Introducing Rachel Cusk

It's always a thrill to make the acquaintance of a novelist with a keen vision uncluttered by irrelevant drama and detail. But Rachel Cusk published her first novel in 1993, so I can hardly claim to be introducing her to anybody. I saw her name on the NY Times list of outstanding twenty-first century novelists and checked one of her books at random—Outline—out of the library.

It didn't take long to notice that Cusk's perspective was unusual and her prose vivid yet strangely muted We learn in the opening pages that the nameless narrator is on a flight to Athens to teach a writing course, but the first thirty pages are largely devoted to the rambling reflections of the nameless Greek man sitting next to her, who she refers to throughout the book as "my neighbor."

Subsequent chapters are devoted to a variety of similar encounters with friends, colleagues, students, and passersby, during which they say a lot, and Faye (the name doesn't appear until near the end of the book) says little. As we read on, curious and perplexed, it becomes increasingly evident that these conversations have not been shaped to produce the kind of complex plot we might expect to see at the theater.  There is no plot. Or if there is, it's a plot that hasn't come to a point of clarity and resolution in the author's head. Cusk is giving us a portrait of a woman carefully observing other people, interacting with them, listening, asking unusual but revealing questions, perhaps giving a word of advice. The judgments she makes about these people can be subtle; they're sometimes brutal, more often elusive.

The narrator, divorced, with two young sons who call her at odd times,  seems to be adrift in a fathomless world, clinging to details in an attempt to sort things out.

At one or two points in Outline the narrator offers a more detailed description of her attitude, as in this minor soliloquy delivered from the deck of a pleasure boat on the Aegean Sea.

I said that, on the contrary, I had come to believe more and more in the virtues of passivity, and of living a life as unmarked by self-will as possible. One could make almost anything happen, if one tried hard enough, but the trying - it seemed to me - was almost always a sign that one was crossing the currents, was forcing events in a direction they did not naturally want to go, and though you might argue that nothing could ever be accomplished without going against nature to some extent, the artificiality of that vision and its consequences had become—to put it bluntly— anathema to me. There was a great difference, I said, between the things I wanted and the things that I could apparently have, and until I had finally and forever made my peace with that fact, I had decided to want nothing at all.

Many of the characters that surface in the course of the narrative seem to find themselves in varying states of dislocation. For example, in one chapter the narrator meets Paniotis, an old friend, at a bar in a shabby neighborhood in Athens. A long and minutely described scene ensues of ordering wine and food, meeting other guests, listening to their stories.

I asked Paniotis how long ago it was that he had travelled north with his daughter, and he said that it was very shortly after he and his wife had divorced. In fact it was the first time he had taken his children anywhere on his own. He remembered that in the car, driving out of Athens and into the hills, he had kept glancing at them on the back seat in the rear­view mirror, feeling as wrongful as if he were kid­napping them. He expected them, at any minute, to discover his crime and demand their immediate re­turn to Athens and their mother, but they did not: in fact, they made no comment on the situation at all, not during all the long hours of a journey in which Paniotis felt himself to be getting further and further away from everything trusted and known, everything familiar, and most of all from the whole security of the home he had made with his wife, which of course no longer even existed.

It's worth pointing out that although much of the book is devoted to other people telling their stories, little of the material takes the form of dialogue. Far more often, as in the paragraph above, the narrator begins with "he said that" or "she told me that" and fills in all the details herself.

At one point it occurred to me that the novel, though entirely different in tone, bore some resemblance to the works of the Italian novelist Natalia Ginzburg. This seemed like an odd comparison to me, and I was more than a little surprised to find in Coventry, a book of her essays, that Cusk has written an essay about Ginzburg. The first few lines, I think. offer an accurate description of Ginzburg's approach to life and writing, and of Cusk's as well:

The voice of the Italian novelist and essayist Natalia Ginzburg comes to us with absolute clarity amid the veils of time and language. Writings from more than half a century ago read as if they have just been—in some mysterious sense are still being—composed. No context is required to read her: in fact, to read her is to realize how burdened literature frequently is by its own social and material milieux. Yet her work is not abstract or overtly philosophical: it is deeply practical and personal. You come away from it feeling that you know the author profoundly, without having very much idea of who she is.

I read no further in that essay. Nor did I make an effort to explore the many critical pieces that have been written about Cusk in the course of her prolific career. Instead, I read Transit, the sequel to Outline, which includes portraits of the Albanian workmen who are remodelling the narrator's flat; a long description of Arabian Saluki hounds delivered by one of Faye's writing students; a dinner party at her brother's posh home in a village near Salisbury, where all the women are elegantly dressed and the children run wild; and much else.  

The third volume of the trilogy, Kudos, I'll keep in reserve for a rainy day. 

August, Cool and Beautiful

The weather gods have been too kind to us. Following a warm winter, who would have suspected we'd get a cool and beautiful summer? The ample rain has brought new life to our gardens, and even the lawn looks pretty good—at least the morning after I mow it.

The National Night Out in early August was a big hit once again on our block. It's the only time we actually converse with some of our neighbors, who are a diverse and generally cheerful bunch of mostly young and middle-aged couples. 

Hilary and I have somehow slipped into the category of old-timers; I don't know how that happened. But the eldest attendee, Elfrida, has lived on our block since 1962! I sampled  several strange, cheesy casseroles and enjoyed some piping-hot mini-wieners wrapped in bacon that were sitting at the bottom of a crock-pot.

Pleasant as it is here at home, Hilary and I have also been out and about to various state parks. On one excursion we brought our massive Grumman canoe along, elaborately strapped to the top of our tiny Carolla. After setting up camp at Savannah Portage SP we went for an evening paddle  at nearby Loon Lake, left the canoe by the landing, and returned early the next morning for another placid circuit. There was no one around. The lake was calm, and at one point  we had the pleasure of watching a family of loons drift by. You can watch them here: 

A few minutes later we came upon a pair of kingfishers who led us the rest of the way around the lake, keeping fifty yards ahead, swooping and diving from one branch to another, chattering away.  It's not the Boundary Waters, but it's a lot easier to get to.

After breaking camp we continued north, resisted the urge to revisit our beloved Meadowlands, but toured the Mesabi Range on Highway 169 from Hibbing to Tower and beyond. We ate lunch at the Sportsman's café in Hibbing, where our charming Jamaican waitress told us how she happened to settle down in northern Minnesota. We also spent some time cruising downtown Virginia, where my mom grew up.

The canoe once again proved to be useful at Vermilion State Park, where we'd rented an upscale camper cabin for the night. There isn't really much to do at that park. Trails are few, and it's impossible to see the lake unless you drive down to the landing or the smallish picnic area. But we enjoyed hanging out on the cabin deck, looking off into the trees. And once we hit the water we appreciated the park's lack of shore front development.

The camper cabins are fairly private, but the next morning we ran into our next-door neighbor, who was heading for the nearby parking lot. She and her husband had signed on to take the mail run around Lake Vermilion, by boat. (Something to consider for our next visit.)

The woman's name was Tamara Uselmann. She's a professor at North Dakota State, though the couple live in Pelican Rapids.

"You've heard of Pelican Rapids?" She seemed surprised.

"Sure. With a river flowing right through town and a nice coffee shop. It's right down the road from Maplewood State Park."

 She told us both her parents spoke Finnish at home. I told her a little about the nearby town of Embarrass, the Finnish "capital" of this part of the state. "And you probably know about New York Mills," I added.

"Yes, we know about New York Mills," she said. "We were raised there."

On our way out we stopped in at the Soudan Mine, which also serves as the park headquarters. I was hoping to get a refund for the firewood we hadn't used. While we were there, we got into conversation with one of the tour guides. He'd worked in the taconite mines for years, but had previously pursued a fairly successful career as an opera singer. Who would have guessed?

_______________________________

A few days later we headed north again to catch the Perseid meteor shower at Crow Wing State Park, this time with bikes instead of the canoe. We left in mid-afternoon, and paid a visit to Crane Meadows NWR along the way.

It was a clear night. We set up our camp chairs out in the road at midnight and looked up through a break in the trees that—just our luck—exposed a sliver of sky between Cassiopeia and  Perseus. Hilary saw the best one, a fireball that lasted several seconds. I missed that one, but saw seven shooting stars in all, for the most part bright, but short. At one point I saw two almost simultaneously in the same place, which gave me he impression that the meteor had broken apart at that moment, far above the Earth.

While we sitting out in the dark, we heard a deep, loud groan coming from the distant woods. It was a sound I'd never heard before, like the mooing of a cow, but somehow entirely different. A moose? Hardly likely in that part of the state. A bear? They don't sound like that.

The next morning we set off early on what might be the most beautiful stretch of the Paul Bunyan Trail. It runs through the woods from the park north along the Mississippi to Baxter. It seems to be mostly downhill in both directions, and there are some wonderful stretches lined with blackberries along the way.

Back at the park, we broke camp, and on our way out we stopped in to pay for the firewood we'd burned. I asked the ranger about the mysterious sound we'd heard. He paused a moment for effect, and then said, "Bullfrog."

Before turning south, however, we drove the eight miles up to Brainerd. We wanted to see what kind of development had been taking shape at the mostly abandoned Great Northern Railyard. Turns out there's a beauty salon, a gift-shop, an event center, and a outdoor-grill franchise, among other things. What interested us was the restaurant with a shady patio called Notch 8 (a railroad term for "full speed ahead"), run by the former chef from nearby Prairie Bay. The lunch special was BLT, carrot-ginger soup, and spinach peach salad with a sophisticated vinaigrette.  I would go back. 

Such excursions are vastly enriching, but there also a lot to be said for staying home. On a given day I might sit on the deck for quite a while, taking note of the slightest changes in the vegetation or watching the young robins eat the white berries off the gray dogwood shrubs, one after another, thus exposing the clusters of beautiful pink stems.

Ah! The black-eyed-susans we planted in May are finally blooming—one little blossom in the midst of a sea of tired Siberian bugloss.

 

    

Garden Tours

I had the opportunity recently on successive Wednesday mornings to visit five backyard gardens in the neighborhood as part of a U of MN OLLI seniors' program. I use the word "neighborhood" loosely here. One of the gardens was in West Bloomington, another in Bryn Mawr; one was a few blocks from the Parkway Theater in South Minneapolis, and two of the five were in suburbs not far from my house: Crystal and New Hope. All five were owned and tended by Master Gardeners, a designation reserved for those who have completed a program of instruction run by the University's Extension Service.

I haven't taken a "class" in many years. For the most part, I'd rather just read a book, proceeding at my own pace, following leads and digressions and taking a break or "dropping out" when I lose interest or another subject attracts my attention. I have a row of books sitting near at hand that I intend to get back to soon: The Beethoven Quartets; The Unity of the Odyssey; Susan Sontag: as Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh..

But seeing a garden is a lot different than reading about gardens, and I enjoyed both the variety of styles and the unstructured character of the presentations. The hosts described their efforts and offered bits of advice as they led us—a group of maybe thirty women and men—across swards of grass and along flagstone paths through varieties of hosta, for example, that would almost rival those at the U of MN's landscape arboretum.

Some of the students knew each other. One woman told me she meets every week with five or six friends, some of whom were also there, to go walking. "Where do you walk?" I asked. "We pick a different route every week," she said.

One of the gardeners had dedicated most of her yard to edibles. Her peach tree was laden with 210 peaches, she told us. And there they were! She also told us how to prepare beds to grow blueberries, described the advantages of creeping thyme as a substitute for grass, and advised us when to eat the leaves on our linden trees. (Early.) 

As we made our way around the house she paused to eat a pod off a radish plant that had gone to seed weeks ago.

"Not bad," she said.

Once the group had continued on into the back yard, I tried one myself. (Terrible!)

The highlight of the garden in West Bloomington was an impressive waterfall cascading down to a stream, under a bridge, and into a swamp lined with colorful pink Joe-Pye Weed (I think). The plantings themselves were gorgeous, but I lost interest when the woman began to describe how the waterfall actually worked--I'll never build one--and I ducked out the back.

From the master gardener in Bryn Mahr I learned why we shouldn't have planted Amur maples along our fence-line (he had planted a few himself), and what we should sprinkle on our lawn in spring as a pre-emergent inhibitor: corn gluten meal. I was happy to learn that he treated his compost pile to benign neglect, the same way I do, though he emphasized that it's important to keep it wet. And he also offered this sage advice: Never divide a hosta. I don't know why he said that, and I never got around to asking.

Before long I found myself offering authoritative-sounding advice to bystanders who wanted to know if wild ginger spread (not that much) and what color the blossoms on a redbud are (not red but pinkish purple).

On our final week we met at a house in Crystal that was build in the early 1960s. The owner described his back yard as a woodland garden, but it looked very prim and open to me. The pebbled paths occupied more space than the plants, and the patio/entertainment center, located well away from the house, was like something out of House Beautiful. All very nice ... but not the way I would do it.

If you want to see a woodland garden in all its ragged glory, come to our house. 

But isn't that one of the pleasures of gardening? You work with your soil, and your patterns of light, your budget, your level of enthusiasm, and your sense of taste. It was obvious to me that the gardeners featured in the tour were spending a lot of time on their gardens, whether in the spirit of recreation or religious devotion. I didn't see a familiar annual anywhere. No impatiens, no browallia, no ageratum.

I can well imagine that many of the students finished the round of visits inspired by a few new ideas, but also gratified to recognize or reaffirm that the garden waiting for them back at the house wasn't all that bad, either. 

And by the way, did I tell you about our new volunteer cherry orchard? Or the hummingbird summer-sweet we brought home from Gerten's the other day?       

High School Reunion

A fifty-year reunion is, by many accounts, a wonderful way to revive old friendships and jog the memory. And I could tell, the minute we arrived at the Hopkins Art Center, two hours late, that this kind of warm social interaction was in full swing. The lobby was packed, and the din of conversation was already considerable. It was clear that for many attendees, the anxieties and insecurities of youth were a thing of the past. The fact that beer and wine were included in the price of admission might also have contributed to the bonhomie of the occasion.

Many of the faces in the crowd looked to me like older, thicker, and more mature versions of the teenagers I went to high school with. I loved them all, but I didn't recognize any of them, undoubtedly because I didn't go to high school in Hopkins.

We threaded our way to the front desk to get our name tags, and the man behind the counter asked: "Lindberg or Eisenhower?"

 "Neither," I replied. "We're here to listen to the band."

Hopkins was a hotbed of rock-n-roll back in the mid-seventies. (Maybe every high school was?) At the time, Hilary's brother David was in a band called Seth that also included Steve Almaas (who went on to fame as part of the Suicide Commandos) and Jeff Waryan (later the lead guitar for Figures and other local bands). Dave played the keyboards and sometimes sang.

Recently someone got the idea of reviving the group to play at the fiftieth reunion. They got a hold of drummer Jay Peck, who had also played with Figures, rehearsed mostly remotely, and in the course of a few weeks worked up a play-list of covers that included the Yardbirds' "For Your Love," the Stones' "Under My Thumb," the Beatles "Oh, Darlin'," and a few golden oldies by Fleetwood Mac, the Allman Brothers, and other bands that were after my time.

In performance the reconstituted Seth was clean and crisp. Front-man Steve Almaas was in his element with both the bouncy bass and the lively patter, reminding the audience, for example, of the first gig the band played at a junior high dance half a century ago. Commandos guitarist Chris Osgood stepped in for one number. People danced. More often they merely chatted with friends or videoed the performance.

Hilary and I joined a group of family friends and relatives at a large table near the back, though the vibe was so infectious I spent most of the set out in the crowd, digging the music. Hey! The Yardbirds were one of my favorite bands in junior high. I can whistle the guitar solo from "Shapes of Things" even today.

Though jazz later occupied most of my attention, I also took a brief dive into New Wave rock-n-roll in the early eighties, during which time I was introduced to the Suicide Commandos, the Suburbs, the Flamin O's and other local groups. Somewhre in the basement I have a great four-minute super-8 film of the Suburbs performing live at twilight down in Loring Park. (It's probably worth a fortune.)

After the set I went up to Steve Almaas and said, "You sounded great. But I wish you'd done a favorite from Suicide Commando days: 'I Just Moved into a Haunted House.'"

"That's goin' WAY back," he replied with a laugh.

The tone, character, and even the volume of the music was perfectly suited to the evening, and the crowd of not-so-young listeners all appeared to be having a wonderful time. I'm sure David was proud to look up from the keyboard to see his two sons, both of them now fathers themselves, out in the crowd, and also his brothers Paul and Jeff, who were monitoring and adjusting the mix throughout the set. 

One final touch was the "Seth" coasters that the band had printed up, which were now scattered on tables all around the room.

_____________________

The romance of high school never dies, and it was a pleasure to be standing among women and men who had outgrown it without entirely losing it. The music brings all of that to life. 

As Hilary and I were leaving, I snapped a photo of our friends in the crowd, who by chance happened to be lined up like something out of Velazquez's "Las Meninas."

Twenty-Five Years of Writing ... and Not Reading

I took a look at the NY Times list of the hundred best books of the 21sr century, as voted on by 503 novelists, nonfiction writers, poets, critics and other book lovers, to see how I stacked up against the real literati. Not bad, though I guess it depends on how you look at it. I have not read any of the books on the list cover to cover but I've heard of almost half of them, and I've read more than a few of the pieces collected in The Short Stories of Lydia Davis.(88) I thought I had a winner with Tony Judt's Thinking the Twentieth Century, which I read and enjoyed, but a second look reveals that one of Judt's other books, Postwar (43), had made the list.

I think I also ought to get a little credit for other near-misses. I haven't read the number-one title on the list, Elena Ferrante's My Brilliant Friend, but I read volume two of the tetrology, The Story of a New Name, which was difficult because I didn't know who any of the characters were. Likewise, I haven't read Lucia Berlin's collection,  Manual for Cleaning Women (79) but I did read the sequel, Evening in Paradise. I didn't read Small Things Like These (41) but I did read Keegan's recent collection, So Late in the Day, which might more accurately have been titled Creepy Men I Have Known.

I was surprised to see Austerlitz (8), a novel-essay-whatnot by W. G. Sebald, in the top ten. I own that book, but haven't read it. I have read Sebald's previous books, Vertigo (my favorite), The Rings of Saturn, and The Emigrants, all of which I enjoyed, though I enjoyed each one a little less than the one before.

I started to read Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking (12) but found myself strangely unmoved. And I seem to recall that many of my friends read Correction (5) to the end with grim fascination, then admitted that they hated it.

At a certain point, as I scrolled through the list, drawing mostly blanks, I began to wonder if I'd actually read any books published after the year 2000. Of course I have. Here are some of my favorites:

Borges and Me / Jay Parini (2020)

The Round House / Louise Erdrich (2012)

Catharsis: On the Art of Medicine / Andrzej Szczeklik (2005)

The Weil Conjectures: On Math and the Pursuit of the Unknown / Karen Olsson (2019)

Literature and the Gods / Roberto Calasso (2001)

The Fruit Thief / Peter Handke (2022)

Out Stealing Horses / Per Petterson (2003)

Dept. of Speculation / Jenny Offill (2014)

The White Road: Journey into an Obsession / Edmund de Wall (2015)

Beyond Sleep / Willem Frederik Hermans (translated from the Dutch in 2007)

Netherland / Joseph O'Neill (2008)

Philosopher of the Heart: the Restless Life of Soren Kierkegaard / Clare Carlisle (2019)

The Fly Trap / Fredrik Sjōberg (2014)

The Last Days of Roger Federer / Geoff Dyer (2022)

Normal People / Sally Rooney (2018)

In Search of Zarathustra / Paul Kriwaczek (2003)

Paris to the Moon / Adam Gopnik (2000)

A Gentleman in Moscow / Amir Towles (2016)

I'm not suggesting these books are among the best of the era; I'm in no position to judge, dilatory reader that I am. All I'm saying is that they stick in memory as good enough to mention.

From the Times list I extracted the names of an essayist unfamiliar to me, Elisa Gabbert, and a "philosophical" novelist, Rachel Cusk, and put in requests at the library for The Unreality of Memory and Outline. 

I also found it interesting to investigate the individual picks of selected judges, where I sometimes came upon books I liked that didn't make the consolidated list (e.g. Netherland) and also spotted titles I want to check out that I'd never heard of (e.g. Bourgeois Equality: How Ideas, Not Capital or Institutions, Enriched The World, by Deirdre McCloskey. )

One final aspect of the article is worth mentioning: the graphics. (See above.) The editors separate the finalists into groups of twenty, and often make use of well-worn and sometimes shabby paperbacks for the group shots, rather than the pristine hardcovers we see in the individual listings.

It's always a pleasure to peruse a shelf of someone else's books. Or your own.

After the Storm

I awoke in the middle of the night to thunder in the distance, impressive, like the Battle of Waterloo. But the throbbing rustle in the leaves was ominous, and it occurred to me I ought to go out on the deck and take down the umbrella. 

It was like an adventure. Half-awake, wandering barefoot to the back of the house, I flicked on the light above the deck. It was raining. The umbrella was lying awkwardly, bottom up, in the shadows on the steps down to the back yard, twenty feet from the table out of which it has been lifted by the wind. There wasn't much more I could do.

The day dawned sunny and warm, with twigs and clumps of leaves lying haphazardly here and there across the yard, but no serious damage in sight. It looked like a good morning for tennis. We had been invited to a dinner with friends and instructed to bring along some "good crusty bread," and we hatched a plan to proceed down Wirth Parkway to the courts at Beard's Plaisance just west of Lake Harriet. It would give us an opportunity to check out the storm damage, if any, along the way, and we could pick up the bread at Patisserie 46 after our match. And in so doing, we'd be paying some sort of feeble homage to Bastille Day.

A few large trees were down west of Cedar Lake, and a smattering of isolated mid-sized trees were twisted and split in odd and disturbing ways, but the roads were clear. 

The puddles on the courts were already evaporating, and we'd brought along an old broom to spread the water and accelerate the process. While I was sweeping I heard a woman sitting on the balcony of a house nearby shout to her neighbor, "Our power is out. Is yours?"

As we were finishing our set, three late-middle-aged men showed up. Hilary offered one of them our broom to dry off the other court, and he gladly accepted. "It's good that you thought to bring it," he said.

I could hear a few "Va bene"s in their conversation, and as we were leaving I asked them where they were from.

"Italy," one of the men said. 

"But where in Italy?"

"Genova," he said.

"You've got some great young players on the tour," I said. "Did you read the article in the Times about how Musetti beat Fritz with the backhand slice?

"I did," the man said. "And a one-hand backhand at that!"

Ten minutes later we were standing in line at Patisserie 46. We couldn't decide between a baguette and a levain and ended up ordering both. As Hilary was paying I walked over to a woman I thought I knew who was just retrieving her latte. 

"Are you Jan Leigh?" I said.

"Yes I am," she said, as she probed my face, trying to figure out who I was.

"I'm sure you don't recognize me," I said. "John Toren. I worked on the loading dock at Bookmen."

A light went on. "John, of course! Bookmen!" And she gave me a big huge.

"I'm sort of sweaty," I said. "from the tennis. Last I heard you were working at the Chautauqua in Bayfield."

"I'm still up there," she said. "I built a theater in Washburn. It's called Stage North."

"You built that?! I saw a great movie there once about a guy who kayaked every lake on Isle Royale."

I was about to tell her the funniest part, where the kayaker's WhisperLite stove flames up unexpectedly, but she said she had to run and made a quick exit. 

It was a promising start to the day. 

Daylilies and the Spectre of Idealism

Every plant has its problems. For example, daylily blossoms only last for a single day. We've got a couple of clumps of Mary Todds in our front yard that are well established and currently at their peak. The blooms are staggered, which is nice, but the deer love to nip off not only the blossoms but also the buds. That's a second problem.

This year I put some green plastic fencing around one clump, and Hilary suggested we put some old netting that had been idling in the garage for decades around the other. This has preserved the blossoms ... but blooming daylilies don't look all that hot when seen through such fabrics. This morning I removed the netting from the clump under the piano window. The flowers look great! Will I remember to replace the net in position tonight. Who knows?

Wandering out back, I loaded some decaying leaves from the compost pile into a galvanized bucket and spread them around on the floor of our "cherry orchard," where I recently planted a turtlehead and Hilary transplanted some groundcover. That might sound like a grandiose name— "cherry orchard"— for a strip of land where, a few years ago,  I discovered two volunteer cheery trees amid the underbrush. But what better place to be grandiose, and playful, and a little imaginative, than in one's own back yard?  

I was enjoying the morning, unalloyed by the nagging thought that I wasn't doing anything productive, because I'd already done a few things. I sent a file to a client in Massachusetts to be proofed. I'd looked up some royalty figures for Norton. I emptied the dishwasher. I uploaded some files to SpeedPro to be made into posters.

One of them was for a rock band called Seth that will be playing at the Hopkins High School 50th reunion in a few weeks. My brother-in-law, David, was in that band, back in the mid-seventies. Will we "crash" the reunion just to see David up on stage? It's hard to say.

Settling down to a recent issue of the New Yorker, I spotted an essay by Adam Gopnick about the historian Charles Taylor. I was reminded of one of Taylor's earlier books, A secular Age, that I bought decades ago. I didn't think much of it at the time—it seems to be arguing for a utopian return to medieval guilds and  faith communities. To judge from Gopnik's critique, the new volume, which carries the vaguely portentous title Cosmic Connections, is cut from the same cloth.

Yet when I fetched my copy of A Secular Age from the basement. and opened it, my eyes immediately came to rest on a passage brilliantly exposing the poverty of materialist explanations of history, while underscoring the role played not only by concepts in general, but by ideals specifically, in historical development.

"In general, a new practice will have both “material” and “ideal” conditions; which of them we try to explain may depend on which is problematic. Why did a democratic revolution occur just then, and not before? The answer may be: because people hadn’t suffered from monarchical rule as much as they came to on the eve of the turn-over; or it may be because they began to see from some striking example that democracy brings prosperity (the draw of Europe?). But it might also because at that moment they had developed the repertory which allowed for a self sustaining democracy, as against just a revolt which changed one mode of despotism for another. And it may also be because democratic forms of rule came to seem right, and in keeping with their dignity, around that time. There is no good empirically-based reason to think that the second kind of explanation must always give way to the first. The weighting between the two can’t be determined a priori, but will be different from case to case."

But there is really no need to choose between the two. Material and conceptual (or spiritual, if you will) elements are at work at every moment of our lives.

At this point Taylor feels the need to explain in some detail what the interaction between ideas and conditions looks like, by considering the question of "how the new idea of moral order came to acquire the strength which eventually allows it to shape the social imaginaries of modernity." Good question.

He begins by mentioning the "discursive practices" of thinkers reacting to the devastations of the Wars of Religion, who felt the need to identify a basis of legitimacy unsullied by religious differences. Reaching further back in time, he draws our attention to the "domestication of the feudal nobility" between the 14th and 16th cen­turies.

"I mean the transformation of the noble class from semi-independent warrior chieftains, often with extensive followings, who in theory owed allegiance to the King, but in practice were quite capable of using their coercive power for all sorts of ends unsanctioned by royal power, to a nobility of servants of the Crown/nation, who might often serve in a military capacity, but were no longer capable of acting independently in this capacity."

All of this makes perfect sense to me. In fact, it's a fine description of the dialectical process itself, though that specific word, "dialectic," doesn't appear in it. Taylor clearly wants to stick close to events, hoping to avoid even a whiff of Hegelian meta-history or teleology.

A Secular Age is 800 pages long, and I'm suddenly convinced I'll have to get back to it soon.

But maybe not right now.