Wednesday, March 16, 2011
David Lodge on Literature, Sex, Children, and Life
"Literature is mostly about having sex and not much about having children; life's the other way round."
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Recognition of Irritation
Most New Yorker cartoons are of the single panel variety, and the panels often depict standard cartoon settings that have become reliable backdrops for comedy: the bar scene, the psychiatrist and patient, the boss and employee arranged facing each other across a desk, and the couple reading in bed.
Perhaps it is just me, but lately I have found great enjoyment in the man-and-woman-in-bed format cartoons. It is a wonderful setting because the marital bed is where a couple typically engages in their most intimate acts: love-making, of course, but also sleeping in the same space as another. In an odd way, this, too, is a remarkably intimate act. The loss of consciousness in the presence of someone else—often while in physical contact that someone else. Intimate conversations take place here, too.
A few recent examples: (I am recalling these from memory, so they may not be perfectly accurate.)
• The man turns to the woman and asks: “What is your position on some-sex marriage?” (some-sex)
• The woman turns to the man: “I never realized that marriage would involve so much reading.”
The cartoon shown above is a particular favorite. (Because I am reproducing this copyrighted cartoon without permission, I feel bound to at least give full credit: It is by Harry Bliss and appeared in the New Yorker on March 5, 2007.) On the one hand, the cartoon is deliciously nasty. There are only two ways I can think of to eliminate the breathing sound—leave or die—and the cartoon suggests that the wife would be happy with either of these solutions.
As cutting as this cartoon is, for anyone who has been married or had a long-term relationship, there is a real sense of recognition. Familiarity does, on occasion, breed contempt. There are times in any relationship when the mere presence of the other, a simple reminder of the other, can evoke irritation. Couples get on each other’s nerves. In the lucky cases, these moments of discomfort are fleeting, but sometimes they are not. Sometimes they become either the enduring burdens of a lasting relationship or the beginning of the end of a doomed one.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Proposed New Mental Category: Foil Barrier Retention Disorder
I am told the American Psychiatric Association is engaged in an effort to revise its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, the great catalog of mental illnesses, and that the work is not going well. As a result, this may not be the best moment to suggest a new entry, but I will proceed undeterred.
Many food products come with a foil seal that must be pierced or peeled back to get at the substance inside. These include but are not limited to, sour cream and yogurt containers, boxes of cocoa powder, and tins of loose tea. Some individuals, for reasons that are not yet fully understood by psychiatric science, prefer not to completely remove the foil from the container. As a result, when you reach for the Earl Grey and pop the top off the tin, you are greeted—not with a clear shot at your goal—but rather with a lapping tongue of foil obstructing your view of tea and bergamot.
In its most extreme form, Foil Barrier Retention Disorder (FBRD) is characterized by very small openings of foil, barely large enough to get a teaspoon through. In these cases, the majority of the foil barrier remains attached to the container, appearing almost as it did the day the item was brought home from the store. Individuals with this extreme form of FBRD are prone to two additional symptoms. First, they complain about any efforts by those unafflicted with FBRD to remove part or all of the foil that remains attached to the container. Second, those suffering from extreme FBRD express the irrational and unscientific theory that the partially attached foil is somehow capable of promoting the freshness of the food product within.
In less severe forms of the disorder, little mention is made if the foil if it is detached or falls off of its own accord. If irrational theories of preservation and freshness are held, they typically go unexpressed.
At this time, the presumed genetic origins of FBRD remain unknown, but a vigorous research effort aimed at identifying an effective pharmacological treatment is underway.
Many food products come with a foil seal that must be pierced or peeled back to get at the substance inside. These include but are not limited to, sour cream and yogurt containers, boxes of cocoa powder, and tins of loose tea. Some individuals, for reasons that are not yet fully understood by psychiatric science, prefer not to completely remove the foil from the container. As a result, when you reach for the Earl Grey and pop the top off the tin, you are greeted—not with a clear shot at your goal—but rather with a lapping tongue of foil obstructing your view of tea and bergamot.
In its most extreme form, Foil Barrier Retention Disorder (FBRD) is characterized by very small openings of foil, barely large enough to get a teaspoon through. In these cases, the majority of the foil barrier remains attached to the container, appearing almost as it did the day the item was brought home from the store. Individuals with this extreme form of FBRD are prone to two additional symptoms. First, they complain about any efforts by those unafflicted with FBRD to remove part or all of the foil that remains attached to the container. Second, those suffering from extreme FBRD express the irrational and unscientific theory that the partially attached foil is somehow capable of promoting the freshness of the food product within.
In less severe forms of the disorder, little mention is made if the foil if it is detached or falls off of its own accord. If irrational theories of preservation and freshness are held, they typically go unexpressed.
At this time, the presumed genetic origins of FBRD remain unknown, but a vigorous research effort aimed at identifying an effective pharmacological treatment is underway.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Shabbat in My Own Way
One of the privileges of being a non-member is the freedom to adopt the religious traditions that have meaning for you and reject the ones that don’t. For example, I love shabbat. I love the ritual of bread and wine and candles and the idea of gathering at home at the end of the week for a meal, for leisure and rest. The idea of separating an evening and the following day from the other activities of life. Shabbat’s meaning for me is more personal, domestic, and—when others are around—social or familial, but I truly enjoy the feelings generated by shabbat. I do not say payers; I do not keep kosher; and I almost never avoid working on any day—Saturday included. As a non-believer, I am not bound by the mitzvot, but I love the peacefulness—the shalom—that this ritual brings.
So my observance of shabbat is somewhat haphazard. Yesterday was Friday, and after work I went to the grocery store and bought a challah. I have discovered that, when none are displayed, you can often get a frozen one from the person working in the bakery section. They must keep them on hand for the end of the week.
I had decided I would go to an early movie, so I grabbed a bite to eat at a Chinese restaurant before the show, eating dinner with The New York Times. I had pork, but at least I had pork in the location where Jews most often encounter treyf. And, of course, I don’t keep kosher.
After the movie I went home and lit two shabbos candles. No prayers, of course, and because I had already eaten and it was now 9:30, long after the prescribed candle lighting time, no bread or fruit of the vine. When it was time to go to bed, I broke another rule by blowing out one candle that looked far from burning out. According to tradition, once lit, the candles should not be moved or extinguished. They should be left to burn out on their own.
In the end, I performed only small pieces of the ritual. I lit candles, and I have my weekend challah for French toast. But it was enough to have a feeling of shabbat.
Shabbat is not really a sabbath for me. For me, it is a secular ritual. But I have found it to be a wonderful way to mark the time of the week and add a bit of peace to my life. So I am thankful for shabbat and for the freedom to observe it in my own way.
So my observance of shabbat is somewhat haphazard. Yesterday was Friday, and after work I went to the grocery store and bought a challah. I have discovered that, when none are displayed, you can often get a frozen one from the person working in the bakery section. They must keep them on hand for the end of the week.
I had decided I would go to an early movie, so I grabbed a bite to eat at a Chinese restaurant before the show, eating dinner with The New York Times. I had pork, but at least I had pork in the location where Jews most often encounter treyf. And, of course, I don’t keep kosher.
After the movie I went home and lit two shabbos candles. No prayers, of course, and because I had already eaten and it was now 9:30, long after the prescribed candle lighting time, no bread or fruit of the vine. When it was time to go to bed, I broke another rule by blowing out one candle that looked far from burning out. According to tradition, once lit, the candles should not be moved or extinguished. They should be left to burn out on their own.
In the end, I performed only small pieces of the ritual. I lit candles, and I have my weekend challah for French toast. But it was enough to have a feeling of shabbat.
Shabbat is not really a sabbath for me. For me, it is a secular ritual. But I have found it to be a wonderful way to mark the time of the week and add a bit of peace to my life. So I am thankful for shabbat and for the freedom to observe it in my own way.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Anna Quindlen on Getting a Life
From A Short Guide to a Happy Life
So I suppose the best piece of advice I could give anyone is pretty simple: get a life...
Get a life in which you notice the smell of salt water pushing itself on a breeze over the dunes, a life in which you stop and watch how a red-tailed hawk circles over a pond and a stand of pines. Get a life in which you pay attention to the baby as she scowls with concentration when she tries to pick up a Cheerio with her thumb and first finger...
Get a life in which you are not alone. Find people you love, and who love you. And remember that love is not leisure, it is work. Each time I look at my diploma, I remember that I am still a student, still learning every day how to be human. Send an e-mail. Write a letter. Kiss your mom. Hug your dad.
Get a life in which you are generous. Look around at the azaleas making fuchsia star bursts in spring; look at the full moon hanging silver in a black sky on a cold night. And realize that life is glorious, and that you have no business taking it for granted. Care so deeply about its goodness that you want to spread it around. Take the money you would have spent on beers in a bar and give it to charity. Work in a soup kitchen. Tutor a seventh-grader.
All of us want to do well. But if we do not do good, too, then doing well will never be enough...
Life is short. Remember that, too.
I have always know this. Or almost always. I’ve been living with mortality for decades, since my mother died of ovarian cancer when she was forty and I was nineteen. And this is what I learned from that experience: that knowledge of our own mortality is the greatest gift God ever gives us.
It is easy to waste our lives: our days, our hours, our minutes. It is so easy to take for granted the pale new growth on an evergreen, the sheen of the limestone on Fifth Avenue, the color of our kids’ eyes, the way the melody in a symphony rises and falls and disappears and rises again. It is so easy to exist instead of live. Unless you know there is a clock ticking. So many of us changed our lives when we heard a biological clock and decided to have kids. But that sound is a murmur compared to the tolling of mortality...
I learned to live many years ago. Something really bad happened to me. something that changed my life in ways that, if I had a choice, it would never have been changed at all. And what I learned from it is what, today, sometimes seems to be the hardest lesson of all.
I learned to love the journey, not the destination. I learned that this is not a dress rehearsal, and that today is the only guarantee you get...
Anyone can learn all these things, out there in the world. You just need to get a life, a real life, a full life, a professional life, yes, but another life, too. School never ends. The classroom is everywhere. The exam comes at the end. No man ever said on his deathbed I wish I had spent more time at the office.
I found one of my best teachers on the boardwalk at Coney Island many years ago. It was December, and I was doing a story about how the homeless suffer in the winter months. He and I sat on the edge of the wooden supports, dangling our feet over the side, and he told me about his schedule, panhandling the boulevard when the summer crowds were gone, sleeping in a church when the temperature went below freezing, hiding from the police amid the Tilt-A-Whril and the Cyclone and some of the other seasonal rides.
But he told me that most of the time he stayed on the boardwalk, facing the water, just the way we were sitting now, even when it got cold and he had to wear his newspapers after he read them. And I asked him why. Why didn’t he go to one of the shelters? Why didn’t he check himself into the hospital for detox?
And he stared out at the ocean and said, “Look at the view, young lady. Look at the view.”
And every day, in some little way, I try to do what he said. I try to look at the view. That’s all. Words of wisdom from a man with not a dime in his pocket, no place to go, nowhere to be. Look at the view. When I do what he said, I am never disappointed.
So I suppose the best piece of advice I could give anyone is pretty simple: get a life...
Get a life in which you notice the smell of salt water pushing itself on a breeze over the dunes, a life in which you stop and watch how a red-tailed hawk circles over a pond and a stand of pines. Get a life in which you pay attention to the baby as she scowls with concentration when she tries to pick up a Cheerio with her thumb and first finger...
Get a life in which you are not alone. Find people you love, and who love you. And remember that love is not leisure, it is work. Each time I look at my diploma, I remember that I am still a student, still learning every day how to be human. Send an e-mail. Write a letter. Kiss your mom. Hug your dad.
Get a life in which you are generous. Look around at the azaleas making fuchsia star bursts in spring; look at the full moon hanging silver in a black sky on a cold night. And realize that life is glorious, and that you have no business taking it for granted. Care so deeply about its goodness that you want to spread it around. Take the money you would have spent on beers in a bar and give it to charity. Work in a soup kitchen. Tutor a seventh-grader.
All of us want to do well. But if we do not do good, too, then doing well will never be enough...
Life is short. Remember that, too.
I have always know this. Or almost always. I’ve been living with mortality for decades, since my mother died of ovarian cancer when she was forty and I was nineteen. And this is what I learned from that experience: that knowledge of our own mortality is the greatest gift God ever gives us.
It is easy to waste our lives: our days, our hours, our minutes. It is so easy to take for granted the pale new growth on an evergreen, the sheen of the limestone on Fifth Avenue, the color of our kids’ eyes, the way the melody in a symphony rises and falls and disappears and rises again. It is so easy to exist instead of live. Unless you know there is a clock ticking. So many of us changed our lives when we heard a biological clock and decided to have kids. But that sound is a murmur compared to the tolling of mortality...
I learned to live many years ago. Something really bad happened to me. something that changed my life in ways that, if I had a choice, it would never have been changed at all. And what I learned from it is what, today, sometimes seems to be the hardest lesson of all.
I learned to love the journey, not the destination. I learned that this is not a dress rehearsal, and that today is the only guarantee you get...
Anyone can learn all these things, out there in the world. You just need to get a life, a real life, a full life, a professional life, yes, but another life, too. School never ends. The classroom is everywhere. The exam comes at the end. No man ever said on his deathbed I wish I had spent more time at the office.
I found one of my best teachers on the boardwalk at Coney Island many years ago. It was December, and I was doing a story about how the homeless suffer in the winter months. He and I sat on the edge of the wooden supports, dangling our feet over the side, and he told me about his schedule, panhandling the boulevard when the summer crowds were gone, sleeping in a church when the temperature went below freezing, hiding from the police amid the Tilt-A-Whril and the Cyclone and some of the other seasonal rides.
But he told me that most of the time he stayed on the boardwalk, facing the water, just the way we were sitting now, even when it got cold and he had to wear his newspapers after he read them. And I asked him why. Why didn’t he go to one of the shelters? Why didn’t he check himself into the hospital for detox?
And he stared out at the ocean and said, “Look at the view, young lady. Look at the view.”
And every day, in some little way, I try to do what he said. I try to look at the view. That’s all. Words of wisdom from a man with not a dime in his pocket, no place to go, nowhere to be. Look at the view. When I do what he said, I am never disappointed.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Say Hello To All Whom You Love
An old friend, a man with a heart as big as the sky, ended a recent email to me with this sentence: "Say hello to all whom you love." The words do not trip off the tongue, but I cannot think of a more beautiful message.
Say hello to all whom you love.
Say hello to all whom you love.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Thomas Hardy on Women, Men, Love, and Marriage
Stonington, Connecticut resident Bill Emberton gave a wonderful talk on the British novelist and poet Thomas Hardy and his first wife, Emma, at the Stonington Free Library on January 6, 2011. Evidently, Hardy had a somewhat cynical view of women, men, love, and the institution of marriage. The passages below are from three of Hardy’s early novels and were presented in a slide from Bill's talk.
Desperate Remedies (1871)
How exquisite a sweetheart is at first! Perhaps . . . the only bliss in the course of love which can truly be called Eden-like is that which prevails immediately after doubt has ended and before reflection has set in—at the dawn of the emotion, when it is not recognized by name, and before the consideration of what this love is, has given birth to the consideration of what difficulties it tends to create. . . .
A Pair of Blue Eyes (1873)
Every woman who makes a permanent impression on a man is usually recalled to his mind’s eye as she appeared in one particular scene, which seems ordained to be her special form of manifestation throughout the pages of his memory.
Far from the Madding Crowd (1874)
It appears that ordinary men take wives because possession is not possible without marriage, and that ordinary women accept husbands because marriage is not possible without possession; with totally differing aims the method is the same on both sides.
Desperate Remedies (1871)
How exquisite a sweetheart is at first! Perhaps . . . the only bliss in the course of love which can truly be called Eden-like is that which prevails immediately after doubt has ended and before reflection has set in—at the dawn of the emotion, when it is not recognized by name, and before the consideration of what this love is, has given birth to the consideration of what difficulties it tends to create. . . .
A Pair of Blue Eyes (1873)
Every woman who makes a permanent impression on a man is usually recalled to his mind’s eye as she appeared in one particular scene, which seems ordained to be her special form of manifestation throughout the pages of his memory.
Far from the Madding Crowd (1874)
It appears that ordinary men take wives because possession is not possible without marriage, and that ordinary women accept husbands because marriage is not possible without possession; with totally differing aims the method is the same on both sides.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Memorable Quotes from Harold Jacobson's The Finkler Question
That was what it was to be a Jewess. Never mind the moist dark womanly mysteriousness. A Jewess was a woman who made even punctuation funny.
....”You say you want to be a Jew — well, the first thing you need to know is that Jewish men don’t go out without their wives or girlfriends. Unless they’re having an affair. Other than another woman’s flat there is nowhere for Jewish men to go. They don’t do pubs, they hate being seen uncompanioned at the theater, and they can’t eat on their own. Jewish men must have someone to talk to while they eat. They can’t do only one thing with their mouths.
“A halber emes ist a ganster lign,” he said.
“A half truth is a whole lie,” Hephzibah whispered to Truslove.
They found themselves walking away from the grave together. “My name is Emmy Oppenstein,” the woman said.
The two men introduced themselves to her. There were no handshakes. Treslove liked that. The Jews were good at making one occasion not like another, he thought. The protocol alarmed him but he admired it. Good to divide this from that. Why is this night different from all other nights. Or was it good? They pursued difference to the grave.
....”You say you want to be a Jew — well, the first thing you need to know is that Jewish men don’t go out without their wives or girlfriends. Unless they’re having an affair. Other than another woman’s flat there is nowhere for Jewish men to go. They don’t do pubs, they hate being seen uncompanioned at the theater, and they can’t eat on their own. Jewish men must have someone to talk to while they eat. They can’t do only one thing with their mouths.
“A halber emes ist a ganster lign,” he said.
“A half truth is a whole lie,” Hephzibah whispered to Truslove.
They found themselves walking away from the grave together. “My name is Emmy Oppenstein,” the woman said.
The two men introduced themselves to her. There were no handshakes. Treslove liked that. The Jews were good at making one occasion not like another, he thought. The protocol alarmed him but he admired it. Good to divide this from that. Why is this night different from all other nights. Or was it good? They pursued difference to the grave.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A Non-believer's Christmas
I am a non-believer. I was baptized when my parents were briefly Presbyterian, but I received no religious education and was not confirmed as a member of any Christian denomination. At times during my youth we actually attended services, most consistently during my high school years in the mid 1960s, when my mother took us to the Unitarian Church in Urbana, Illinois. Urbana was a university town, and all our friends were liberals. The counterculture revolution and anti-war movement were under way, and everything was affected by the social forces in the air. Sermons at our church were more political than religious, and long before the current controversy about secularizing Christmas, our Unitarian congregation favored hymns and Christmas carols that were stripped of any references to god.
Naturally, I became an agnostic. Like most people, I held fast to the religion of my upbringing, which was hardly any religion at all. But it is difficult to avoid membership in the culture that surrounds you. Anyone brought up without religion in the United States is culturally a Protestant Christian by default. Like most of the families we knew, mine celebrated Christmas, sang carols, read the nativity story from the Bible on Christmas Eve, and occasionally attended church. The rest of the year you would never know what, if any, religion we espoused, because most of the time we espoused none at all.
There is much to like about Christmas. It is a holiday that celebrates children: the birth of a child and, through the Santa Claus story, the delight of children with the gift of toys. The innocence and promise of childhood are always worthy of celebration. Although a kind of self-interested and unrestrained consumerism is rampant at Christmas, we are often urged to “Remember the Neediest!” and give to charity at this time of year. It is a time when we all give to others. In addition, Christmas approximately marks the Winter Solstice, when the days begin to get longer. Candles and evergreens bring light and life into homes darkened by winter’s long night. This part of Christmas marks an important seasonal turning point and makes a connection to many ancient celebrations of the lengthening of the light.
And there is music. Yes, it is predominantly religious music, but I have no problem with that. I have always loved singing in church. For a time when my kids were young, my then-wife took them to Episcopal services, and though everyone knew I was a non-believer, I often came along to be a good sport. Singing hymns was my favorite part of the service, and I took to it with great enthusiasm. More recently, I have attended Jewish services on occasion, and where the siddur provided transliterations of the Hebrew, I did my best to sign along in a language I do not speak. My kids have been singers most of their lives, and I recently attended a Lessons and Carols concert to hear my daughter sing with her college choir. As is common for me, I got teary at several points while singing the carols. Religious music evokes emotion, and although I cannot endorse its religious sources, the melodies and the generosity of spirit in the lyrics move me like anyone else.
When it comes to religion, I am the kind of person who often seems to be hanging around clubs he cannot bring himself to join. Not quite the same as Woody Allen’s problem (“I'd never join a club that would allow a person like me to become a member”), but we are both outsiders. In the case of Christianity—and in contrast to Judaism—I am fully entitled to the cultural Christianity of my birth. I will never be a religious Christian—or a religious anything—but I am entitled to my Christian secularism if I so choose. So I can fully enjoy Christmas in the way that suits me. I may be an outsider to religion, but I am not an outsider to Christmas. I often find the sense of expectation surrounding the giving and receiving of presents somewhat stressful. There is the race to get everything purchased and wrapped and the worry that someone will be disappointed with what they get. As a result, I feel a great sense of relief once Christmas morning has passed. But everything else about Christmas is something I can choose to enjoy or not, and there is much to enjoy. It will never be for me what it is for a religious Christian, but I am happy to have the chance to celebrate Christmas in my fashion.
Naturally, I became an agnostic. Like most people, I held fast to the religion of my upbringing, which was hardly any religion at all. But it is difficult to avoid membership in the culture that surrounds you. Anyone brought up without religion in the United States is culturally a Protestant Christian by default. Like most of the families we knew, mine celebrated Christmas, sang carols, read the nativity story from the Bible on Christmas Eve, and occasionally attended church. The rest of the year you would never know what, if any, religion we espoused, because most of the time we espoused none at all.
There is much to like about Christmas. It is a holiday that celebrates children: the birth of a child and, through the Santa Claus story, the delight of children with the gift of toys. The innocence and promise of childhood are always worthy of celebration. Although a kind of self-interested and unrestrained consumerism is rampant at Christmas, we are often urged to “Remember the Neediest!” and give to charity at this time of year. It is a time when we all give to others. In addition, Christmas approximately marks the Winter Solstice, when the days begin to get longer. Candles and evergreens bring light and life into homes darkened by winter’s long night. This part of Christmas marks an important seasonal turning point and makes a connection to many ancient celebrations of the lengthening of the light.
And there is music. Yes, it is predominantly religious music, but I have no problem with that. I have always loved singing in church. For a time when my kids were young, my then-wife took them to Episcopal services, and though everyone knew I was a non-believer, I often came along to be a good sport. Singing hymns was my favorite part of the service, and I took to it with great enthusiasm. More recently, I have attended Jewish services on occasion, and where the siddur provided transliterations of the Hebrew, I did my best to sign along in a language I do not speak. My kids have been singers most of their lives, and I recently attended a Lessons and Carols concert to hear my daughter sing with her college choir. As is common for me, I got teary at several points while singing the carols. Religious music evokes emotion, and although I cannot endorse its religious sources, the melodies and the generosity of spirit in the lyrics move me like anyone else.
When it comes to religion, I am the kind of person who often seems to be hanging around clubs he cannot bring himself to join. Not quite the same as Woody Allen’s problem (“I'd never join a club that would allow a person like me to become a member”), but we are both outsiders. In the case of Christianity—and in contrast to Judaism—I am fully entitled to the cultural Christianity of my birth. I will never be a religious Christian—or a religious anything—but I am entitled to my Christian secularism if I so choose. So I can fully enjoy Christmas in the way that suits me. I may be an outsider to religion, but I am not an outsider to Christmas. I often find the sense of expectation surrounding the giving and receiving of presents somewhat stressful. There is the race to get everything purchased and wrapped and the worry that someone will be disappointed with what they get. As a result, I feel a great sense of relief once Christmas morning has passed. But everything else about Christmas is something I can choose to enjoy or not, and there is much to enjoy. It will never be for me what it is for a religious Christian, but I am happy to have the chance to celebrate Christmas in my fashion.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Having a Jewish Heart But Not a Jewish Soul: The Problem of Conversion to Secular Judaism
In her book, Choosing a Jewish Life, Anita Diamant recounts a famous episode of Louis Brandeis’ life:
For the secular person who would like to convert to religious secularism, there is a parallel but opposite roadblock. The very term religious secularism may sound like a non sequitur, a contradiction in terms, but there are many secular people who would, nonetheless, align themselves with a religion—most often the religion of their birth. Many Jews, in particular, claim both their Jewishness and their secularism. In 2004, the Washington Post reported that 80 percent of Jews in Israel were secular. The percentage is undoubtedly much lower in the United States, but here, too, secular Jewish life is common.
But here is the rub. Just as conversion to the Judaism of one’s birth is impossible; so too is conversion from some other faith—or none—to secular Judaism. Conversion to Judaism is a particularly serious business. Jews are prohibited from proselytizing, and to convert you must demonstrate a strong desire to be Jewish and work hard to accomplish the goal. So the person who is born Jewish is granted the choice of being a religious or a secular Jew. Though it might never have occurred to him to be anything but a religious Jew, this was a choice that Brandeis retained. But for the secular person who is not born Jewish, Jewish secularism is another kind of impossible conversion. The path to secular Judaism must go through belief, and if belief in the Jewish religion is impossible, then Jewish secularism is unattainable.
While this may be frustrating for a small group of secular non-Jews who are attracted to Jewish life—people who might be said to have a Jewish heart but not a Jewish soul—I think, in the end, there is something fitting about it. Judaism is, after all, a religion. There is a Jewish culture, too, but it is a culture that grows out of a people with a common religion. It is one thing to be born into a religion and then, at some point in your life, decide that the religion does not work for you. This is a question that resides at an appropriately level. A question about whether or not to choose a religious life.
The secular person who would like to adopt the culture of a religion and who may also be drawn—in a spiritual but not truly religious way—to the teachings of the religion is not struggling with questions at the same level. He or she wrestles with a less central kind of life choice. In most cases, the secular person made the decision about a religious or non-religious life long ago. As a result, I think it is perfectly appropriate that the rabbis draw the line. Judaism is a religion. The synagogue door is open. You may come in and sit with the congregation. But the person who is not born Jewish cannot call him or herself a Jew without adopting the religion.
A story is told about Louis Brandeis (1856-1941), who was a student at Harvard Law School at a time when there were explicit limits on what Jews could hope to achieve. Quotas were in effect and many law offices were completely closed to Jewish attorneys. When Brandeis was in school, his colleagues would say, "Brandeis, you're brilliant. If you weren't a Jew, you could end up on the Supreme Court. Why don't you convert? Then all of your problems would be solved."
Brandeis did not respond to such comments, but on the occasion of his official introduction to an exclusive honor society at the law school, Brandeis took the podium and announced, "I am sorry I was born a Jew." His words were greeted with enthusiastic applause, shouts, and cheers. But when the noise died down he continued. "I'm sorry I was born a Jew, but only because I wish I had the privilege of choosing Judaism on my own."
The initial response of stunned silence slowly gave way to awed applause. Ultimately, his anti-Semitic peers rose and gave him a standing ovation. In 1916, Louis Brandeis became the first Jew appointed to the United States Supreme Court.Brandeis was, of course, a religious man. And he was right. Conversion is only possible when moving from one religion to another or from a state of non-belief to belief. If, like Brandeis, you happen to be born into the religion you love, you cannot enjoy the additional privilege of deliberately choosing the religion you love.
For the secular person who would like to convert to religious secularism, there is a parallel but opposite roadblock. The very term religious secularism may sound like a non sequitur, a contradiction in terms, but there are many secular people who would, nonetheless, align themselves with a religion—most often the religion of their birth. Many Jews, in particular, claim both their Jewishness and their secularism. In 2004, the Washington Post reported that 80 percent of Jews in Israel were secular. The percentage is undoubtedly much lower in the United States, but here, too, secular Jewish life is common.
But here is the rub. Just as conversion to the Judaism of one’s birth is impossible; so too is conversion from some other faith—or none—to secular Judaism. Conversion to Judaism is a particularly serious business. Jews are prohibited from proselytizing, and to convert you must demonstrate a strong desire to be Jewish and work hard to accomplish the goal. So the person who is born Jewish is granted the choice of being a religious or a secular Jew. Though it might never have occurred to him to be anything but a religious Jew, this was a choice that Brandeis retained. But for the secular person who is not born Jewish, Jewish secularism is another kind of impossible conversion. The path to secular Judaism must go through belief, and if belief in the Jewish religion is impossible, then Jewish secularism is unattainable.
While this may be frustrating for a small group of secular non-Jews who are attracted to Jewish life—people who might be said to have a Jewish heart but not a Jewish soul—I think, in the end, there is something fitting about it. Judaism is, after all, a religion. There is a Jewish culture, too, but it is a culture that grows out of a people with a common religion. It is one thing to be born into a religion and then, at some point in your life, decide that the religion does not work for you. This is a question that resides at an appropriately level. A question about whether or not to choose a religious life.
The secular person who would like to adopt the culture of a religion and who may also be drawn—in a spiritual but not truly religious way—to the teachings of the religion is not struggling with questions at the same level. He or she wrestles with a less central kind of life choice. In most cases, the secular person made the decision about a religious or non-religious life long ago. As a result, I think it is perfectly appropriate that the rabbis draw the line. Judaism is a religion. The synagogue door is open. You may come in and sit with the congregation. But the person who is not born Jewish cannot call him or herself a Jew without adopting the religion.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
The Ritual of the Dinner Party
Arrivals: Kisses, handshakes, the discarding of coats and purses.
Before: Drinks, snacks, getting to know the other guests, activity in the kitchen. The host(s) moving about while the guests sit together or kibitz in the kitchen.
During: The table, candlelight, food, drink, conversation.
After: Coffee, tea, dessert, more talk.
Departures: Kisses, handshakes, the gathering of coats and purses.
The phases of this ritual are designed to prolong contact over several hours. The dinner party accomplishes the simple function of bringing people together around food, but the different stages of the evening also provide natural breaks—points at which diners can change conversational partners or adopt different roles: helping in the kitchen, bringing things to the table, clearing, or jumping into someone else’s conversation to provide the missing details of a story. The familiarity of the ritual provides a comfortable foundation for various forms of risk-taking: the outrageous statement; the risque joke; the concerned but probing question; the tenderly offered confession. The dinner party is neither trivial—as in the case of the cocktail party, where encounters are brief and conversation is often superficial—nor ponderous. The different phases of the evening and the varying roles adopted by the participants keep the evening going.
Before: Drinks, snacks, getting to know the other guests, activity in the kitchen. The host(s) moving about while the guests sit together or kibitz in the kitchen.
During: The table, candlelight, food, drink, conversation.
After: Coffee, tea, dessert, more talk.
Departures: Kisses, handshakes, the gathering of coats and purses.
The phases of this ritual are designed to prolong contact over several hours. The dinner party accomplishes the simple function of bringing people together around food, but the different stages of the evening also provide natural breaks—points at which diners can change conversational partners or adopt different roles: helping in the kitchen, bringing things to the table, clearing, or jumping into someone else’s conversation to provide the missing details of a story. The familiarity of the ritual provides a comfortable foundation for various forms of risk-taking: the outrageous statement; the risque joke; the concerned but probing question; the tenderly offered confession. The dinner party is neither trivial—as in the case of the cocktail party, where encounters are brief and conversation is often superficial—nor ponderous. The different phases of the evening and the varying roles adopted by the participants keep the evening going.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Memorable Quotes from Jonathan Franzen's Freedom
She knew that you could love somebody more than anything and still not love the person all that much, if you were busy with other things. (p. 42)
“I know essentially nothing about sex,” Walter confessed.
“Oh, well,” she said, “it’s not very complicated.”
And so began the happiest years of their life. (p. 129)
“It’s good to have friends in life,” she said. “If you want to have friends, you have to remember that nobody’s perfect.” (p. 137)
For the prosecution: The problem wasn’t between Walter and Joey. The problem was between Patty and Walter, and she knew it.
For the defense: She loves Walter!
For the prosecution: The evidence suggests otherwise.
For the defense: Well in that case, Walter doesn’t love her, either. He doesn’t love the real her. He loves some wrong idea of her.
For the prosecution: That would be convenient if only it were true. Unfortunately for Patty, he didn’t marry her in spite of who she was, he married her because of it. Nice people don’t necessarily fall in love with nice people.
For the defense: It isn’t fair to say she doesn’t love him!
For the prosecution: If she can’t behave herself, it doesn’t matter if she loves him. (pp. 147-148)
...there came a stretch of minutes in which they lay and held each other in the quiet majesty of long marriage, forgot themselves in shared sadness and forgiveness for everything they’d inflicted on each other, and rested. (p. 330)
Meanwhile the country was at war, but it was an odd sort of war in which, within a rounding error, the only casualties were on the other side. (p. 399)
And it was a strange thing to feel, but he definitely felt it: when he emerged from the bathroom with the ring on his ring finger, and Jenna rushed past him and then reeled out again, squealing and cursing the stench, he was a different person. He could see this person so clearly, it was like standing outside himself. He was the person who’d handled his own shit to get his wedding ring back. This wasn’t the person he’d thought he was, or would have chosen to be if he’d been free to choose, but there was something comforting and liberating about being an actual definite someone, rather than a collection of contradictory potential someones. (p. 432)
“I know essentially nothing about sex,” Walter confessed.
“Oh, well,” she said, “it’s not very complicated.”
And so began the happiest years of their life. (p. 129)
“It’s good to have friends in life,” she said. “If you want to have friends, you have to remember that nobody’s perfect.” (p. 137)
For the prosecution: The problem wasn’t between Walter and Joey. The problem was between Patty and Walter, and she knew it.
For the defense: She loves Walter!
For the prosecution: The evidence suggests otherwise.
For the defense: Well in that case, Walter doesn’t love her, either. He doesn’t love the real her. He loves some wrong idea of her.
For the prosecution: That would be convenient if only it were true. Unfortunately for Patty, he didn’t marry her in spite of who she was, he married her because of it. Nice people don’t necessarily fall in love with nice people.
For the defense: It isn’t fair to say she doesn’t love him!
For the prosecution: If she can’t behave herself, it doesn’t matter if she loves him. (pp. 147-148)
...there came a stretch of minutes in which they lay and held each other in the quiet majesty of long marriage, forgot themselves in shared sadness and forgiveness for everything they’d inflicted on each other, and rested. (p. 330)
Meanwhile the country was at war, but it was an odd sort of war in which, within a rounding error, the only casualties were on the other side. (p. 399)
And it was a strange thing to feel, but he definitely felt it: when he emerged from the bathroom with the ring on his ring finger, and Jenna rushed past him and then reeled out again, squealing and cursing the stench, he was a different person. He could see this person so clearly, it was like standing outside himself. He was the person who’d handled his own shit to get his wedding ring back. This wasn’t the person he’d thought he was, or would have chosen to be if he’d been free to choose, but there was something comforting and liberating about being an actual definite someone, rather than a collection of contradictory potential someones. (p. 432)
Saturday, November 06, 2010
It Isn't Socks
For me it isn't socks but pencils. Somewhere there is a log cabin's worth of Ticonderogas I've lost.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Modern Awkwardnesses
Needing to go to the bathroom in the middle of having a filling replaced, which led to a disorienting walk down a long hallway with most of my face covered by a red rubber dental dam. Of course, the moment I started my trip to the bathroom, the path filled up with people, including my hygienist and several startled patients.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
"There was this girl..."
I recently watched a documentary about Daniel Ellsberg, the man who leaked The Pentagon Papers during the Vietnam War and helped move the nation towards the end of that dark episode. As I watched I was reminded of a basic principle of left-wing politics of the 1960s and 70s. Many men first became involved in radical politics because of a woman. Ellsberg was a veteran of the Vietnam war who had married the daughter of a career soldier. But his second wife was a left-winger, and, soon after they began dating, he was accompanying her to antiwar demonstrations. He released the Pentagon Papers a year after they were married.
I have always been a liberal, and during my senior year of high school, I rode a bus to the March on the Pentagon, a large anti-Vietnam War protest in Washington, DC. But my only foray into old-fashion Marxism came during my college years, at the suggestion of my then girlfriend. She convinced me—at least temporarily—that I should get involved with the Young Socialist Alliance, the youth wing of the Socialist Workers Party, a Trotskyist group that is now largely credited with screwing up the antiwar movement and inadvertently delaying the end of the war. At my girlfriend’s suggestion, I drove with two other guys from Carbondale, Illinois to a YSA convention in Houston, Texas to watch scratchy silent films of Leon Trotsky—who was by then long dead—standing on a wall delivering dramatic oratory. Also, for the first time in my life, I heard the International sung by a large hall full of people. Soon my brief involvement with Russian-style socialism ended, and not long after that, my girlfriend and I parted ways.
Several friends report similar stories. When asked how they first got involved in left-wing politics, they smile and say, “Well, there was this girl....”
I have always been a liberal, and during my senior year of high school, I rode a bus to the March on the Pentagon, a large anti-Vietnam War protest in Washington, DC. But my only foray into old-fashion Marxism came during my college years, at the suggestion of my then girlfriend. She convinced me—at least temporarily—that I should get involved with the Young Socialist Alliance, the youth wing of the Socialist Workers Party, a Trotskyist group that is now largely credited with screwing up the antiwar movement and inadvertently delaying the end of the war. At my girlfriend’s suggestion, I drove with two other guys from Carbondale, Illinois to a YSA convention in Houston, Texas to watch scratchy silent films of Leon Trotsky—who was by then long dead—standing on a wall delivering dramatic oratory. Also, for the first time in my life, I heard the International sung by a large hall full of people. Soon my brief involvement with Russian-style socialism ended, and not long after that, my girlfriend and I parted ways.
Several friends report similar stories. When asked how they first got involved in left-wing politics, they smile and say, “Well, there was this girl....”
Saturday, October 23, 2010
From Our Town
Emily:....Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?
Stage Manager: (Quietly) No— Saints and poets maybe—they do some.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Making a Difference In Someone's Life
I think this is the greatest joy of all. Knowing that you have made an important contribution to someone else's life. The post below is from a blog written by Liza Talusan, a former student of mine. Liza is a very special person who spends much of her time working for social justice. Unfortunately, Liza's family has a high rate of cancer, and she carries a gene that greatly increases her chances of getting breast cancer. After long contemplation she has decided to have a double mastectomy next month to increase her chances of survival. Liza's blog, Marathon B4 Mastectomy, is an account of her personal journey. The following entry in her blog is one of the nicest gifts anyone has ever given me:
REDEFINED
October 13, 2010 by Liza
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