On this day:
3114 BCAccording to the proleptic Julian calendar, the current era in the Maya Long Count Calendar started.
1522
The Victoria, the only surviving ship of Ferdinand Magellan’s expedition, returns to Sanlúcar de Barrameda in Spain, becoming the first ship to circumnavigate the world.
1620
The Pilgrims sail from Plymouth, England, on the Mayflower to settle in North America.
1847
Henry David Thoreau leaves Walden Pond and moves in with Ralph Waldo Emerson and his family in Concord, Massachusetts.
1901
Anarchist Leon Czolgosz shoots and fatally wounds US President William McKinley at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York.
1949
A former sharpshooter in World War II, Howard Unruh kills 13 neighbors in Camden, New Jersey, with a souvenir Luger to become the first U.S. single-episode mass murderer.
1966
In Cape Town, South Africa, the architect of Apartheid, Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd, is stabbed to death during a parliamentary meeting.
1972
Munich Massacre: 9 Israel athletes taken hostage at the Munich Olympic Games by the Palestinian “Black September” terrorist group died (as did a German policeman) at the hands of the kidnappers during a failed rescue attempt. 2 other Israeli athletes are slain in the initial attack the previous day.
1991
The Soviet Union recognizes the independence of the Baltic states: Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.
1997
Funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, takes place in London. Over a million people lined the streets, and 2.5 billion watched around the world on television.
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Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everyone's face but their own, which is the chief reason for the kind of reception it meets in the world, and that so very few are offended with it.--Swift
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Bartiromo made $70 million in her tenure at Fox News, according to court documents
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In the gambling-ridden sports world, the Michigan game ending certainly did nothing for the game's credibility.
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The German company Isar Aerospace launched its Spectrum rocket from Andøya Space Center in northern Norway today (Sept. 5) at 4:12 p.m. EDT (2012 GMT; 10:12 p.m. local time in Norway). A little over seven minutes later, it etched its name into the record books, settling into orbit.
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Sunday/A Life and a Death
The author, Wendell Berry, has died. His writings are part of an American rural tradition that emphasizes humanity's foundational elements: nature, the land, family, and religion. American man without car chases. What follows is a very tender eulogy from a local writer.
"We have been told that we live in a time after democracy, that liberalism has failed, the American constitutional order is lost, and all that remains is picking a side in an agonistic struggle between factions that lust after the power to govern our discordant nation. The philosopher that many, particularly on the right, turn to in order to anchor their account of our decline is the late 19th-century German Friedrich Nietzsche.
But, as retired Princeton religion scholar Jeffrey Stout has observed, all of the themes that preoccupied Nietzsche—including the death of God and the slow absorption of the great into an undifferentiated herd—were first concerns of the quintessential American democrat, Ralph Waldo Emerson. No one was more attuned than Emerson to the ways in which a mindless conformity can eat away at the soul and slowly erode the life of a community. His many essays and lectures were written not to promote an atomized individualism, as some critics have claimed, but rather to call his readers to a fidelity to what he saw as true, living religion that rose above the herd. In other words, the problems identified by our emerging nihilist class of commentators were not first discovered by anti-liberals like Nietzsche, but were well known to committed democrats like Emerson.
But Emerson saw a way of overcoming all of this from within a democratic frame. The “democracy” that stultified common life was but a semblance of democracy, a corrupt mockery of the real thing. The true democrat, for Emerson, was the man who followed the truth where it led without regard for the demands put upon him by society or by false authorities who wore, as one writer very much in the Emersonian tradition put it, “the mantle of power but not of knowledge.”
That writer, of course, is the late Mr. Wendell Berry of Port Royal, Kentucky, son of John Marshall Berry and Virginia Berry, who died earlier this week at age 92. These older conventions of obituary writing, naming the deceased’s home place and the names of his people, seem utterly nonnegotiable in any account of Mr. Berry’s life.
Among the many words that Berry wrote, these words that close his New York Times obituary strike me as summarizing his work perfectly: “You know, if you subtracted the Gospels and the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence from my work, there wouldn’t be very much left,” he said in 2005. These words place him in the tradition of Emerson, as well Emerson’s great friend and one of Berry’s great influences, Henry David Thoreau.
These words also put him at odds with more or less the entirety of contemporary American public life, virtually all of whom (including most Christians) have little interest in the Gospels, little memory of the Declaration, and little regard for the Constitution. If you doubt that Emerson was right to warn so frequently about the dangers of the herd, or that Thoreau was right to say that so many of our neighbors live lives of “quiet desperation,” I would suggest you are simply not paying attention.
That raises the question, of course, of how one can escape the mindless herds prowling about today. How can a person live in a way not marked by that haunting Thoreauvian phrase? Can we find genuine vitality as well as beauty and goodness within the confines of our life today? Berry showed us how, and he did so in two distinct ways.
The first was his contrariness. Among his most loved poems is “The Contrariness of the Mad Farmer,” which you can hear the man himself read in this recording done with On Being many years ago.
Going against men, I have heard at times a deep harmony
thrumming in the mixture, and when they ask me what
I say I don’t know. It is not the only or the easiest
way to come to the truth. It is one way.
The contrariness Berry endorses is not “the automatic gainsaying of anything the other person says.” The contrariness, rather, is the acted-out recognition of the ways that conformity seduces us over time, nudging us into saying things we do not mean or do not believe and to repressing the thoughts we actually do believe. Berry’s contrary farmer cares more about saying what is true than he does appeasing the desires, prejudices, and conventions of others. This contrariness is also a form of neighborly love, offered in the hope that others who see the same but say nothing would be emboldened to speak.
Several of Berry’s greatest fictional creations exemplify this commitment—Jayber Crow, the barber and protagonist in the novel bearing his name, perhaps most of all. It is also the subject of another of his poems, perhaps my favorite of all his poems, called “Do Not Be Ashamed.” Several lines in particular are worth sharing:
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
If you would protect the light you have made in your life, Berry warns, then you must be contrary. You must refuse to say “I am ashamed” when the herd attempts to coerce you into doing so.
But there is a further commitment of Berry’s that is significant. Berry’s three greatest novels, The Memory of Old Jack, Jayber Crow, and Hannah Coulter are in one sense a trilogy considering the problem and challenge of marriage. Indeed, marriage is in many ways the dominant metaphor for all of Berry’s work, as some of his own essays suggest—most notably those found in Standing by Words as well as the title essay from Sex, Economy, Freedom, and Community.
In an interview with the filmmaker Laura Dunn, he says that
We all come from divorce now. This is an age of divorce. Things that belong together have been taken apart. And you can’t put it all back together again. What you do is the only thing you can do. You take two things that ought to be together and you put them back together. … That’s the way the work has to go.
He says something similar near the end of Jayber Crow, his greatest novel in my opinion. Writing near the end of his life, Jayber reflects on what he thinks hell might be, and he says it is
where we fail to love one another, where we hate and destroy one another for reasons abundantly provided or for righteousness’ sake or for pleasure, where we destroy the things we need the most, where we see no hope and have no faith, where we are needy and alone, where things that ought to stay together fall apart.
Jayber’s idea of hell, incidentally, sounds very like the agonistic world that the Nietzscheans mistake for reality. If we would be saved, we would do well to heed, instead, the examples of Emerson and Berry.
The answer to the rupture of divorce is the faithfulness of marriage, a way of life that radiates outward from the lovers into fidelity to the world—the habits and virtues taught within the form of marriage are one means by which we learn to keep faith more generally. We learn something of what it means to live for the good of our neighbor, or even the good of our home place, by the ways in which marriage forces us very directly and intimately to live for the good of another. In this, Berry and his wife of 69 years, Tanya Berry, became models which we might emulate. The point of contrariness is not mere negation; it is to accept the mantle of responsibility thrust upon each of us as a condition of our life in the world. The form of his marriage to Tanya is one of the chief ways that Mr. Berry learned this responsibility, I think—or at least that is what I am led to believe by his many poems addressed to Tanya. Consider this, for example,
... yet
You have taken me and quieted me.
You have been such light to me
That other women have been
Your shadows.
In “Do Not Be Ashamed” Berry speaks of the nameless “they,” which Emerson would think of as “the herd.” They go about shining a light in search of you so that they might find you and compel you toward their way. This external light is a light, as the poem says, that will squelch the light you have made yourself. But in “Marriage” the light offered by Tanya is a gift, not a means of control or coercion. The contrariness of the mad farmer ultimately exists to serve and enliven the marriage of the mad farmer. The demands of contrariness create the circumstances that bring about life, or at least that is how I read Berry.
My favorite scene in all his fiction comes near the end of A Place on Earth. It is an uneven novel, which Berry himself knew, given that he revised it after publication and released a new edition. But its high points are the highest points in all his fiction. One such point comes near the end when the town of Port William, loosely modeled after Port Royal, learns that World War II has ended and their boys will be returning home. The town converges on the lone street running through it to celebrate, and the local purveyor of the finest moonshine materializes with the fruit of his labor. Jayber Crow, Burley Coulter, and several others enjoy that fruit thoroughly. They take turns passing the bottle—Berry remarks elsewhere that the sound of moonshine poured from a jug sounds like “good good good”—and on each pass Jayber “greets” the bottle cordially. He then embarks on a half-drunk sermon, offered in response to the whiskey’s benediction, that I think contains much of Berry’s wisdom, for his own time and for ours:
For is not the abuse of the mortal the abuse as well of the immortal, and the abuse of life the abuse of life everlasting, and the abuse of the earth the abuse of Heaven?—for is it not upon this dust that the word and the law tread and leave their tracks?—and is it not upon this little that the great shall be lifted up?
Writing as his life came to an end, Jayber remembered the sound of that whiskey being poured from the bottle when he wrote,
I am a man who has hoped, in time, that his life, when poured out at the end, would say ‘good-good-good-good-good!’ like a gallon jug of the prime local spirit. I am a man of losses, regrets, and griefs. I am an old man full of love. I am a man of faith. But faith is not necessarily, or not soon, a resting place. Faith puts you out on a wide river in a little boat, in the fog, in the dark. Even a man of faith knows that (as Burley Coulter used to say) we’ve all got to go through enough to kill us.
Berry was a man of faith. He went through enough, as we all will, to kill him. But he lived in such a way that the sound of his life is doubtless contained in the sound I heard just now as I poured out a glass of his state’s finest export to toast the man’s life and work. And the light he made in his story not only preserved him from those who would demand his shame; it offered to us what Tanya gave to him, a light that drives all else into the shadows.
Rest in Peace, Mr. Berry, a citizen of Port William and a son of the commonwealth of Kentucky."