Itasca from the north

Arriving at Itasca from the north can be a refreshing experience. The approach includes some dramatic roller-coaster hills as it traverses the Itasca Moraine, along with plenty of fields and wetlands. There are occasional signs directing canoeists to landings along the Mississippi, which at this point flows north and east unseen from the road, and is seldom more than ten feet across.

On our way in we stopped briefly at Coffeepot Landing (see above), which consists of a primitive campsite cut out of the alder shrubbery and a snowmobile bridge across the stream at the concrete-reinforced riverbank. There is nothing glamorous about the Mississippi at this point, and on a hot day in July it's hard to believe that anyone ever found it a convenient travel route. Then again, I suppose that simply underscores how difficult it must have been to travel overland during the fur trade era.

I entered the park with a vague and unpleasant sense of familiarity, as if we'd come here once too often. That feeling was short-lived, however; it was replaced by irritation, because when we pulled into the drive at Burt's Cabins, we discovered that the cabin I thought we'd rented, well isolated down in the woods—number 3, according to the map on the website—was really number 4. The cabin we had rented, which bore a big #3 above the door, was a small and seemingly charmless structure right next to the gravel road that circled through the resort.

 It did nothing to lighten my mood  when I stepped inside and noticed a quaint plaque above the refrigerator that read, "Welcome to cabin 5."

But it didn't take long for us to recognize that cabin #3 had a superb and utterly private deck looking out across a wooded valley containing more than a hundred mature red pines. 

Yes, I counted them. It was that kind of visit. We biked the 16-mile Wilderness Loop one morning and hiked both the Schoolcraft and sections of the Brower Trail, but we also spent most of both afternoons sitting leisurely on the deck. We listened to the plaintive calls of the eastern pewee and the muted tap-tap-tap of several yellow-bellied sapsuckers. 

A red squirrel stopped by from time to time to lecture us about something or other. I have no idea what he was upset about.

And of course we brought along some books.

Perhaps the greatest challenge of packing for a trip is selecting an array of books to match any mood that might arise. Among the books I brought along were The Left-Handed Woman by Peter Handke, The Mezzanine by Nicholson Baker, a thick paperback copy of Thoreau's Journals, F. M. Cornford's The Unwritten Philosophy, The Poet's Self and the Poem by Eric Heller, and the miniature Shambala edition of Cold Mountain's poems. I also tossed in On Becoming a Magical Mystical Bear by Matthew Fox. It's the kind of book you spot on the shelf right before you leave, not having thought about it for twenty years, and say, "A bit of New Age theology? Might be just the thing."  

On our second afternoon Hilary saw me reading it and said, "I never did like that cover. What's the copyright date?" I took a look. 1976. (I never liked the title either.)

"And what about that Handke book?" she asked. I took a look. Copyright 1977. I grabbed the Heller book from the pile that was sitting on the cooler between our chairs and took a look at the copyright page. 1976.

Eerie and amazing. But what does it MEAN?

Our bike trip took us past the visitors' center where we discovered they were celebrating Smokey Bear's birthday. We enjoyed chatting inside with a sharp, winsome intern from Crookson who's studying natural resource management at the "tech" there. Hilary's relatives are from Crookston, and we used to visit the campus often just to look at the landscaping. When I used the term "tech," however, the woman informed me politely that it had become a full-fledged branch of the U back in 1966. (How many people know the precise date, even in Crookston?)

She was working at Itasca over the summer to see if park management might be an interesting area of specialization.

"Do you know birds?" I asked.

"That's wildlife management," she shook her head. "And birds are too hard. I'm not that interested in Latin names."

"Well, maybe you could help us with this," I persisted. "We heard a thrush out on the wilderness trail, it sounded like this: one fairly long clear note, then a triple diddle at a higher note, but the entire song in a different key each time. Yet with that slightly ethereal, flutey, thrush-like trill. "

"Thrushes? Let's see. There are three or four.  Wood thrush. Swainson's. Hermit...."

"You do know your birds. We can add the gray-cheeked, and the veery."

"The veery's a thrush?"

After bending the poor woman's ear for quite a while with tales of Crookston and questions about her nascent career, we went outside to chat with the fire-fighters, foresters, and dispatchers, and to take a look at the equipment—everything from water-cans to bulldozers to life-saving space blankets—that was lined up along the curb. While we were out there a helicopter flew low overhead and landed in a parking lot nearby. 

One of the foresters knew quite a bit about the ongoing strike at the Blandin paper mill in Grand Rapids. We hadn't heard about it. "It's a Finnish company now," he said. "They pit their mills against one another. It will be a big blow to Grand Rapids and the entire region, really, if they close it down."

We thought it might be nice to have lunch at Douglas Lodge looking out toward the lake—maybe pan-fried walleye, broccoli, boiled potatoes, with a slice of lemon and a sprig of parsley on the side—but the restaurant was closed, as usual. A half-hour's ride later, most of it downhill, we contented ourselves with a couple of pre-made sandwiches from the Mary Gibbs café at the other end of the lake.

I enjoy chatting with the locals. You learn stuff about the human ecology of the region, and are reminded that the metro area figures into the local world-view hardly at all.  

Back on the deck after our bike ride, I opened Thoreau's journal and by a strange coincidence hit upon a passage in which he looks out toward some distant hills:

"In many moods it is cheering to look across hence to that blue rim of earth and be reminded of the invisible towns and communities, for the most part unremembered, which lie in the further and deeper hollows between me and those hills. Towns of sturdy uplandish fame, where some of the morning and primal vigor still lingers, I trust. It is cheering to think that it is with such communities that we survive or perish."

A few pages on, in an entry dated August 6, he writes: "Summer gets to be an old story. Birds leave off singing, as flowers blossoming, i.e. perhaps in the same proportion."

That got me to thinking of the flowers we'd been seeing—white yarrow, bladder campion, purple hyssop, harebells, black-eyed susans. A bit of vervain. Bindweed. Lots of fireweed. An aquatic spread of water-lilies on Oziwindib Lake. A few small, pale orchids on the bog walk in Bemidji. 

Dogbane

Just that afternoon we'd started seeing a few of those tiny, long-stemmed pink purses, but couldn't remember the name. False tick-seed trefoil? But the real start was dogbane, with its well-spaced opposite leaves and bright pink stems. A yellow primrose here and there. White and purple clover. Bee balm.

Thoreau again, from August 23, 1852: "Why have we slandered the outward? The perception of surfaces will always have the effect of miracle to a sane sense."

I heard some kids playing some sort of baseball game with a hollow plastic bat—you can tell by the sound—over in the grass between cabins 7 and 8. Shouting and laughing. I remember the over-heated fun of such games, and as I thought back on it, it occurred to me that the high-pitched shouts are as important to the event as the sweating bodies and the outcome of the game itself.  

_____________________

The next morning it was 54 degrees. Sun not yet up. Shadows on the deck. I put on my sweatshirt, hood up, with a fleece vest over it. As I came out of the cabin I saw our neighbors across the way, heading out to do some fishing with a camouflage canoe on top of their car and their boat in tow. 

It almost brought tears to my eyes as I watched how carefully they made sure they didn't slam the door as they departed.

   

Northwoods Arc

Canadian smoke, rumors of unusually pesky bugs, and a lack of serious planning had kept us out of the north woods all summer, but we finally managed to organize a four-day arc through that beloved region. On the advice of Google maps, which warned us of traffic delays on 169 near Elk River, we headed out of town on Central Avenue, which soon becomes Highway 65. The estimated time difference was only one minute, however, so it's fair to say we took that route because we rarely leave town that way and it sounded like a refreshing alternative, the numerous stoplights between Minneapolis and Cambridge notwithstanding.

The bustling main street of Mora

Our first recreational stop was an hour north of town in the quasi-Swedish town of Mora, famous to outsiders mostly for its annual cross-country ski vasaloppet. The petite woman behind the counter at the bakery complimented us on our his-and-hers outfits—blue shirts, tan shorts, entirely coincidental. I was a little surprised she didn't offer to take our picture.

"I noticed some rosemaling on the clock on the boulevard down the street," I said. "Mora must have a Scandinavian heritage."

"Oh, yes. Our sister city is Mora, Sweden, and we do four student transfers—er, what do you call them?"

"Exchanges?"

 "Yes. That's it. Four exchanges every year."

I asked her what the town was known for, beyond the famous ski race, and she told us about the Thursday night music shows at the municipal bandstand, every week a new theme—"old rock," polka, country.

"How old is "old rock"? I said.

"Eighties? Nineties?"

"That's not old," I said.

"I know, " she said. "But polka night is coming up. I do the polka with my daughters, and my husband occasionally shuffles around a bit, too. It's a lot of fun." She seemed excited.

We ate our pastries—a little doughy, now that you ask—along with a Styrofoam cup of coffee freshened with milk from the cooler, while sitting in the car in the parking lot of the public library, which looks out across Mora Lake. And as we  munched we watched a couple of kids—a boy and a girl—shooting baskets in the distance. I was always hoping that a shot would go in; a few of them did.

Our final stop was the thrift store nearby where Hilary bought a pristine spring-form pan for a dollar. We were getting to know the town.

Forty-five minutes later we pulled into the Rice Lake National Wildlife Refuge south of McGregor. Such places have their own mysterious beauty, though anyone who visits looking for slam-bang scenery or Disney-esque wildlife activity is bound to be disappointed. In fact, I have never been quite sure why such places exist. Are they being managed for the duck hunters? Or simply to maintain the health of vast tracts of land most of which are too wet to sustain any kind of agriculture or recreation? I once talked with a man who had been hired to trap out as many coyotes as he could from a wildlife refuge closer to the cities. "It's being managed for the 'flowers and butterflies' crowd," he said derisively.

While we were looking at a nature display the ranger came out from the shadows of the office in the back, dressed in khaki from head to foot. He seemed a little forlorn. I asked him if there had been any interesting sightings lately. Maybe a LeConte's sparrow?

He thought for a moment and then said, "Well, someone saw a bittern crossing the highway up near McGregor the other day."

"I haven't seen a bittern in ten years," I said.

Perhaps encouraged by this remark, he dug his phone out of his pocket, fumbled with it for several minutes, and then showed me a photo he'd taken of a ruffed grouse crossing the road. Meanwhile, we discussed various encounters we'd had with grouse that had refused to respond sensibly to vehicles approaching at high speed.

Although we'd agreed before we arrived we didn't have time to take the ten-mile driving tour, of course we did take it, and during the circuit two grouse crossed the road, and two lovely sandhill cranes also appeared out of the underbrush and strolled along ahead of us, virtually hand in hand. An elegant raven swooped by at one point, and as we paused at one bridge and got out of the car, eager to spot an elusive bittern in the reeds, we heard two kingfishers rattling away as they sped along the shore. A family of loons was drifting out on Mandy Lake. 

Hilary had read in the brochure that there were Indian mounds on the ridge just south of the lake dating back 1,300 years, but we didn't seek them out. They would have been hard to find, and it isn't hard to imagine what they look like. 

The highlight of our visit to Grand Rapids was a chat with the cheery and articulate young woman tending the Pasties Plus shop on Main Street. She'd just returned from a "bucket-list" five-day tour of Florida with a friend.

I asked her if she was from Grand Rapids. "No. My grandparents have a farm outside of Northome," she said. "I grew up there. It's a century farm." And she explained a few of the technicalities involved in qualifying for that noble designation, which I didn't quite grasp. "My grandparents moved down to Blackduck years ago. Dad still farms it."

"Livestock?" I took a wild guess, in light of the typical landscape thereabouts.

"Ya. They did dairy, but it was hard making a living. Now they raise Angus beef. And my dad spends the mornings logging." She told us a little about two-man and four-man crews, and how they strip the branches off the trees by chaining them to the skidder and dragging them between two sturdy uncut trees nearby. (That seemed a bit archaic to me. But what do I know? I just now looked it up, and an average used skidder from John Deere might cost $200,000.)

We bought a couple of pasties, the ones with rutabagas. "They're a little more flavorful, or something," she said with a smile and a shrug.

As we were leaving I said, "We'll think of you as we pass Northome." Nor was this an idle remark. When driving around in the boondocks past small farms and scrubby fields carved out of the pine woods, I often wonder who lives way out there. 

_________________________

Scenic State Park lies an hour north of Grand Rapids along Highway 38, which bisects the Suomi Hills as it winds its way past a succession of small and sometimes undeveloped kettle lakes. You're more likely to pass a logging truck than a Winnebego, perhaps, and there's a modest lumber mill in Big Fork, not far from the theater, the art center, and the historic wannigon, but Scenic State Park itself remains quiet and pristine. Loons call, owls hoot. We could hear the vigorous trill of a pine warbler in the white pines behind our tent.

We were surprised not long after we arrived by the appearance of two rodents darting here and there across our campsite, probably hoping for a hand-out. It looked like a gray squirrel at first glance. But the tail was skimpier, the ears smaller, no white on the belly, and a richer blend of browns and grays in the fur. We determined later that they might have been Richardson's ground squirrels, commonly known as prairie gophers. If so, then to judge from the maps, they were a hundred miles east of their normal range.

The next morning the rain came. Lucky for us, our campsite was adjacent to the picnic grounds, and we brewed our morning coffee within the comfortable confines of a majestic log structure built by the CCC in 1933.

From the park our itinerary took us west across some countryside that would be considered nondescript to those who aren't attuned to the subtle beauty of alder-willow bogs and hardscrabble farms chiseled acre by acre out of the underbrush. I'm referring to the county roads 14 and 29 between Bigfork and Blackduck. 

The residue of the morning rains added a sparkle to the vegetation. We spotted a few pelicans as we passed Dora Lake. But we were distressed to see that Q-Anon film Sound of Freedom was playing at the theater in Blackduck. Highway 71 took us to the north end of Lake Bemidji, where we hiked out along the bog walk at the state park past a rich variety of low-growing plants-- 

 

 --and then ate lunch at the beach on the north end of the lake.

 Cotswold cheese, pickled herring, seaweed salad and tomatillo dip make for a spicy international meal! Downtown Bemidji was bustling with pedestrians and restaurants with outdoor seating. That's not the way I remember it. But we'd already eaten and still had some driving to do before we got to Itasca.

  

Milan Kundera - In Memoriam

Milan Kundera, who charmed readers for decades with a mix of humor, brilliant story-telling, and historical insight, died recently at the age of 94. He made his mark in the 1970s with two masterworks, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting and The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and his reputation was further enhanced when the latter book was made into a popular film starring Daniel Day-Lewis and Juliette Binoche. Stripped of Czech citizenship by the then-Communist government, he moved to France, which became his second home. His later efforts—Slowness, Identity, and Ignorance—written in French, are shorter than the masterworks of his middle age but hardly less engaging. 

I can still remember how delighted I was during my warehouse years to find a copy of The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, sans dust jacket, in the bottom of a shroud of hardcover remainders we'd received from Random House. The title was intriguing, though I had no idea what the book was about. Nor was I familiar with Kundera's polyphonic approach to narrative construction. It was thrilling to read a novel that was brisk, witty, and full of moral challenge, and with nary a hint of humdrum social criticism or ill-disguised allegory.   

That was a long time ago. But one passage in particular from that early novel has stuck with me, and just now I looked it up. The narrator, Karel, and his wife, after much soul-searching, have invited his widowed mother to stay with them. She had always been difficult, but when she arrives they notice a change, a softening in her.

Once when they were out walking, she gazed into the dis­tance and asked, “What’s the name of that pretty white village?" There was no village, just stone road markers. Karel felt an upsurge of pity when he realized how much his mother’s sight had deteri­orated.

Karel soon notices something more fundamental: what seems large for them is often small for her.

One night, for example, the tanks of a huge neighboring country came and occu­pied their country. The shock was so great, so terrible, that for a long time no one could think about anything else.

 It happened to be was August, and the pears in Karel's garden were nearly ripe. His mother had invited a neighbor to come and pick them, but he never came, never even apologized. Karel's mother never forgave him, though it was likely he had more important things on his mind at the time.

And here Kundera adds a final twist.

But are tanks really more important than pears? As time passed, Karel realized that the answer was not so obvious as he had once thought, and he began sympathizing secretly with Mother's perspective—a big pear in the foreground and somewhere off in the distance a tank, tiny as a ladybug, ready at any moment to take wing and disappear from sight. So Mother was right after all: tanks are mortal, pears eternal.

When the Soviet Union collapsed Kundera's “Eastern European” offerings lost some of their cache. (Decades later, Kundera himself was denounced as an informer--falsely, as it turns out.) But he kept finding new things to occupy his attention. Ignorance, (2000) for example, deals with Goethe's problematic infatuation with a young admirer, and also with The Great Return, by which Kundera means, among other things, the émigré’s return from exile. And in his seven-part essay The Curtain (2005), Kundera himself returns to re-examine, from a more mature perspective, some of the material he first dealt with in The Art of the Novel (1986).

One section of The Curtain originally appeared a free-standing essay in the 

New Yorker. I found it so brilliant that I cut it out and stuck it in my copy of The Art of the Novel. In that piece Kundera defends the practice of reading literature in translation, even going so far as to assert that it is only through translation that literature from small countries will ever escape the tyranny of nationalistic enthusiasm to make its mark on the wider world.

The broader theme of The Curtain is the history of the novel itself, and very early on Kundera makes a stab at underscoring why that art form is so important.

“…human life as such is a defeat. All we can do in the face of that ineluctable defeat called life is to try to understand it. That—that is the raison d’être of the art of the novel.”

Kundera’s approach to the subject is freewheeling; he refers again and again to a fairly small selection of authors, jumping back and forth in time to suit his purpose: Cervantes and Rabelais, Sterne and Fielding, Balzac and Flaubert, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, Musil and Broch, Kafka and Gombrowitz. At one point he contrasts his approach to the more strictly chronological one we often find in conventional histories.

“ ‘History as such,’ the history of mankind, is the history of things that no longer exist and do not join directly in our lives. The history of art, because it is the history of values, thus of things we need, is always present, always with us; we listen to Monteverdi and Stravinsky at the same concert.”

This analysis is not entirely sound. History of every sort concerns itself with things that remain valuable and conjoined to us. But in the history of art those connections become blatant. They're far more immediate.

Kundera analyses the density of Dostoyevsky’s plot-constructions, Flaubert’s attempt to de-theatricize fiction, and Tolstoy’s success an exposing the largely random musings that pass through a character’s mind, even during moments of extreme crisis. He explores the significance of the fact that until recently, the French language had no word for “kitsch,” and jostles Hegel’s theory of lyricism just to see what will fall out.

Music and poetry, Hegel says, have an advantage over painting: lyricism. And in lyricism, music can go still further than poetry, for it is capable of grasping the most secret movements of the inner world, which are inaccessible to words. Thus there does exist an art in this case, music that is more lyrical than lyric poetry itself. From this we can deduce that the notion of lyricism is not limited to a branch of literature (lyrical poetry) but, rather it designates a certain way of being, and that, from this standpoint, a lyric poet is only the exemplary incarnation of man dazzled by his own soul and by the desire to make it heard.

We may be reminded here of  Croce’s simple maxim: Art is lyricism. Yet just a few pages further on, Kundera underscores the anti-lyric conversion a novelist must undergo to establish distance between himself and the characters he’s creating. He credits Cervantes for tearing through the curtain of self-identification. “..his destructive act echoes and extends to every novel worthy of the name: it is the identifying sign of the art of the novel.”

At this, as at other points in Kundera’s argument, we might be tempted to offer counterexamples. In particular, Kundera’s theories are better fitted for comic literature than to some other kinds. Indeed, at one point he observes: “Humor is not a spark that leaps up for a brief moment … to set us laughing. Its unobtrusive light glows over the whole vast landscape of life.”

But the problematic character of some of Kundera’s assertions doesn't diminish the originality of his perspective, the dazzle of his wit, the ironic music of his prose, or the estimable brevity and courage with which he took up such issues as soul, tragedy, history, humor and the meaning of meaning itself.

History & Human Flourishing

 A recent review in the New York Review of Books drew my attention to an anthology of essays carrying the title  History & Human Flourishing. I found the presence of the word "flourishing" interesting in itself, and the review underscored the fact that the essays it contained focused their attention in various ways on how our lives can be nourished by the study of history, beyond the often useful but always limited range of prosecutorial investigations of the past. It's not the kind of book that's likely to show up any time soon in a remainder catalog or on a sidewalk bookstall, however, so I took a chance and forked over the $29 to buy a new copy—the last of the birthday money I'd received recently from Hilary's mother.

The first essay I read made it all worthwhile. The author, a Princeton professor named D. Graham Burnett, takes us through his own agonized development as a scholar in an effort to explain why so  much of what goes on in academia today, and perhaps especially in the humanistic fields, is either polemical or remote, dry, and lifeless. If I were to reiterate his position in a single sentence, I would say that in Burnett's view, the vitality and interest of the humanistic disciplines lies in their ability to evaluate events, artifacts, and cultural movements. The best work relies, in other words, on personal judgment. For the most part the university experience is driven by the need to avoid or obscure such judgments in an attempt to provide a veneer of detachment and universality to its pronouncements.

Early on in the piece Burnett describes how much he enjoyed reading the volumes in the I Believe series edited by Clifton Fadiman during his undergraduate years. Why? Because, as he described it, they brought him "relief" from the unwillingness of most scholars to actually reveal what they thought about the subjects they were investigating.

He hastens to add:

"There were, of course, in those years, bold voices exactly making brave statements of commitment—on race, gender, sexual identity, and preference; on the need for new forms of academic prac­tice. And a few years later, the tragedy of 9-11 would produce a pained spasm of “seriousness” among historians and humanist intellectuals more broadly ... But all I can say is, in the course of my own graduate formation in History, I had been led to focus on the mastery of a large, intricate, and contentious secondary literature, and I had been assiduously tutored in the tournament of anxiety that is life as a neophyte scholar. I had gotten essentially zero sense that actually deciding what one thought about things—and stating that clearly—was part of the project."

Burnett wasn't unduly perturbed by the situation because the scholars he admired were professionals who saw little purpose in blatantly advancing their personal views blatantly. Still, something was rubbing him the wrong way.

"I harbored a (sublated) sense that to be a historian was to be an 'intellectual' and that to be an 'intellectual' was to have some substan­tive conception of life that was integral to one’s account of one’s work."

The question arises as to where the foundation for such personal judgments lies. By way of answering that question, Burnett introduces us to the work of the mid-nineteenth century thinker Auguste Comte, who figures in intellectual history as the father of sociology and a lifelong proponent of positivism, a movement dedicated to bending the study of human life to fit the methods of the hard sciences. Burnett goes into some detail describing Comte's career, most of which he finds misguided and often silly, but he highlights one of Comte's ideas as worth considering: that the discoveries of modern scholars perform the same social function as that of the religions they have largely replaced. 

"If it is legitimate to speak of 'wisdom traditions,' [he writes] I would define this notion as pre­cisely that set of practices and beliefs, stories and rites, habits and concepts that equip human beings to confront pain—to take it in, to feel and experience it ... and to do something other than pass it along to others ... For me, for better or worse, the humanistic scholarly enterprises only really make sense as thinly (and, I believe, imperfectly) “secularized" efforts to do work once done in explicitly religious settings."

Burnett is arguing, quite rightly I think, that the purpose of historical thought, and of the humanities more generally, is to expand and deepen our values and our sense of the richness, sacredness, and interconnectedness of life. Historians often do this by means of the narratives they shape. Only the most eminent  among them step out from behind their material to explain in personal terms why they believe their "take" on the past is important.

One reason may be humility. Another might be simply that such a rhetorical strategy would be too crude and "unprofessional." But Burnett draws our attention to an important essay, "Science as a Vocation," that Max Weber published in 1918. He lauds it as "an exceedingly rich and historically specific text" but notes that Weber limits the scholarly vocation to one of knowledge-production, leaving no room for problems of "meaning" or "life."

"The problems may be real, but university professors have no special claim on them, and Weber is caustically dismissive of any residual conception of the university that trades on the promise that academic study will address such matters—which, in his view, it absolutely cannot (and must not). It is exactly a reconstruction of the humanistic domain on Weberian “scientistic" grounds that has, in my view, substantially deprived that domain of its pri­mary reason for being and rendered it increasingly impossible to defend in contemporary life."

I was pleased to see that Burnett sees only limited value in causation and the search for origins, preferring to place an emphasis on "recovering human experiences." He notes, astutely, that

"As a practicing historian, I tend to be basically wary of causal/explanatory history—not because I think it is impossible or invidious, exactly, but because I think there is plenty of work to be done in a different key ... I feel that there is basically an infinite amount of history to be done that works to recover human experi­ences (i.e., to resurrect and translate their immediacy), and that, on balance, this work does more good in the world (is more needed) than more history that tries to assign blame for various things—which is basically what causal/ explanatory history always finds itself doing, in the end.

 As the essay draws to a close, Burnett begins to draw in his wings, however. He shies away from the major issues his train of thought has raised and retreats into a safer realm, where the main purpose of historical inquiry is merely to "see a time from elsewhere." Gone is the religious foundation, gone is the emphasis on value and judgment.

Well, I don't blame him. Such issues are complex and difficult to untangle in the course of a few pages. This might also explain why philosophy, both analytic and continental, has descended so often to trivialities and technicalities in our times. Yet the bulk of Burnett's essay was devoted to history and the humanities as inspirational disciplines. The history of art, for example, exposes us to many varieties of beauty, and helps us to see their value. Economic history underscores the difference between enterprises that "work out" and those that "fall flat" and therefore disappear from view, though their merits may be worth re-examining. Underlying all of this is a concept that once went by the name of progress. In the introduction to this volume, the editor gives a convincing account, I think, of why the word "flourishing" better conveys what an understanding of history often contributes to.

A generation or two before Comte appeared on the scene, Hegel made use of the word "spirit." Dialectic was the concept, spirit provided the energy, the result was development.

A generation or two after Comte, the Italian philosopher and historian Benedetto Croce refined and improved Hegel's notions, retaining the dialectic while dispensing with Hegel's meta-historical scaffolding, his teleological speculations, and his interest in the Absolute. The overhaul was so thorough that it would make more sense to call Hegel a pre-Crocean than to call Croce a post-Hegeliam.

Few read Croce these days, as far as I can tell, though the University of Toronto came out with a slim volume titled A Croce Reader a few years ago. Croce wrote sixty or seventy  books, so such an anthology can take us only so far. Serious students might prefer to look back to the anthology published by Oxford in 1966 that runs to more than a thousand pages. Even in his own day, when he stood as a beacon of liberal opinion in the midst of his country's Fascist regime, Croce's philosophy was largely misunderstood even within Italy. 

At the center of Croce's world lies is the concept of spirit. In common speech that's a simple word, and we all know what it means. If I read that a football team made a spirited defense of its title, the meaning is clear.  If I describe someone as being dis-spirited, no one will mistake the meaning. If my piano teach tells me to put more spirit into my rendition I'll know what she means.

Spirit differs from Heidegger's Being, to take a more popular post-modern concept, in that it is indwelling, animate, questing, and almost invariably incomplete. A moment of expressive power or a shrewd conceptual leap toward coherence may be deeply moving, and the artistic expression or historical or logical insight it produces will endure as a cultural artifact. But new urges and issues will invariably develop in the wake of such creations. To paraphrase Hegel himself: "The act never [quite] produces the desired result." Hence the restless urge to "go beyond" that fuels the historic process we call "living."

Spirit is what the young Burnett and his fellow grad students were studying, and seeking to cultivate, and hoping to transmit to a new generation, before they were ground down by the academic system. Philosophers of an analytic bent almost invariably criticize the concept as vague, wishy-washy, or "metaphysical." But such judgments are merely the result of lazy thinking. Consider the example I mentioned a few minutes ago of Comte. Burnett spends several pages outlining the man's career and his influence on his contemporaries. It's not hard to discern what Comte was reaching for: a more precise understanding of things. His advocacy of the scientific method, which was working so well in other fields, is easy to understand, though such methods proved inappropriate to the subject. (As Paul Valery once quipped, "History is the science of what only happens once." A century earlier Novalis had further limited the reach of the sciences when he remarked: "Novels arise out of the shortcomings of history.")

But in Burnett's judgment, Comte did have one good idea—that for many, the humanities now play a role once played by religious institutions. Burnett could easily have advanced this as his own insight and saved the reader some time, but the historical precedent is significant. It fleshes out the insight. Burnett paints the scene, establishes the context, and highlights the spirit—the living part—of Comte's work. The historical echoes and reverberation are enriching. But there is nothing vague or wishy-washy about the spirit involved. The historian must answer the question, at least implicitly, why we ought to take an interest in this, rather than that. He or she must identify where the value lies.

The concept of spirit only becomes vague when it's posited as being opposed to matter. To the historian, spirit animates events and in so doing, it transforms matter, lives, institutions. Hegel's term for these things is "objective spirit." The study of history and the humanities is, or ought to be, inspiring. Referring to the students who continue to pursue a career in these fields, many of whom he has taught, met with, and advised, Burnett writes:

"They must feel this, since it would be inconceivable that they would decide to pursue a PhD in the humanities in the hopes of getting a 'good job'—of, somehow, making their way in a promising 'profession.' Given the career-placement statistics for humanists with doc­toral degrees, that would be completely crazy."

The academic environment Burnett describes isn't much different from the one I experienced in the mid-1970s, during my years in grad school at the U of MN. My advisor expressed the hope more than once that I was having a good time, because he thought it very unlikely I'd ever land a job as a historian. During my last year of study twelve students in the history department were in line to receive PhDs. Only one of them had a job waiting in academia.

 I was having a good time. College didn't cost much in those days. I enjoyed my work as a T.A., and I also worked part-time as a parking lot attendant, which helped to finance my education and gave me lots of time to read.

I was reading the wrong things, however. I enrolled in a seminar on Victorian England but found myself reading Burckhardt's history of the Italian Renaissance. I took a class in the French Revolution but got distracted by Robert Kuttner's Economists at Bay. Too many scattered interests. Meanwhile, it was becoming evident to me that grad school was, as the saying goes, a process of learning more and more about less and less.

When I'd exhausted my tenure as a T.A., I dropped out. (I was offered a job full-time by the university parking service. I declined.)

I suppose if everyone dropped out, we wouldn't have brilliant books like History and Human Flourishing to read. That would be too bad. But a glance at any issue of the New York Review of Books—not only the reviews, but more especially the university press ads touting their latest publications—make it clear that plenty of fascinating material is still coming down the pipe from academia.

 Laymen like me would probably find much of it unreadable. It would take a lot of work to extract and ponder and share the spirit within. And all for what?

Well, how about enlightenment?