Forever

From Forever, by Pete Hamill:

He had given Cormac the address on Stone Street of a place called Hughson's, where he might rent a room while Mr. Partridge looked for a place for his print shop. He himself would be staying at the Black Horse Tavern. Run by friends. Booked long ago. Cormac should call on him once a day, that was the plan, and Mr. Partridge would tell him of his progress. He had given Cormac a crudely printed map of the town, along with a litany of dire warnings. Don't let anyone carry your bag, or you'll never see it again. (The fastest thieves in the world live here.) Don't get drunk and lose control, or you'll lose even your shoes. (Lock your door, button your coat, strap your hat, tie your laces.) Don't sleep with any woman who offers her services (It's a city of whores), or you'll end up with a pox that will swell your tongue to the width of a plank. New York was a dangerous place, Mr. Partridge said. Full of thieves from many nations. (They speak seventeen different tongues, not counting the African languages.) The English were the worst. Lazy buggers. Rather steal than work. (As an Englishman, they fill me with shame.) There were hundreds of Englishmen transported to America for crimes committed in English cities. (They start by cutting their mothers' throats and then go downhill.) And they weren't even the worst.

"The most dangerous of the lot are the ones who now think they're respectable," he said when they were a week away from America. "They go to church. They wear fine clothes. They use snuff. And they'd steal the eyeballs out of your head."

He paused, staring at his journeyman's hands.

"Still and all, they'll give us much to print."

Stranger Than Fiction

From the Prologue of "Stranger Than Fiction" by Lewis Browne:

...Dawn is stealing up behind blackened chimeys in the east. The city is awaking. There is a feeble stir in the streets, a rattling of milk wagons and a rumbling of trucks. Workmen with lunch boxes under their arms, their hair frowsy, their faces still swollen with sleep, clump along over echoing pavements.

But in the east, over where the roof tops dully gleam in the morning light, there is a greater stir, I know. Old men with matted beards, and young men and boys, crawl out from under feather beds and shiveringly don their clothes. They touch their hands and faces with water from kitchen faucets, whisper a prayer, and then hurry out into the streets.

Where are they going?...But where should pious Jews go so early in the morning?...To the synagogues, of course!

So they go, hundreds of them, old and middle-aged and young. They go to their little synagogues hidden away in basements, there to pray as their fathers have prayed these two thousand years or more.

For there in the east, where now the roof tops are turning from black to pearl in the growing light of the dawn, lies the great ghetto of New York. More Jews are huddled there than ever were seen in old Jerusalem--more probably than were known in all the world when Solomon was King in Zion.

What are they doing there? How did they come? And why?...

It is almost four thousand years since they were born, and fully five thousand miles from their birthplace. What have they seen and thought, what have they lived through and learnt, in all that long trek through time and space?

But that is just the story I have been wanting to tell all along, the story I will tell--so soon as I can begin.

Only I am too tired now.

Perhaps a little later, after I have slept, I shall be able to begin....

Diamonds in the Rough

It's not for nothing, I guess, that it's called "The Old ballgame." Watching the opening day New York Mets' 9-7 loss to the Washington Nationals was not so much disheartening as it was at once a remembrance of things past and a prophesy of things to come.

Baseball, with its utter closeness to who we are is pure catharsis for us. From this rite of spring to the forever waving pennants of October we rededicate ourselves to the American spirits of hope and despair. Baseball evokes a feeling of cultural connection with our past in all its ugly beauty that mere words cannot convey. One must smell the sound of the crowd as it swells with apprehension as the first pitch of a new season races to the catcher's mitt.

You and your team are about to strike out for old frontiers to conquer. Or, if not, well, there's always next year.

Benedict Arnold: He Had His Moments...

From Kenneth Roberts' Rabble in Arms...

Up and down behind our guns went Arnold, a demon of energy. His face was smeared with powder smudges; from his hat hung a strip of gold lace, ripped loose by a passing grape shot; his shoulder was crusted with a smear of brown, the blood of a gunner shot through the throat as Arnold crouched beneath him to sight a gun.

His biting voice, shrill and harsh, drove the gun-crews as though he lashed them with a whip. "Double-shot!" he told them. "Double-shot! Give her another! We've got her now! Hurry it up! One more, boys! Double-shot! Don't waste time! She can't get away! Hurry, boys, hurry! Double-shot! Double-shot!

Whenever one of the three sternmost guns was loaded, the gunner shouted, the crew fell back beside the gun and Arnold ran to the carriage, sighting and wrenching; giving the word to fire. As the linstock slammed down and the gun jerked backward, Arnold was off again: up and down, making jabbing motions with his fist: urging the gun-crews on: urging them on.

There was something about his violent determination that was catching. It was like a sort of flame, searing all those exposed to it. No longer were my nerves and muscles rigid with the expectation of death: I burned with an eagerness to see our shots go home against the black schooner. So hot was this desire that it parched my lips and tongue: singed my cheeks until they seemed half charred.

Not Your Father's Tea Party

"We are the people who have land, belongings, position, and we're standing by our guns in opposition to the people who have nothing. We're the conservative people; and what has been true of conservative people in all ages and all lands is true of us. We dissent from extreme and injudicious measures, from violence, from oppression, from revolution, from reckless statements and misrepresentation. We can't stomach liars, bullies or demagogues, or leaders without experience, ability or sound judgment..."

*  *  *

The words above were spoken by Judge Herndon (Loyalist) in a Long Island marshland to Oliver Wiswell (Loyalist) of Massachusetts. This dialogue occurs in the historical novel, Oliver Wiswell, by Kenneth Roberts, which records the American Revolutionary era, convincingly, from the perspective of the much-beleagured Loyalist.

*  *  *

What is remarkable is how the opposing sides--Patriots vs. Loyalists--each saw the other as traitors and continued speaking past each other for months and years on end. It was the British, through their misguided policies and aggression, that finally brought the matter to a fiery conclusion.

One wonders what outside force it will take to bring the Democrats and the Republicans to their senses, and act in unity, finally, for the common good? Yes, one does indeed wonder...

One Perspective

"No age has ever been so self-conscious as ours. At any rate, the quantity of journalism the modern age has turned out in the process of its own self-analysis already overflows our archives and, were it not that most of it is doomed to perish, would be a dull burden to hand down to our descendants. The task still goes on, as indeed it must, for the last word has not been spoken, and modern man seems even further from understanding himself than when he first began to question his own identity. Of documentation of external facts we have had enough and to spare, more than the squirrellike scholars will ever be able to piece together into a single whole, enough to keep the busy popularizers spouting in bright-eyed knowledgeability the rest of their days; but of the inner facts--of what goes on at the center where the forces of our fate first announce themselves--we are still pretty much in ignorance, and most of the contemporary world is caught up in an unconscious and gigantic conspiracy to run away from these facts. Hence the necessity of returning to a subject that only appears to be well worn. With civilizations, as with individuals, the outer fact is often merely the explosion resulting from accumulated inner tension, the signs of which were plentifully present, though none of the persons concerned chose to heed them.

--William Barrett
(c) 1958 Irrational Man: A Study in Existential Philosophy

Today's Lesson: Sharing the Load

The reform of education in America requires that professional teachers be trained more efficiently to deal with the problems facing students who are not achieving their proscribed goals. This is one part, but only a small part, of the overall problem.

I have never been a schoolteacher, although as a manager I have taught, I have trained, I have tutored, and I have guided. I was motivated by the desire to have more productive employees working with me to achieve our mutual goals: The success of our company, and our continued employment. I haven't always been successful at these ventures, but I believe I have always done my best to impart what I knew to be important to those I've helped to become more knowledgable and productive.

At its best, teaching is an art, a science, a craft, a profession, and to many, a calling. The larger part of the problem with education in America is, I believe, that the other half of the equation--the student body/mind/heart--is literally, not on the same page as their teachers. The blame for academic failure is often laid at the feet of the schools, the teachers, the teacher colleges, the school administrators, the coursework, etc. Often, all these do, indeed, fall short of perfection and need to be improved. 

We wring our hands, complain, and scapegoat. Let’s get down to the real business of education--making students care about themselves and the world. We are circling the waters in search of the beast that we've wittingly brought on board.