Paying Visits

I have been paying visits on this trip–and talking.  I started at home, at my brother’s place, high and lonesome in the southern Ohio hills.  We played music together–he is a gifted singer and bassist.  We listened to tons of music, from The Johnson Mountain Boys to Frightened Rabbit.  We worked out old Greg Sage songs and old Connells songs.  My dad and mom joined us on Kent’s deck, and we sang bluegrass songs and enjoyed the view.

 

I stopped in Paducah to visit Shane Ward and Carly Lane.  Carly is one of my favorite writers, and Shane, her husband, is an artist, a sculptor.  We ate pizza and talked about writing, growing up, about intellectual life both inside and outside the academy, and about the strangenesses of academic philosophy.  We also ended up talking a lot about arguments for forms of color relativism, about objectivism, and about blue, a most shady color.

I left for Iowa City, where I visited my son, who just finished his second year (of three) in Iowa’s MFA program in Theater acting.  He and his girlfriend, Natalie, and I spent a lot of time talking, much of it about teaching, and much of it about what is makes sense to expect from students in a core philosophy or acting class.  I think we more or less agreed that about all you can hope for is to convince students that there is a real body of knowledge where philosophy and acting are concerned, and that they are mostly ignorant of that body of knowledge.  But that kind of instructed ignorance is profitable, and can feed later growth.

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From there, I headed to Bozeman, Montana, where I spent a few days with my good friend and former student, David Dyas and his wife, Katie.  They live in an amazing spot, at the feet of the Bridger Mountains, in such proximity to them that I felt in supplication to the mountains for the entirety of my visit.  I got to hear several wonderful new songs Dave has written. I heard a lot of other new music, or music new to me.  We spent a lot of time talking about philosophy and public life, about religion and the shape of faith, and about the alarming willingness of chickens to cannibalize each other.  I spent a fascinating day with Dave and his father-in-law, Dan, in Yellowstone, where we talked of the fate of religious movements, bible translation and varieties of proverbial wisdom. Oh, and we watched Old Faithful do its faithful thing.

 

I went on to Taos, where I got back to work on a novel I am tinkering with.  I also got to spend a memorable morning with Bill Mallonee and his wife, Muriah.  We talked of the relationship between science and knowledge–not coextensive–and about religion and ‘worldly wisdom’.  I got to hear more about Muriah’s history, and about the specific circumstances (including guitar tunings) of the recording of The Vigilantes of Love’s *Jugular*.

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I am now in Santa Fe.  My wife will join me here for a few days and I will be a regular tourist.  I am looking forward to that.  There are limits proscribed to self-inspection.

All along the way, I have been listening to Jane Austen.  I re-read all her novels at the beginning of each summer.  This year, because of the trip, I have listened to them rather than read them.  I expect to finish up on the final leg of driving back to Alabama.  I supplemented what I was listening to by re-reading Stuart Tave’s *Some Words of Jane Austen*, a book for which my respect knows no bounds.

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At a coffee shop in Taos, a woman noticed me reading Tave’s book and remarked pleasantly, “You don’t look like the right person to be reading that book.”

(When I interviewed for my job at Auburn, one of the faculty members looked at me disappointedly and pronounced:  “You do not look like a Plotinian scholar ought to look.”  I suppose I look like an elevator repairman ought to look–that is, like the stereotype of an elevator repairman.)

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It turned out that what she meant was that I was a big, bearded man, and wearing an Auburn baseball cap.  Her husband, she confided to me, is an Austen fan, at least of the movies, but is always chagrined by the ratio of women to men at the screenings.  I don’t know what to say about that, but I will say that I find the (undoubtedly related) idea that achievement of Austen’s women is a woman’s achievement odd.  Surely, the specific shape of that achievement in each of the novels is due to the central character being a woman–and a woman in that particular place at that particular time–but what each achieves is broadly human, deeply human, and completely compelling.  –Oh, I would be more like Anne Elliot if only I could!

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A Matter of Chance? *Chuck* and Jane Austen, and the Final Episode, Again

A passage from Stuart Tave’s Some Words of Jane Austen:

All the heroines find happy endings and they all deserve them, as each has, in one way or another, worked, suffered, learned.  But if they do not get more than they deserve they often seem to arrive at, or be helped to, the happy ending by a stroke of luck…at the right moment.  The happy ending is not guaranteed by their actions.  What seems to be more important than the sudden and fortunate event, however, because it precedes the ending again and again, in whatever manner the end is produced, is that the heroine is prepared to accept unhappiness.  The endings of Jane Austen’s novels are never sentimental because before she will allow the happy result the heroine must face the fact that she has lost…The reader may refuse to believe that any of these things will happen because he has been given a different set of expectations, but the heroine must believe.  She must not simply see the threat as another obstacle that she can do something about, and she must not despair because, having lost, there is nothing in her life for her to do.  She must really see it as a loss, absorb it as an irreversible fact, and then come to terms with herself and go ahead with what she must do now.  She often finds herself in the same place and in the same company as she was at the beginning, but she cannot be the same person herself because time has made a difference and things will never be the same again.  She must in the same place face a new time, and it is very hard…[The heroines] must accept their unhappiness before they are granted happiness.  The reward then is not the essential thing because it need never have arrived; that may well be dependent on chance; what is important is that at the time it is granted the heroine is worthy of a happiness that has a meaning.  She would have been worthy of it even if her lot had proved unhappy because in her place she has used her time well, and that is not a matter of chance.

This is a promising candidate for the most important paragraph ever written about Austen, but I want to appropriate it for thinking about the final episode of Chuck.  Of course, to do so requires changing out the ‘heroine’ for ‘hero’–but it is also worth remembering how insistently the show portrays Chuck himself as ‘feminine’. (His girlish screams, his only learning the woman’s part of the tango, etc., etc.)

Think particularly about the scene after Sarah has shot Quinn and Chuck has grabbed the Intersect glasses.  Chuck knows that Ellie can use the glasses, after modifying them, to restore Sarah; that has been Chuck’s plan and he tells Sarah so as he looks at the glasses.  But if he does not use them himself and download the Intersect, Beckman and everyone in the venue will die when the bomb explodes.  The Intersect is necessary to defuse the bomb.  Chuck explains this to Sarah, and she nods, acknowledging the necessity.  She understands what the choice means for her, but especially she understands what the choice means for Chuck.  Chuck puts on the glasses and downloads the Intersect.  He defuses the bomb.

I isolate this moment because it brings into clear focus Chuck’s willingness to accept unhappiness.  His last chance to do something himself to bring about his happiness goes up in the smoke that issues from the Intersect glasses after the download.  But he does not despair, he does not simply give up.  He saves everyone.  In doing so, at least from his point of view, he loses Sarah.  He believes that.  He sees it as an irreversible fact.  He may hope that something will change; but he can no longer expect it to do so.  He must now in the same place, in Burbank, face a new time–and it is very hard.  He is alone again and anew in Burbank.  Choosing to save everyone from the bomb rather than to bring Sarah back (and her willingness for him to do that) is his way (and, it turns out, I believe, hers) of showing that he (and she) is worthy of a happiness that has a meaning.  They have made similar choices before, but never one where they lose so much–not just their life together, but even Sarah’s memory of their life together, and all of her growth during that the time of their life together.

This is perhaps the central reason I think the kiss works.  Is it a Disney-esque device, as Morgan himself admits when he suggests it?  Yes.  But the point is that Chuck has worked, suffered, learned.  (We can also say these things about Sarah mutatis mutandis.)  He has used his time well, and that is not a matter of chance, not Disney-esque.  As much as we viewers may want that reward, the success of the kiss, for them both, that is not the essential thing.  The essential thing is Chuck’s acceptance of his unhappiness.

That he has accepted it is borne out on the beach.  He tells Sarah to trust him, that he will always be there for her.  But crucially he also says that he does not expect anything of her.  He is reconciled to losing her, but that has not changed how he feels about her or his desire to be there for her.  As I said in my book, Chuck will be her husband even if she chooses not to be his wife.  He is worthy of happiness; he is worthy of her.  The boy-man Nerd Herder is gone.  A fully grown and self-possessed man is beside her.  Seeing him, and seeing him to be what he is, she wants to be kissed.  She is ready to remember.

 

 

Summer with Austen

I typically summer with Jane Austen.  I am re-reading Persuasion, next to Mansfield Park my favorite of the novels.  But I am also reading Stuart Tave’s brightly commanding Some Words of Jane Austen–one of the best books I have ever read, not just on Austen, but period.  It is a book that could only be written after long, exacting immersion in Austen, but also only after long, exacting immersion in the moral art of common life.  What a book!

Some Words of Jane Austen (Phoenix Books) - Stuart M. Tave

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