I returned to the states from a 4 week vacation just a few days ago. I spent 2 weeks in the UK with the father, then 2 weeks in Norway with the girlfriend. As early as the evening before my flight to London, on my way to Chicago, I completely forgot I had a job-In 4 weeks, anything could happen; my managers could switch teams, leave the company; my team could be absorbed by another one; our cadres could be shuffled around; projects could be called off (or, more likely, the obverse-Projects could be picked up); projects could be completed in my absence (or just sit?).
With those possibilities-Each with its >0 probability-What thought could possibly serve some function other than cause worry?
Fantastically, I felt zero compulsion execute such worry algorithms.
Literally, fantastically. It was unlike reality as I know it to be. As recently as last October I traveled to Europe for 2 weeks and, every moment, I was aware I would return to work in “x” days. The countdown. This time, there was no countdown. When the trip was over, suddenly I found I had returned to the states, tomorrow was the 4th of July, and I returned to work on the 5th. And today it is the 6th.
(And, less fantastically-i.e. representative of reality as I know it to be-The majority of the projects I prepared for completion prior to my absence just sat-In case your worry algorithms kicked off and you wondered.)
(It is amazing how much, or how little, can happen in how much, or how little time, depending on so many variables.)
(For instance, consider how quickly brexit transpired during my time abroad. How the xenophobic rhetoric picked up. The events that preceded it: Orlando massacre, Jo Cox murder. Feeding the xenophobia. The vote. The shock about how the vote went. The voter’s remorse: When so many voters realized they didn’t realize what they were voting for-They just wanted to rebel against the establishment. So then the petition for another referendum. The value of pound falls. Pounded By The Pound: Turned Gay By The Socioeconomic Implications Of Britain Leaving The European Union is written. The “value” of a British passport is said to fall. Murmurs of more Scottish independence talks. Murmurs of Spain and Gibraltar. Murmurs of France, others, lobbying to remove English as an official language of the EU. David Cameron announces he’ll resign. Leaders of brexit movement resign-They never thought it would happen-What do we do now?)
(Or…Well…On further consideration, nothing has really happened-Yet. A non-binding referendum was completed-That’s all. The rest is just talk. For now.)
(So, let me revise my previous sentiment: It is amazing how much, or how little, can seem to happen in how much, or how little time, depending on so many variables.)
(Now back to my fantasy.)
I took several books with me: Mr. Sammler’s Planet by Saul Bellow; The Rustle of Language by Roland Barthes; The Uses of Enchantment by Bruno Bettelheim; The Floating Opera by John Barth; Urchin in the Storm by Stephen Jay Gould. I have nice memories of reading each in different settings, some more idyllic than others-Mr. Sammler’s Planet on the flight to London; The Rustle of Language in the restaurant beneath our hotel room in Kirkwall, Scotland, occasionally on our bus tour down from Orkney to Edinburgh; The Uses of Enchancment on the train from Edinburgh to London, on the train from Oslo to Bergen; Urchin in the Storm in Trondheim; The Floating Opera on my flight home from Oslo.
The same way musical notes may resonate harmoniously with one another, and the same way a piece of music may “resonate” with us at various times in our lives-I.e. feel especially relevant to events, emotions-Books, or even language, may resonate with us. The article “One Always Fails in Speaking of What One Loves” from the collection The Rustle of langue resonated with me during my reading. So too with “Deliberation.”
“One Always Fails” is an exploration of how our language-Led by our way of thinking-Can become “fantastic” when we are in the throes of love. Specifically, in this article, in the throes of the love of an unfamiliar place, or a place we do not live. Barthes case study is the 19th century French writer Stendhal, who apparently loved Italy. (Plentiful citations support Barthes portrayal.)
Barthes incisive diagnosis of the “symptoms” of this enamorment were an epiphany. For instance, he describes one symptom as “the erotic promotion of what is commonly taken for insignificant detail.” He tells us “Stendhal was mad for the cornstalks of the ‘luxuriant’ Milanese campagna, for the sound of Duomo’s eight bells, ‘perfectly intonate'” (pg 297). This may be analogous to my enamorment of the public transportation systems in London, Edinburgh, Oslo, Bergen. As if it cast such a shadow over public transportation in the states. In fact, in all the years I have been legally permitted to drive, I have always had a car, and a place to park it. I have never much needed public transportation. I have zero sense of the state of public transportation where I live. And at the same time, I wonder: Do the locals who use public transportation in these international cities think much of it? Maybe they consider it a racket? But let’s consider another example: my enamorment of Oslo’s beautiful city hall building-The wood carvings spanning the front of the building, depicting moments in Norse mythology; the statues spanning the rear of the building, depicting the workers of Oslo’s various industries. Or heck while we’re at it: The manhole covers in Trondheim, emblazoned with the municipality’s coat of arms (image here). (Admit, pretty cool.)
Another symptom: “the amorous plural,” wherein “What is loved and indeed what is enjoyed are collections, concomitances” (pg 298). For example, to Stendhal, Barthes says “it is not Woman who is adorable in Italy, but always Women; it is not a pleasure which Italy affords, it is a simultaneity” (pg 298). Upon reading this I felt self-conscious immediately. I considered how, based on a sample size of 2 or 3, I have described the burgers I consumed in Norway restaurants to be especially juicy-Delicious-Loaded with delicious sauces. And maybe it’s true. But, like with public transportation, I second-guess my authority. The truth is: I rarely order burgers in the states. Can I responsibly make such a claim? Are such observations fantasies? Is “my Norway” a fantasy?
Further parallels to Stendhal:
“Italy is the country where Stendhal, being neither entirely a traveler (tourist) nor entirely a native, is voluptuously delivered from the responsibility of being the citizen; if Stendhal were an Italian citizen he would be ‘poisoned by melancholy'” (pg 299).
Were I to live in London, how quickly would I become numb to the “convenience” of London’s Tube? How quickly I would begin to think of it as a drain? Down which to pour money. Would Norway be at all charming were I to visit in winter? When I would scarcely see the sun? Would I feel betrayed by it? That it was my constant companion during the summer, then slowly drifted away?
When would I surrender Festival for Duty, as Barthes says?
For better or for worse, I will not find out. I had a fantastic trip, in some sense of the word or another, but it is *sigh* over.
~~~
The next article I’ll discuss is called “Deliberation”-Effectively Barthes musing (1) whether or not he should keep a journal, and (2) what the function of a journal is. This is a unique article, in my opinion, in that Barthes’ narration does not seem so much its steely academic self. In many cases, he sounds like you or me:
“Initially, when I write the (daily) entry, I experience a certain pleasure: this is simple, this is easy. Don’t worry about something to say: the raw material is right here, right now; a kind of surface mine; all I have to do is bend over-I don’t need to transform anything: the rude ore has its own value, etc. Then comes the second phase, very soon after the first instance (for instance, if I reread today what I wrote yesterday), and it makes a bad impression: the text doesn’t hold up, like some sort of delicate foodstuff which “turns,” spoils, becomes unappetizing from one day to the next; I note with discouragement the artifice of “sincerity,” the artistic mediocrity of the “spontaneous”; worse still: I am disgusted and irritated to find a “pose” I certainly haven’t intended.” (pg 359)
Like you or me, no? Except more colons, semicolons? In any case, it is the self-consciousness of a writer writing about himself. What am I trying to say? Am I trying to say it right? What is “right”? But is that me?
Certainly, I have felt this way about these essays. I do not reread them more than once; I write them, then the next day, or some time during week, read and revise once, then post. Were I to read any post again it would initiate more or less of a rewrite.
Still, would I enjoy (re)reading it? When?
Were I to withhold reading it for, let’s say, “x” amount of time, would I enjoy it without feeling compelled to rewrite it-To adjust it to suit me “now,” as I am at the time of reading?
Is there a “too soon” factor I can account for? Is there an algorithm to calculate “x”? My reading of Barthes suggests “x” must equal 2 months or greater.
In the previous quotation you may have noted Barthes refers to this period this self-conscious reading as the “second phase.” Well there is also a third phase. (Barthes does not use these terms “second phase” and “third phase” academically, I should mention, just once, casually, in the quotation you have read.) The third phase occurs “several months, several years after having written” (pg 360). Barthes says, “though my doubt hasn’t dissipated, I experience a certain pleasure in rediscovering, thanks to these lines, the events they relate, and even more, the inflections (of light, of atmosphere, of mood) they bring back.” Slightly narcissistic, I agree, but in a much more contemplative way than, for instance, taking a selfie-Barthes, sweetly, acknowledges “to remember is also to acknowledge and to lose once again what will not recur.”
And once more-As I write this personal essay, set in the context of a fantastic vacation-I find myself thinking He’s so right true. It’s so true. There will-Up until the end, when it is entirely irrelevant-Always be new sensations, new experiences. Some, fantastic. They come in as input; we output them occasionally, somewhat reduced, in our memories. We store them in a semi-persistent format-Prone to integrity errors, but hey the capacity is top notch. We can harness the data in any number of ways-Incredible visualizations. We can convert it into poetry, song. But the raw data decays no matter how you slice it. Still, decayed though it may be, it may bring some enjoyment.
Back to Barthes question whether he should journal-Which reminds me of an anecdote. Two old ladies. To the other, the first says, “I saw the most beautiful chinet at the store.” The second rolls her eyes-“Chinet, what do you want with chinet?” The first replies “Well, its nice to have something nice.”
It might seem trite, but it’s the truth isn’t it? With most things: If it makes you happy, why not? One old lady thinks to herself I’m old, what do I need with nice things? To her, that might be true-She no longer feels she needs nice things. But would she ever say to the other “You’re old-You no longer need nice things”? No. No way. No no no no no.
By analogy, if keeping a journal makes you happy, then keep a journal. Never mind whether anyone wants to read it. In general, be analytical to your heart’s content if it makes you happy-Fuss if it makes you happy. Our course, you friends and family may tire of it, but then that may impact whether or not the fuss still makes you happy-You can adapt.
You can adapt, Roland Barthes. Write a journal until you no longer wish to.
The song “Indiscipline” by King Crimson is based on a letter to Adrian Belew from his wife, wherein she puzzles over whether or not she likes a sculpture she has completed-Or, more accurately, whether she likes the sculpture enough to consider it completed. It is hilarious. How fickle analysis renders anything.
It took hours and hours but..
by the time I was done with it,
I was so involved, I didn’t know what to think.
I carried it around with me for days and days..
playing little games
like not looking at it for a whole day
and then.. looking at it.
to see if I still liked it.
I did. -King Crimson, “Indiscipline”
A 1-10 scale does not suit this book-It is about as dense and academic as it gets (without getting into math or statistics texts). If what I have written fascinates you, consider it a 10; if not, consider it a zero.
ISBN#0520066294