Our co-conspirator Vero posted her first essay in a very long while yesterday, which gave me an excuse to open a bottle of bubbly (not technically Champagne, but a California methode champanoise produced by a French house, which given the lingering effects of Trump era tariffs is an affordable and more than delicious substitute for the good stuff). Generally speaking, one need no more excuse to drink good Champagne than a day ending in “y”, but it is nice to reserve it for a special occasion.
Continue reading “Right”Epistemic Interlude
For months now, I’ve been silent. I am sorry that I couldn’t find the words to share how I felt. Because to be frank, I’ve been wondering: what ‘right’ do I possess to voice my perspective? What makes my view on life, on social affairs, on ethics something ‘worthy’ of being shared? How can I know that my ideas are ‘good’ and ‘important’, at least enough to deserve the energy and discipline it takes to come to the screen and write my innermost thoughts? More importantly, how can I justify asking you to focus your attention on my words instead of on all of life’s other pressures and pleasures available to you? How can I justify asking that of you?
Continue reading “Epistemic Interlude”Habitual
As a child, I was encouraged to cultivate good habits and discouraged from acquiring bad ones. An example of a good habit might have been brushing my teeth each night before I went to bed; an example of a bad habit might have been eating too much sugary food. Another good habit was taking regular exercise; another bad habit was smoking cigarettes. From a child’s perspective, good habits always needed to be cultivated – that is, they needed regular work and attention – because they were not things that one would have done instinctively. Given the choice, plenty of sugar and no toothpaste would seem far more enjoyable. Likewise, the appeal of bad habits called for an effort of resistance, since they held out the promise of immediate gratification, whatever worries one might have about long-term harms. I learned that nurturing the right habits is hard work, requiring us to swim against the flow of pure contentment, against our natural predilection for easy pleasures.
As an adult, I have come to regard this approach as too simplistic. For sure, it matters that we make good choices about daily health and hygiene, but it matters more that our habits – both of behaviour and thought – are truly ours, that is, that they are chosen by us rather than adopted unreflectively. Habitual ways of thinking and acting are bad for us not just when they lead us into foolish or unhealthy actions, but also when they are acquired without thoughtful consent. Just as the smoke from someone else’s cigarette can damage our lungs, so too the passive acquisition of habits can damage our character.
Continue reading “Habitual”Exchange rate
The other day I was for some reason reading about the early Egyptian dynasties and – Wikipedia being terribly well organized for these sorts of things – kept going back in time until I struck pre-history. The Egyptians started building monuments a very, very long time ago – call it, oh, six thousand years – and by “monuments” I mean spectacular creations which had to harness the productive output of some ridiculous proportion of society. The thought occurred to me “how much did these cost?” and immediately it dawned on me that they cost nothing. That is to say, the very notion of cost was totally irrelevant to ancient Egyptian despots. It likely didn’t even make any sense; what do you mean, something “costs” a certain amount? Amount of what?
Continue reading “Exchange rate”Migrative
At the start of this year, my aunt died. A couple of months previously she had celebrated her one hundredth birthday. I did not know her well because she lived most of her life in the Canadian Province of Saskatchewan. I first met her in my mid-teens when she returned to the Britain for a visit, her first trip back in thirty years. In her seventies and eighties, she returned a few times to see old friends and to visit her sister, who is my mother. I remember her sense of humour, for example, asking advice of my daughter, then in her early teens, on whether she should get a navel-piercing or a tattoo to celebrate her ninetieth birthday. She told us some entertaining stories about her escapades in London in the 1930s. It turns out that young women in her day used similar tricks to charm their way into bars and get drinks bought for them when underage as they do nowadays. In the early 1940s she met, fell in love with, and married a Canadian soldier, who was later injured fighting in Italy. At the end of the war, she emigrated from her home in South London to Canada, disembarking the boat at Halifax and moving to Rouleau and later Moose Jaw, where she spent most of her life, and finally, five years ago, to a retirement home in Medicine Hat.
Last week, as I was walking along the main road that runs south from Borough Market, I saw a blue plaque fixed to the wall, memorialising the birthplace of John Harvard. Like my aunt, he travelled from Southwark to North America, although he went three hundred years before her, and not as a war-bride but as a minister of religion. Unlike my aunt, he died young, aged thirty-one and is mostly remembered now because in his will he left some books and a few pounds to establish a small college in Massachusetts.
Continue reading “Migrative”