Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published“What delights us in visible beauty is the invisible. The taste is only a marker of some past ecstasy.” – Virginia Woolf

How much of taste is memory?

I wonder this sipping my coffee, gazing into the field. Henry is eating his kibble with evident distaste. Henry’s tastes are dictated by nutrition and flavor, not recollection. His distaste is visceral, physiological, not psychological. A good eater, he favors food he rates tasty, which I only sometimes supply. His favorite is steak from the night before, but we don’t eat steak much. Beef liver treats also hit the spot but they cost a mint and training manuals concur that requiring kibble consumption is responsible rearing. Who wants a choosy, finicky – or expensive – dog! (“I am cruel only to be kind” – Shakespeare)

Would I enjoy my morning coffee as much were it not for memories – personal, tribal, historical? Coffee is a symbolic food, like bread. It means much before it touches the tongue. It recalls the optimism of breakfast, the yearning to be adult, the elegant conversation of Dr. Johnson and his pals. Coffee houses, when they appeared in London in the mid-sixteen-hundreds, were nicknamed “penny universities,” because for the price of a penny you could purchase both a coffee and an education from the sages gathered there. Imagine an era when the best minds socialized in public places. Be still, my heart!

Without all these associations, would I sip my coffee so contentedly? It’s really quite bitter, coffee, especially the way I like it. Why do I like it strong instead of weak? Could it be the adjectives themselves incline me? “Strong” flatters; “weak” sniggers.

My inquiry widens, as they tend to, in the hush of early dawn, gazing into the field. Wonder is among the gifts of retirement: for once, one is not too hurried to muse. I have plenty to do – missives to file, meals to plan – but few deadlines or expectations to meet. I can let my curiosity meander in whatever direction it pleases. The mind has a mind of its own, which is fun to watch.

I wonder where any of my notions comes from – not just taste, but ideas, preferences, convictions. Philosophers label this topic epistemology, but their jargon-laden dry-as-dust disquisitions are beyond my ken. I spell Kant can’t. Let my curiosity wind its own way through the forest of conjecture. (Intimidation by experts is among the miseries of modernity. Instead of thinking, we Google.)

Turns out, if I’m right, most of my knowledge is either imbibed or inherited, not innate. Henry’s opinion of kibble is formed by his body’s needs. My opinion about anything – coffee, government, the words in this sentence – arises from a deep muck of memories, experience, yearning. I am the product of my moment, not its producer; my convictions a consequence, not an accomplishment. Change any of my facts and my mind changes. I am no more responsible for my result than a tree for its leaves.

Even knowing this to be true, our pride insists on the opposite. These may be the stupidest lines in poetry:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI am the master of my fate,I am the captain of my soul.

Like hell you are, Mr. Henley, though it may pump you up to say so. Your thoughts, beliefs, stature, doggerel are all the product of your facts. You are no more in command of your outcome than a feather in the breeze.

Such a truth should conduce to humility. Not a chance. Henley’s insistence makes us feel big and fine. I’m crazy enough to believe I composed these paragraphs. Silly me.