Pratchett on the Excitement of Invention

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Wednesday

Last week I reported on visiting the site where the du Pont family made their fortune in gunpowder. They also have a great museum there celebrating inventors, although upon reflection I think it may be in part a public relations move. Better to be seen as a Thomas Edison or a George Washington Carver than a merchant of death. 

It so happens that, while visiting the museum, Julia and I were also listening to Terry Pratchett’s Raising Steam, which has the same celebratory feel. Although it’s a fantasy novel, Pratchett taps into the excitement that gripped 19th century England over the invention of the railway, with his engineer hero Dick Simnel harnessing steam to create “Iron Girder.” Eventually the train is involved in a heroic and hair-raising mission to thwart an attempted coup by fundamentalist dwarfs, who have been blowing up telegraph towers and massacring innocents. (Pratchett has modeled them on Islamic State terrorists.)

Pratchett’s engineer exudes the same drive and inventiveness that we saw highlighted at the museum. Working in his garage (of course), he convinces his skeptical mother by waving in front of her “something that looked like a small wand, which might have been made for a miniature wizard”:

This’ll keep me safe, Mother! I’ve the knowing of the sliding rule! I can tell the sine what to do, and the cosine likewise and work out the tangent of t’quaderatics!

A little later, recalling a father who has been killed in an explosion, Simnel tells her,

I remembered what Dad said about t’time he were watching t’kettle boiling and notice t’lid going up and down with the pressure, and he told me that one day someone would build a bigger kettle that would lift more than a kettle lid. And I believe I have the knowing of the way to build a proper kettle, Mother.

We then watch Simnel persuade millionaire Harry King to invest in Iron Girder. The engineer says, with justifiable pride, “I’ve made a machine that can carry people and goods just about everywhere and it don’t need ’orses and it’s run on water ’n’ coal. It’s my machine, I built it and I can make it even better if you can see your way clear to advance me some investment.”

Although a tight-fisted man who has made his fortune handling the city’s sewage, King is entranced when he sees Iron Girder steaming down a short circle track laid down for demonstration purposes:

Harry was uncharacteristically silent. The thrumming of the machines was like a kind of spell. Again, the metal voice of steam rang out over the compound like a lost soul and he found himself unable to leave. Harry wasn’t a man for introspection and all that rubbish, but he thought that this, well this was something worth a closer look. And then he noticed the faces of the crowd around the compound, the goblins climbing up to gawp at this new raging devil which was nevertheless under the control of two lads in flat caps and very little to speak of in regard to teeth.

Like the du Ponts, who shifted from gunpowder to nylon, King (to the joy of his wife) shifts from being “the King of Shit” to a major backer of the new technology.

Terry Pratchett has sometimes been seen as an anti-Tolkien, in that his own fantasy world has made peace with the industrial age and also embraces multicultural diversity. Tolkien, who understandably longed for a pre-industrial rural England as he experienced the horrors of World War I trench warfare, casts Saruman as a diabolical tree-destroying industrialist and the goblins and orcs as the industrial proletariat. DEI advocate Pratchett, by contrast, shows goblins gaining the grudging respect of society as they prove indispensable to social progress. 

Whereas Tolkien depicts goblins as little more than vermin, which is how the public sees them in Pratchett’s novel Snuff, Pratchett shows them possessing special talents. In fact, by the end of the novel, a goblin has invented the bicycle. Discworld society eventually grants them rights, along with trolls, dwarfs, werewolves, vampires (but they must be black ribbon members who have sworn off human blood), and other storybook monsters.

These other creatures are also contributing to the railway. For instance, Troll lawyer Thunderbolt, who has a voice “like gently flowing lava,” whose body is as hard as a rock, and who carries “a rich plant life in his visible cavities,” handles the necessary patent applications. “I am diamond through and through and therefore I cannot tell lies for fear of shattering,’ he informs his clients.

From the Hagley Museum we learned the importance of patents and the patent office in the invention process.

When reading Raising Steam, one can help thinking of Trump’s attacks on immigrants. Pratchett may be targeting Muslim fundamentalists in his novel, but the fanaticism of terrorist dwarfs who want to return their kingdom to the old days applies just as much to those MAGA Americans who want to make America white again.

What both Pratchett and the Hagley Museum make clear is that new inventions arise from individuals exercising their freedom to follow their dreams. In other words, the more a society opens its arms to diversity and to individual initiative, the more it will thrive. It’s why independent university research and a broad-minded immigration policy are critical to social health.

Pratchett strikes a feminist blow as well. By the end of the novel we learn that the dwarf king who restores order and who has reached historic accords with the dwarfs’ traditional enemies (trolls and goblins) is actually female.

After defeating the fundamentalist dwarfs and regaining her kingdom, the queen concludes with the kind of rousing speech we need from our leaders today. Referring to the historic train ride that has allowed her to return home in time to put down the rebellion, she declares,

What a voyage that was! And the wonderful discovery of loggysticks [logistics]. The train is the future, bringing people closer together. Think about it. People run to see the train go past. Why? Because it’s heading to the future or coming from the past. Personally, I very much want the future and I want to see to it that dwarfs are part of that future, if it’s not too late. 

When it comes to 21st century challenges, millions of Americans also want to be part of the future, not trapped in MAGA nostalgia. We’re currently on our own daring train ride, battling those who want to derail it with landslides, sabotage, and direct attacks.

And with this battle in mind, it’s worth mentioning another Pratchett character since he can serve as a model in these dark times. “A life without danger is a life not world living,” proclaims Moist von Lipwig, a former conman who has used his skills to reform the postal system (Going Postal), get the central bank back up and running (Making Money) and now ensure the success of the railway. While he claims he wants a dull, comfortable life, he brings excitement to making basic governmental services work.

In other words, we can’t take for granted the life we’ve been accustomed to. We must tap into those energies of the past that made our country great and renew our commitment, even if doing so requires us to be dedicated, risk-taking, and courageous.

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Are You an Eeyore Democrat? Shake It Off

E.H. Shepard, illus. from House at Pooh Corner

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Tuesday

The donkey is the Democratic icon, but some are worrying that the donkey Democrats most resemble these days is Eeyore. At least, that’s the comparison made by political commentator Matt Labash in a recent essay posted on his Substack blog Slack Tide. 

Challenging those he calls “Eeyore Democrats,” he writes, “Yes, we know you’re a sad donkey–fight harder anyway.”

Is it useful to characterize Democrats as such? First, here’s Labash explaining how he arrived at the comparison:

But there’s one thing that’s fatiguing me even more than the physical weather, and that’s the political climate. For it’s hard to go five minutes these days without some defeated sad sack reminding you that no matter how awful Donald Trump’s first six months have been — no matter how much his ever-shifting tariffs are jacking prices to hell, no matter how many academic and media institutions he shakes down for extortion booty, no matter how many bribes he takes in plain sight from memecoin dinners/private-jet-donating-foreign governments, no matter how many idiot offspring strike lucrative deals abroad trading off his name, no matter how much he coddes the pedophiles he was supposed to wreak havoc against, no matter how many billionaire sociopaths he appoints to destroy basic government functionality, no matter how out-of-touch he is with common-man concerns while pretending to be their champion, no matter how hard he sodomizes the republic on a near-daily basis — well, Democrats have the real credibility problem.

To which Labash responds that for Democrats to blame fellow Dems for the current dysfunction “is like blaming my overtaxed AC condenser for the swamp-ass DMV temperatures. It’s a misappropriation of ire.”

I went rummaging through Winnie-the-Pooh and House at Pooh Corner to determine whether the Eeyore comparison is apt. I think people become Eeyores when they feel unappreciated. But knowing that they’re supposed to be stoic and not complain, they vent through passive-aggressive outbursts, pretending to shrug off their hurt. They’re like Eeyore informing Christopher Robin that maybe it’s actually no big deal that someone has stolen his house in the middle of the winter. After observing that he thought he had shelter, he continues on, “But I suppose I don’t. After all, we can’t all have houses.”

And then:

And I said to myself: The others will be sorry if I’m getting myself all cold. They haven’t got Brains, any of them, only grey fluff that’s blown into their heads by mistake, and they don’t Think, but if it goes on snowing for another six weeks or so, one of them will begin to say to himself: ‘Eeyore can’t be so very much too Hot about three o’clock in the morning.’ And then it will Get About. And they’ll be Sorry.

In another story, Eeyore is similarly upset that everyone has forgotten his birthday. Rather than express his complaint directly, however, he says what really bothers him is that everyone else will be miserable:

“It’s bad enough,” said Eeyore, almost breaking down, “being miserable myself, what with no presents and no cake and no candles, and no proper notice taken of me at all, but if everybody else is going to be miserable too—-”

Eeyore is fortunate that he has friends who come to his aid—who build him a house and find his tail and bring him birthday gifts and get him out of the water. Most of the Democrats I know spend much of their lives helping others, which is why so many go into teaching and government and non-profits.

So how about this? You’re allowed to wallow for a few moments in Eeyore-style self-pity when those whose lives you’re seeking to improve demonize you while voting for Trump. Take a few moments to feel sorry for yourself.

But knowing that such wallowing quickly becomes tiresome, quickly shake it off and join the crew of Pooh and Piglet and Christopher Robin and even Rabbit, who are determined to help other people. And who do so without worrying about being thanked

After all, selfless actions bring about a more fulfilling life. Pooh and Piglet feel the happiness of Habitat for Humanity volunteers as they work on Eeyore’s house:

“We’ve finished our house!” sang the gruff voice.
“Tiddely pom!” sang the squeak one.
“It’s a beautiful HOUSE…”
“Tiddely pom . . .”

J.D. Vance complained that Ukraine never properly thanked the U.S. for weapons and Trump complained that starving Gazans never thanked him for food donations. But for Pooh and Piglet, the fact that Eeyore never knows what they have done for him and never thanks them is irrelevant.

People will not necessarily thank you for working to save democracy. Do it anyway.

Tiddely pom.

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Killing the Messenger of Bad News

Lecomte du Nouÿ, The Bearers of Bad News

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Monday

One mark of a tyrant is killing those who bring bad news, which Donald Trump has just metaphorically done with the head of the Department of Labor Statistics. When Erika McEntarfer reported a sharp slowdown in May and June’s hiring numbers, Donald Trump responded, “We need accurate Jobs Numbers. I have directed my Team to fire this Biden Political Appointee, IMMEDIATELY.”

No one outside Trump sycophants believe that McEntarfer has done anything other than report the facts. The move has shaken even those staunch Trump supporters who are in the business community. After all, they rely on objective government figures in their decision making. Many have noted that this is an action reminiscent of authoritarian leaders in third world countries.

There’s a long historical tradition of killing the messenger. In Parallel Lives (c. 100 AD), Greek historian Plutarch records an instance of the Armenian king Tigranes the Great punishing a bearer of bad news:

The first messenger that gave notice of Lucullus’s coming was so far from pleasing Tigranes, that he had his head cut off for his pains; and no man daring to bring further information, without any intelligence at all, Tigranes sat while war was already blazing around him, giving ear only to those who flattered him…

The upshot was that Tigranes lost several key battles to the Romans and found his kingdom eventually reduced to a client state.

My favorite instance of a messenger worried about delivering bad news occurs in Euripides’s The Bacchae. He has just witnessed the king’s mothers and aunts going full Bacchae—they’ve ripped apart a herd of cattle—but he wants full assurance that he won’t pay a price for conveying the news:

I saw those women in their Bacchic revels,
those sacred screamers, all driven crazy,
the ones who run barefoot from their homes.
I came, my lord, to tell you and the city
the dreadful things they’re doing, their actions
are beyond all wonder. But, my lord,
first I wish to know if I should tell you,
openly report what’s going on up there,
or whether I should hold my tongue.                           
Your mood changes so fast I get afraid—                                        
your sharp spirit, your all-too-royal temper.

Fortunately for him, King Pentheus is no Tigranes or Donald Trump, at least upon this occasion. Pentheus claims he wants to hear the truth, no matter how unpleasant:

Speak on. Whatever you have to report,
you’ll get no punishment at all from me.
It’s not right to vent one’s anger on the just.
The more terrible the things you tell me
about those Bacchic women, the worse
I’ll move against the one who taught them
all their devious tricks.

Hotspur’s father in Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 2 agrees that messengers shouldn’t be blamed. In this instance, the messenger doesn’t have to plead for himself since Northumberland recognizes the situation:

Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead.
I see a strange confession in thine eye:
Thou shakest thy head and hold’st it fear or sin
To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so;
The tongue offends not that reports his death:
And he doth sin that doth belie the dead,
Not he which says the dead is not alive.

Yet for all that, he acknowledges that this messenger will forever be tainted:

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office, and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,
Remember’d tolling a departing friend.

The leader that most resembles Trump is Shakespeare’s Cleopatra. Here she is threatening the messenger that brings news that Antony has married Octavia:

What say you? Hence,

Strikes him again

Horrible villain! or I’ll spurn thine eyes
Like balls before me; I’ll unhair thy head:

She hales him up and down

Thou shalt be whipp’d with wire, and stew’d in brine,
Smarting in lingering pickle.

Despite the messenger’s protest—“Gracious madam, I that do bring the news made not the match”—Cleopatra threatens to go after him with a knife. Yet even she proves superior to Trump since eventually she is brought to reason, observing she is degrading herself by threatening the man:

These hands do lack nobility, that they strike
A meaner than myself; since I myself
Have given myself the cause.

So although she is still spouting fire when she sends the messenger away, she at least insists on hearing what he has to say. Oh, and she doesn’t kill him.

Trump, by contrast, does the metaphorical equivalent of shooting the messenger. Thank goodness he doesn’t have the authority to do so literally.

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Worldly Vanity vs. Celestial Wisdom

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Sunday

Today’s Hebrew Scriptures reading is the famous “vanity of vanities” passage from Ecclesiastes, supposedly written by King Solomon. The observation that “all is vanity” inspired Samuel Johnson’s Vanity of Human Wishes, his greatest poem. It’s a devastating satire that points out how our endless pursuit of wealth and power fails to bring us happiness. 

First, here’s an excerpt the reading: 

Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity.

I, the Teacher, when king over Israel in Jerusalem, applied my mind to seek and to search out by wisdom all that is done under heaven; it is an unhappy business that God has given to human beings to be busy with. I saw all the deeds that are done under the sun; and see, all is vanity and a chasing after wind. (Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14)

Vanity of Human Wishes is too long to share in its entirety so I’ve just picked out some of the highlights. Lest you become overwhelmed by the grim picture that Johnson paints, I promise you a happy ending.

The poem begins with the poet surveying the entirety of humankind and finding everywhere the same anxious toil and ceaseless strife:

Let observation with extensive view, 
Survey mankind, from China to Peru; 
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, 
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life; 
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 
O’erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate…

Some of the passages apply directly to those who are willing to sell out American democracy to line their pockets:

How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, 
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice, 
How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress’d, 
When vengeance listens to the fool’s request. 

And:

But scarce observed, the knowing and the bold, 
Fall in the gen’ral massacre of gold; 
Wide-wasting pest! that rages unconfined, 
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind;
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, 
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws; 
Wealth heaped on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, 
The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 

Johnson pours out special scorn upon those who seek to attach themselves to the rich and powerful. He has his own version of “Everything Trump Touches Dies,” Rick Wilson’s observation that everyone who hitches his or her wagon to the man is destroyed:

Unnumber’d suppliants crowd Preferment’s gate, 
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great; 
Delusive Fortune hears the incessant call, 
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. 
On ev’ry stage the foes of peace attend, 
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end.

Johnson doesn’t only focus on those who sell their souls for earthly gain. Even good people will experience unhappiness as they learn that “all is vanity.” “Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,” he asks, “roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?”

Not necessarily, he reassures us. After all, we still have prayer:

Inquirer, cease, petitions yet remain,  
Which heaven may hear, nor deep religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 
But leave to heaven the measure and the choice.  

In other words, pray but don’t attempt to dictate how the prayer is to be answered. Rather, put yourself into the hands of God:

Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, 
Secure whate’er he gives, he gives the best. 

What should we pray for? Johnson provides a list: 

Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind, 
Obedient passions, and a will resigned; 
For love, which scarce collective man can fill; 
For patience, sov’reign o’er transmuted ill; 
For faith, that panting for a happier seat, 
Counts death kind nature’s signal of retreat…

With these, we may in the end find the happiness that cannot be achieved through wealth and power. John concludes,

These goods for man the laws of heaven ordain, 
These goods he grants, who grants the pow’r to gain; 
With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, 
And makes the happiness she does not find.

When he speaks of “celestial wisdom,” Johnson may have in mind the figure of Wisdom (Sophia) in Proverbs, who is personified as a woman who “calls aloud in the street” and who loves those

who love me,
    and those who seek me find me.
With me are riches and honor,
    enduring wealth and prosperity.
My fruit is better than fine gold;
    what I yield surpasses choice silver.
I walk in the way of righteousness,
    along the paths of justice,
bestowing a rich inheritance on those who love me
    and making their treasuries full. (Proverbs 8:17-21)

Johnson’s poem, like the Ecclesiastes passage, starts out with grim news but then follows it up with this heavenly reminder. We all need such reminding in these dark days.

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Thoughts on Teaching as School Begins

Blanche Fisher Wright, illus. from The Real Mother Goose

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Friday

Hard as it may be to believe, today is the first day of school in many parts of Tennessee. As I recall from my childhood, school was always sweltering at the beginning (no air conditioning then), but the compensation was ending the year in the freshness of May.

Here’s a rather grim poem to kick off the school year, written from the vantage point of a teacher who is feeling his age. He sees his own mortality in the chill of “another autumn morning,” which he contrasts with “the april faces” that “gleam before me, like apples ranged on shelves.”

Brooding on death, “who carries off all the prizes,” the speaker has difficulty separating out “the dull, the clever, the various shapes and sizes.” The chalk dust that has gotten into his lungs after all these years ominously presages more serious illnesses. He thinks that he “shall never reacquaint myself with joy.”

May I suggest that this individual is taking the wrong approach to his profession? Rather than find ways to excite his students, which would energize him as well, he sounds like the aptly named M’Choakumchild in Charles Dickens’s Hard Times. This Scottish teacher aims to make learning as boring as possible:

So, Mr. M’Choakumchild began in his best manner.  He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs.  He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions.  Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers.  He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty’s most Honourable Privy Council’s Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek.  He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass.  Ah, rather overdone, M’Choakumchild.  If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more!

Dickens compares M’Choakumchld to Morgiana in the story of “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” who pours boiling water into each of the large vessels containing a thief. Dickens asks ominously, 

Say, good M’Choakumchild.  When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within—or sometimes only maim him and distort him!

Scannell’s aging schoolmaster may be a little better in that he at least distinguishes between different students. But if you make teaching about yourself rather than your students, sooner or later your job will feel like one damn class after another.

Aging Schoolmaster
By Vernon Scannell

And now another autumn morning finds me
With chalk dust on my sleeve and in my breath,
Preoccupied with vague, habitual speculation
On the huge inevitability of death.

Not wholly wretched, yet knowing absolutely
That I shall never reacquaint myself with joy,
I sniff the smell of ink and chalk and my mortality
And think of when I rolled, a gormless boy,

And rollicked round the playground of my hours,
And wonder when precisely tolled the bell
Which summoned me from summer liberties
And brought me to this chill autumnal cell

From which I gaze upon the april faces
That gleam before me, like apples ranged on shelves,
And yet I feel no pinch or prick of envy
Nor would I have them know their sentenced selves.

With careful effort I can separate the faces,
The dull, the clever, the various shapes and sizes,
But in the autumn shades I find I only
Brood upon death, who carries off all the prizes.

Speaking for myself, I can say that I was as excited about teaching at the end of my 36 years at St. Mary’s College of Maryland as I was at the beginning. That’s because I encouraged each student to find his or her way into a work, which meant that I myself was always gaining new insights into the works I taught. I have shared many of these insights on this blog and in my book.

Mortality did play some role in my decision to retire, with an infection picked up in a hospital leading to pericarditis and myocarditis. But I didn’t brood on death because I could see new horizons opening up for my students. Under my coaching, they took works they encountered in my courses and, through them, opened up new horizons for themselves.

In other words, enough with the self-pity. Teaching is a noble calling, a reward in and of itself, and should be regarded as such. If you can’t see that, then get out of the classroom.

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Shaw’s Don Juan in MAGA America

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Thursday

On Tuesday Julia and I visited the du Ponts’ Hagley house and former factory near Wilmington, Delaware with former colleagues Lois Stover and David Finkelman. While there I discovered an indirect connection with this blog: “Better Living through Beowulf” plays off “Better Living through Chemistry,” which used to be the Dupont marketing slogan.

I suppose most people today would not catch the allusion, but for me it is a playful way of expressing my view that literature changes lives. When I was searching for a title, I reached back to my childhood, seeking a way to be serious and light all at once, and the slogan came to mind.

During our visit we discovered that there’s a museum at the site that enthuses about American inventiveness. That’s because the du Ponts were inventers extraordinaire. Unfortunately, the invention that made their fortune was explosives, for which they found ready buyers during the War of 1812 and the Civil War. This brought to mind George Bernard Shaw’s Don Juan in Hell, the mini play that appears within Man and Superman.

In it we see Don Juan, now dead, engaging in a vigorous debate with the Devil about humankind. The Devil sounds very much like the Devil in Mark Twain’s Mysterious Stranger, which I wrote about last week, and at first I thought it was a direct response to Twain. Then I discovered that Twain’s novel appeared after Shaw’s play.

In any event, the Devil could be talking about the du Ponts when he makes the following argument about human evil:

In the old chronicles you read of earthquakes and pestilences, and are told that these showed the power and majesty of God and the littleness of Man. Nowadays the chronicles describe battles. In a battle two bodies of men shoot at one another with bullets and explosive shells until one body runs away, when the others chase the fugitives on horseback and cut them to pieces as they fly. And this, the chronicle concludes, shows the greatness and majesty of empires, and the littleness of the vanquished. Over such battles the people run about the streets yelling with delight, and egg their Governments on to spend hundreds of millions of money in the slaughter, whilst the strongest Ministers dare not spend an extra penny in the pound against the poverty and pestilence through which they themselves daily walk. I could give you a thousand instances; but they all come to the same thing: the power that governs the earth is not the power of Life but of Death; and the inner need that has nerved Life to the effort of organizing itself into the human being is not the need for higher life but for a more efficient engine of destruction. The plague, the famine, the earthquake, the tempest were too spasmodic in their action; the tiger and crocodile were too easily satiated and not cruel enough: something more constantly, more ruthlessly, more ingeniously destructive was needed; and that something was Man, the inventor of the rack, the stake, the gallows, and the electrocutor; of the sword and gun; above all, of justice, duty, patriotism and all the other isms by which even those who are clever enough to be humanely disposed are persuaded to become the most destructive of all the destroyers.

The du Ponts themselves eventually chose to leave the destruction business, focusing instead on polyester and nylon. I can report from personal experience, however, that their evil did not end with the shift. The story requires a roundabout explanation.

 When my family moved to Sewanee TN in 1954, we lived in a three-story apartment building. Shortly after we moved out seven years later, it was torn down and replaced with the Jesse Ball du Pont library, built with money donated by the third wife of A. I. dupont. I spent many happy hours in that library.

So far so good. The money, however, came with the stipulation that Sewanee remain segregated. Mrs. Ball du Pont was an ardent racist and for a long while Sewanee catered to her wishes. The college did not want to suffer Virginia Theological Seminar’s fate, as reported in Ball du Pont’s bio in Wikipedia:

Ball duPont was…a major donor to Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, Virginia. However on 23 November 1951, she wrote to Dean Stanley Brown-Serman, ‘I have been told that one or more negroes are members of the student body… I do not contribute to schools in the south that take negroes as students.’ A subsequent letter stated, ‘As long as the Virginia Theological Seminary is open to negroes, I have made my last contribution to it…’ 

Given this history, I was startled to see one quirk when we visited the Hagley house. The dining room is wallpapered with a mural painted by a European artist who had never visited America. Much of the topography he gets wrong and so, in a Hudson River scene, he includes both an Arizona cactus and Florida Spanish moss.

Most striking, however, are groups of well-dressed African Americans and Latinos. Apparently the artist, having read “The Declaration of Independence,” assumed that all Americans were treated equally and so painted them as such. One wonders what Ball du Pont made of the scene.

Returning to Sewanee, my professor father spent his early years opposing Mrs. Dupont and the administrators currying favor with her. Only years later did he get an apology for the way they behaved toward him. Bishop Juhan, who had been the primary contact person, told my father towards the end of his life, “I was wrong,” which my father found immensely gratifying.

In these dark times, it’s important to remember that people can change. For all the evil that men and women do, there’s a counteracting force that ultimately prevails. Segregation, which as a child I thought would last forever, crumbled so that now I have five grandchildren of color. White supremacists may have the upper hand in this country at the moment, but their reactionary movement is not our future. For that, I turn again to Don Juan, who contends that the “Life Force” gets the last word:

I tell you that as long as I can conceive something better than myself I cannot be easy unless I am striving to bring it into existence or clearing the way for it. That is the law of my life. That is the working within me of Life’s incessant aspiration to higher organization, wider, deeper, intenser self-consciousness, and clearer self-understanding.

With Shaw as with Dante, we make our own heavens and hells—they are self-chosen—and despite the Devil’s attempts at persuasion, Don Juan leaves Hell because it is dull and narrow. Hate and fear are so tiresome.

Far more exciting is the human potential that is unleashed when we embrace multicultural diversity.

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Like Midas, Trump Kills What He Touches

King Midas

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Wednesday

Here’s a tiny item that caught my eye, largely because it’s an instance of a Trump enthusiast using a well-known story to praise his idol, only to expose a darker truth. Apparently Cardone Capital founder Grant Cardone informed Laura Ingraham of Fox News that Trump is proving all the experts wrong with his tariffs. The president, he insisted, does indeed have “the Midas touch” and is turning everything he touches into gold.

I doubt whether Trump’s constantly shifting tariff goals will actually bring manufacturing back to the United States, as Cardone insists, but let’s take a look at the Midas story. The “Midas touch,” as we learn from the Roman poet Ovid in Metamorphoses, is not a good thing.

Not that Trump would acknowledge this. Apparently in 2011 he “co-authored” a book (which means that his co-author did all the writing) entitled Midas Touch: Why Some Entrepreneurs Get Rich — And Why Most Don’t. 

Most of Trump’s critics, of course, counterclaim that everything Trump touches turn to s**t, not gold. And then there’s the memorable summation by former-GOP consultant and founder of the anti-Trump Lincoln Project that “everything Trump touches dies” (ETTD for short). This in fact is what happens in the story.

As Ovid tells it, when King Midas is granted a special wish by the Bacchanalian god Silenus, he unfortunately gets what he asks for:

Give me, says he (nor thought he ask’d too much),
That with my body whatsoe’er I touch,
Changed from the nature which it held of old,
May be converted into yellow gold.
He had his wish; but yet the God repined,
To think the fool no better wish could find.

At first, Midas is like Trump in the White House, who appears to add gold gilding to every cornice piece he can find:

Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew,
The twig strait glitter’d with a golden hue:
He takes a stone, the stone was turn’d to gold;
A clod he touches, and the crumbling mold
Acknowledg’d soon the great transforming pow’r,
In weight and substance like a mass of ore.
His hand he careless on a pillar lays.
With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze

The Ovid version of the Greek myth surprised me in that it does not include the episode where Midas’s daughter runs to embrace him, only to be turned into a statue upon contact. We find it in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Golden Touch,” however:

Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold’s forehead, a change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow teardrops congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint. Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father’s encircling arms. Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue!  

Perhaps the only difference between Midas and Trump is that, whereas Trump sees nothing wrong with draining the life out of everything he touches, Ovid’s Midas at least has regrets:

O father Bacchus, I have sinned, he cried,
And foolishly thy gracious gift applied;
Thy pity now, repenting, I implore;
Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more.

There’s a further twist to the Midas story that also applies to Trump. Midas is chosen as one of the judges in a musical contest between Apollo with his lute and Pan with his reed pipes. The other judges have high musical tastes and so realize that Pan’s music does no more than please “the low taste of all the vulgar throng” whereas Apollo is a true master:

High on the left his iv’ry lute he rais’d,
The lute, embossed with glitt’ring jewels, blazed
In his right hand he nicely held the quill,
His easy posture spoke a master’s skill.
The strings he touched with more than human art,
Which pleased the judge’s ear, and sooth’d his heart;
Who soon judiciously the palm decreed,
And to the lute postponed the squeaking reed.

Because Midas esteems Pan’s “squeaking reed” over Apollo’s “more than human art,” the latter god punishes him by endowing him with ass ears. Or as Ovid puts it, “fixed on his noddle an unseemly pair,/ Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair.”

Apollo would no doubt do the same for Trump after the president, deciding that Washington’s esteemed Kennedy Center needed someone like him to run it, fired the board and changed the program. In his opinion, the concert hall should be performing musical hits from the 1980s, like Cats and Les Mis. Meanwhile, Rep. Bog Ordan (R-MO) has introduced a bill that would rename the Kennedy Center after Trump.

In other words, everything that our Midas touches dies.

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Let Us Sleep Now

Gustave Doré, illus. from Rime of the Ancient Mariner

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Tuesday

I’m not good for much today, having battled Connecticut’s Merritt Parkway and the New Jersey Turnpike as we journeyed south from Maine to visit dear friends in West Chester, Pennsylvania. As I collapse onto their hide-a-bed, the only passage that comes to mind is one from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched and glazed each eye
A weary time, a weary time,
How glazed each weary eye…

Come to think of it, there’s also a passage from Charles Algernon Swinburne’s “Garden of Proserpine” that fits:

I am weary of days and hours, 
Blown buds of barren flowers, 
Desires and dreams and powers 
         And everything but sleep. 

And then there’s the ending of Wilfred Owen’s “Strange Meeting”:

I am the enemy you killed, my friend. 
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned 
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. 
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. 
Let us sleep now. . . .

I’ll strive to bring more energy to the table tomorrow. In the meantime—yes, let us sleep now.

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Channel Your Inner Gandalf

Gandalf (McKellen) before the gates of Mordor

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Monday

Tom Sullivan on the blog site Hullabaloo recently made dramatic use of a Lord of the Rings passage. It was a way of accentuating the seriousness of the danger that threatens us while galvanizing us into action.

Looking at the $170 billion that the GOP has just voted to channel into the Trump administration’s Gestapo project, Sullivan quotes a David Lurie observation in Public Notice:

While many are currently rightly concerned about the impact Trump’s brutal “immigration crackdown” will have on undocumented persons, the danger of his creation of a massive, non-law-abiding federal police force could extend far beyond the immigration. Congress has just handed the coup leader in the White House new, dangerous tools that he and his cohorts could use in their next attempt to overturn the nation’s democracy once and for all.

No wonder Tolkien’s vision of Sauron’s massive forces comes to mind:

Drums rolled and fires leaped up. The great doors of the Black Gate swung back wide. Out of it streamed a great host as swiftly as swirling waters when a sluice is lifted. 

The Captains mounted again and rode back, and from the host of Mordor there went up a jeering yell. Dust rose smothering the air, as from nearby there marched up an army of Easterlings that had waited for the signal in the shadows of Ered Lithui beyond the further Tower. Down from the hills on either side of the Morannon poured Orcs innumerable. The men of the West were trapped, and soon, all about the grey mounds where they stood, forces ten times and more than ten times their match would ring them in a sea of enemies. Sauron had taken the proffered bait in jaws of steel.

At moments like this, we need to channel our inner Gandalf, who lifts up his arms and announces in a clear voice, “Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.”

When all seems lost is sometimes when the tide of battle begins to turn. In Tolkien’s novel, it is at this moment that the selfless courage of a pair of hobbits wins out over all the might of the dark lord. Cracks appear in what appears has heretofore appeared an irresistible force:

[A]t that moment all the hosts of Mordor trembled, doubt clutched their hearts, their laughter failed, their hands shook and their limbs were loosed. The Power that drove them on and filled them with hate and fury was wavering, its will was removed from them; and now looking in the eyes of their enemies they saw a deadly light and were afraid.  

And then:

[E]ven as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness sprang into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked. The Towers of the Teeth swayed, tottered, and fell down; the mighty rampart crumbled; the Black Gate was hurled in ruin; and from far away, now dim, now growing, now mounting to the clouds, there came a drumming rumble, a roar, a long echoing roll of ruinous noise.

Principled resistance can be catching. Increasingly we are seeing everyday Americans standing up for what is right and decent as they protest the mercenary thugs who are dragging their friends and neighbors off the streets. More people join them every day.

In short, stand tall and don’t back down.

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