Meaning to send a proper thank-you for your thank-you, I consigned your email to my pile of fun things I’ll get to, where, predictably, it moldered, awaiting its moment. We have so many things we say we must do, we postpone those we want to – this is a feature of modernity more than any previous era. Auden described our condition as “paralysis in the void of infinite opportunity.” The more privileged we are, the more oppressed by choices. “Let’s fly to Amsterdam to see the Franz Hals show – it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance!” Once-in-lifetime chances may leave us with too little life.
Quiet this cool sunny Sunday on the verge of spring, having completed my MDR of word-production, rested, happy, in between larger assignments, I figure, Why not now? Your kind sentiments merit more than a grinning emoji. If I confine my response to six hundred words and omit your name, these thanks might serve as proxy for others I’ve meant but never gotten around to. Has any writer ever enjoyed such congenial and constant readers? A large percentage, the data suggests, read me every day – for some, our sessions are as certain as their morning shower. If I fail to file by even a few hours, my inbox is populous with inquiries – am I OK? More than OK, my heart is suffused. “Think where man’s glory both begins and ends,” wrote Yeats, “And say my glory was I had such friends.”
I’m sometimes asked to explain this mutual devotion. From my end, it’s easy – I love to write and love to be loved – and attention is evidence of love. I confide no necessary news like a specialist. I’m just jawing – on a daily stroll, I like to think – and you’re joining – for the joy. Our purpose is pleasure – there can be no other. Smart, busy, pestered by duties and opportunities, you’ve carved out this time to be together. Wow.
What you get from me I’m less certain, but I’ve a hunch. We live in a busy age – we could hardly be busier. Every moment from every direction we’re tugged by supplicants like shoppers in a souk. Commerce wracks its brains to snag our attention to procure our pennies. The Internet compounds this pressure with its false bonhomie. Barack, Nancy Pelosi, Hakeem, tour packagers, cultural venues, and innumerable vendors are all my best friends. Their affection is as phony as a waiter’s or a toll booth’s – and we both know it.
Most conversation, too, is fraudulent, automatic, nugatory. Who has time for seriousness? And since we practice it so seldom, who has the knack? How you doing – couldn’t be better – nice weather – did you catch last night’s game? – and if this gush of insipidities abates, why not launch a joke! Casual conversation is neither, rather pleasantries on autopilot. Who last asked you: Who are you really? What do you really think? Where are you on your course through time?
I ask because I ask myself. I’m curious why I’m here, why I act as I act, think as I think, whether I’m making good use of this gift of time. I ache to know what our adventure means, or if meaning itself is a pipedream. I love to laugh but never to fritter time. “Having a good time,” quipped a friend, “is not my idea of having a good time.”
Like attracts like. We share, I’m guessing, the almost sensual satisfaction of seriousness, matter to each other because our lives matter to us. How consoling to know in this silly stupid hour we’re not alone.
So, yes, thanks.