards had a key significance in my subsequent life. It began rather inconspicuously: I was in detention for the firs time and one evening, after interrogation, I wrote out a request to the Public Prosecutor for my release. Prisoners in detention are always writing such requests, and I too treated it as something routine and unimportant, more in the nature of mental hygiene: I knew, of course, that my eventual release or nonrelease would be decided by factors having nothing to do with whether I wrote the appropriate request or not. Still, the interrogations weren’t going anywhere and it seemed proper to use the opportunity to let myself be heard. I wrote my request in a way that at the time seemed extremely tactical and cunning: while saying nothing I did not believe or that wasn’t true, I simply “overlooked” the fact that truth lies not only in what is said, but also in who says it, and to whom, why, how and under what circumstances it is expressed. Thanks to this minor “oversight” (more precisely, this minor self-deception) what I said came dangerously close — by chance, as it were — to what the authorities wanted to hear. What was particularly absurd was the fact that my motive — at least my conscious and admitted motive — was not the hope that it would produce results, but merely a kind of professionally intellectualistic and somewhat perverse delight in my won — or so I thought — “honorable cleverness.” (I should add, to complete the picture, that when I read it some years later, the honor in that cleverness made my hair stand on end.) I sent the request off the following day and because no one responded to it and my detention was prolonged again, I assumed it had ended up where such requests usually end up, and I more or less forgot about it.

Havel was shocked to be told one day that he was most likely going to be released and “political use” would be made of his petition. He recounts:

Of course I knew right away what that meant: (1) that with appropriate “recasting,” “additions” and widespread publicity, the impression would be created that I had not held out, that I had given in to pressure and backed down from my positions, opinions and all my previous work; in short, that I had betrayed my cause, all for a trivial reason — to get myself out of jail; (2) no denial or correction on my part would alter that impression because I had undeniably written something that “met them halfway” and anything I could add would, quite rightly, seem like an attempt to worm my way out of it; (3) that the approaching catastrophe was unavoidable; (4) that the blot it would leave me on and everything I had taken part in would haunt me for years to come, that it would cause me measureless inner suffering, and that I would probably try to erase it with several years in prison (which in fact happened), but that not even that would rid me entirely of the stigma; (5) that I had no one but myself to blame: I was neither forced to do it, nor offered a bribe; I was not, in fact, in a dilemma and it was only because I’d unforgivably let down my moral guard that I’d given the other side — voluntarily and quite pointlessly — a weapon that amounted to a heaven-sent gift.

One of Salvador Dalí’s illustrations for the essays of Montaigne

The haunting price of self-knowledge is that you always know, or some part of you always knows, exactly what your own moral failures would cost you. All Havel feared would happen is exactly what happened:

I came out of prison discredited, to confront a world that seemed to me one enormous, supremely justified rebuke. No one knows what I went through in that darkest period of my life… weeks, months, years in fact, of silent desperation, self-castigation, shame, inner humiliation, reproach and uncomprehending questioning. For a while I escaped from a world I felt too embarrassed to face into gloomy isolation, taking masochistic delight in endless orgies of self-blame. And then for a while I fled this inner hell into frantic activity through which I tried to drown out my anguish and at the same time, to “rehabilitate” myself somehow.

Art by Marianne Dubuc from The Lion and the Bird

His only relative reprieve came when he was thrown into prison again. But it took him years to fully accept his moral failure and wrest from it something larger, something the dream of blamelessness and the performance of perfection could ever secure for the life of the soul. In a testament to the indivisible yin-yang of fortune and misfortune illustrated by the ancient parable of the Chinese farmer, he writes:

I’ve only now begun fully to realize that the experience wasn’t just — from my point of view, at least — an comprehensible lapse that caused me a lot of pointless suffering; it had a deeply positive and purgative significance, for which I ought to thank my fate instead of cursing it. It thrust me into a drastic but, for that very reason, crucial confrontation with myself; it shook, as it were, my entire “I,” shook out of it a deeper insight into itself, a more serious acceptance and understanding of my situation… my horizons, and led me, ultimately, to a new and more coherent consideration of the problem of human responsibility.

[…]

It is not hard to stand behind one’s successes. But to accept responsibility for one’s failures, to accept them unreservedly as failures that are truly one’s own, that cannot be shifted somewhere else or onto something else, and actively to accept — without regard for any worldly interests, no matter how well disguised, or for well-meant advice — the price that has to be paid for it: that is devilishly hard! But only thence does the road lead — as my experience, I hope, has persuaded me — to the renewal of sovereignty over my own affairs, to a radically new insight into the mysterious gravity of my existence as an uncertain enterprise, and to its transcendental meaning. And only this kind of inner understanding can ultimately lead to what might be called true “peace of mind,” to that highest delight, to genuine meaningfulness, to that “joy of Being.” If one manages to achieve that, then all one’s worldly privations cease to be privations, and become what Christians call grace.

In the years he spent in prison, Havel learned what it takes to turn suffering into strength and discovered the deepest meaning of hope. Upon his release, he threw himself with redoubled devotion into his political work. Not even a decade into his freedom, the Federal Assembly unanimously elected him president — the last president — of Czechoslovakia, after the dissolution of which a free people elected him the first president of the Czech Republic. Many survivors of communist dictatorships (myself included) lament that he was never awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. But the writing he left behind in his Letters to Olga is an eternal triumph of peacekeeping for the war within, the war we each wage against ourselves and in which there are no victors unless we arrive at the kind of peace of mind Havel found on the other side of facing, truly facing, his failure.

BP

Ocean Vuong on Anger

“To be an artist is a guarantee to your fellow humans that the wear and tear of living will not let you become a murderer,” Louise Bourgeois wrote in her diary as a young artist. “The poets (by which I mean all artists),” James Baldwin wrote in his late thirties, “are finally the only people who know the truth about us. Soldiers don’t. Statesmen don’t… Only poets.” And the truth about us, as I know it, is that how we love, how we give, and how we suffer is just about the sum of who we are. The transmutation of suffering into love — the transmutation of the wear and tear and helplessness of living, of the rage it can induce, into compassion and care — is what we call art. Anyone who performs that alchemy within and then gives another the means to it — whether with a poem or a painting or an act of kindness — is what I would call an artist.

I know of no one who has articulated this task of transmutation more beautifully than the poet (in the largest Baldwinian sense) Ocean Vuong.

Ocean Vuong. (Photograph: Tom Hines)

In a deeply felt New York Times interview — a public reckoning, really — Vuong recounts his improbable beginnings as a writer: how he went from wanting to borrow a friend’s gun at fifteen and, despite his Buddhist upbringing, kill a man (the local drug dealer who had stolen his bicycle and kept him from making his shift on the tobacco farm where he was laboring for $9.50 an hour alongside other refugees and migrants) to reading James Baldwin and Annie Dillard at the community college until he came to see writing as “a medium for understanding suffering” — for understanding what hurts us and why we hurt each other and how to stop. He reflects:

I was in a world where anger, rage, and violence was a way to control the environment, and it was a way to control the environment for people who had no control of their lives. A lot of them were hurt and wounded… Because so much was close to me, I always had to look at it. And it behooved me to understand it in order to survive. So when I see cruelty, I look closer, and I say: “Where is this coming from?” And a lot of times, it comes from fear and vulnerability — you’re too scared, and you have to strike first… I have great compassion to that, because the doorway through to violence has always been suffering…

It’s interesting: You see the doorway in front of you and it feels so immense — it feels like the only path — but when you step back… it’s almost like the doorway is in the middle of a field. And you’re like, “Oh my goodness — I can step back, and I can just take one step to the side and go around, and the whole world is in front of me.”

[…]

In a way, my career so far has been a slow attempt at stepping back and stepping aside from that door.

Art from An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days, also available as a stand-alone print and as stationery cards.

A couple of years earlier, speaking at San Francisco’s endlessly wonderful City Arts & Lectures, Vuong considered the place of anger — that handmaiden of suffering — in art, and in his own work animated by the belief that the poet’s task is to look more closely at this world, a task resinous with the consolations of causality: the more we see, the more we understand; the more we understand — ourselves and each other — the less we suffer; the less we suffer, the less we lash the world with our suffering and the more we can transmute the anger of helplessness into something more tender and tenacious. Vuong reflects:

When you feel the somatic experience of anger, you throw things, you shout (perhaps at the people you love), you’re on the floor (metaphorically, physically). And then, after a while, you have to get up. You have to feed your dog, answer emails, meet a student — in other words, you have to move towards care… For me, care is anger improved. It’s part of the same ecosystem. And I’m interested in dismantling the border between these two things, because we’re told that they’re two opposite sides of a spectrum, but I think they’re actually very close together. They inform each other.

Because language is a container for thought and feeling that shapes the contents, the care we take with language is care for the world. Vuong reflects on the ministrations of words:

Writers have produced incredible amounts of work with the energy of rage and anger. But, for me, that care that I have to give the sentence is then the medic — it almost calms me down. It’s hard to be rageful when you’re working with something that needs your care. If each word is a citizen in this world of the text, they are so dependent on me to think clearly and with restraint and with a sense of compassion and dignity to them. And I would lose their confidence in me, in a way, if I were to approach it with too much of myself.

Art from An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days, also available as a stand-alone print and as stationery cards.

Vuong’s most elegant and countercultural point is that while anger need not be absent or suppressed in our inner lives, it must not become the end point of our work in the world but rather an opening — a handle on the door to compassion:

If you’re not awake, you wouldn’t feel angry. But to be alive in American bones is to be enraged by what’s happening. And, of course, I feel anger. But I will say… I’m not proud of many things… but I’m incredibly proud that not a single sentence or page I’ve ever written in my work was written out of anger… It’s not that I’m not angry, but I’m not useful — as a writer, as an artist — when I’m angry.

An essential part of the artist’s task is also this — to find out, and stand by, how you are most useful in the world. This takes especial courage in our culture, where the self-appointed custodians of virtue bully artists with the shoulds of what to stand for, what themes to take up in their work, and how to address them. (Mistrust anyone who tries to tell another human being what their best contribution to the world is.) To be an artist is also a guarantee to your fellow humans that the wear and tear of living will not let you become someone other than yourself.

Ocean Vuong by Nan Goldin for Document Journal

Couple with the great Zen teacher and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh’s poetic antidote to anger, then revisit Ursula K. Le Guin’s excellent meditation on the uses and misuses of anger in an imperfect world.

BP

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