[lit-ideas] Sunday Wotsit
- From: David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 26 Feb 2012 11:51:26 -0800
At dinner I was talking with someone about Ellis Island's tendency to re-name
immigrants. "Oh," she said, "my maiden name was one of those. It's a garbled
version of the Czech for, 'Did you ask me my name?'" This small tale amused me
so much it cheered me through a whole day's small stresses. The facts of life
and their interpretation are like E.H. Carr on history, a hard core and a soft
pulp of interpretation. Given the choice, we try to set up house somewhere out
of the wind, in a location that allows us to sleep comfortably at night. But
we live with the knowledge that, as happened here last week, on a sidewalk
under a bridge there are people lying wherever they can, people who risk
getting shot by, "joy riders" or plain old bad Samaritans. We also know that
somewhere in an assisted living place humans who raped, or slaughtered war
prisoners in fits of rage, members of the Stasi or Nazis or some of Stalin's
henchmen still sit sipping soup. They, too, occupy the earth. And there are
Hutus and Serbs waiting to take their place. The book summarizing current
research on happiness says that the right response to all this, what makes most
sense psychologically, is to try to modify one's natural disposition, to nudge
it a notch or two north (or maybe, if sunshine and happiness are linked,
south?) up the happiness scale. "Pursuit" is entirely the wrong word for
what's possible; there's no chasing happiness in the sense of fox hunting or
trophy winning. The chips will fall. Happiness is calling the dog over,
tapping one's foot to give permission, letting the pleasure with which he
devours the unexpected treat also be yours.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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