John Steinbeck once wrote that “there is a line of old men standing on the edge of the Pacific, angry at the ocean for stopping them.”  He was, of course, referring to those who spent their youth as explorers, trackers, soldiers, cowboys – men who bridled at the very notion of remaining in the long-tamed East, preferring, instead, to strike out into the vast unknown – the West – brimming with possibility and danger.  Many took up the call to embrace Manifest Destiny.  It was in a spirit of American nationalism that they guided their horses where the sun set, jaws clenched against whatever nature or God would throw at them – but hopeful.  If America was a place where a person could reinvent themselves then the West was that same place many times over.  In America, a person could be another self; in the West, that self could be mythic. 

What happens, though, when a human event of such resounding magnitude suddenly stops?  The West was eventually won, its lands conquered, its first denizens sadly, so sadly removed and sequestered.  But the players remained – grayed, perhaps, but there, hearts beating, spirits charged with the elixir of complete and total freedom – and they now had to contend with borders and property lines, the rule of law and, of course, the sea – the vast Pacific Ocean that halted their glorious momentum. 

In Steinbeck’s imagination, they formed a line; in my imagination, they wept and begrudged their advanced years. 

The sea plays an important role in a work by one of Steinbeck’s contemporaries, Ernest Hemingway.  In his 1952 novella, The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago, an old fisherman, pushes out into the sea in hopes of a good catch.  His luck is down before he finally manages to land a marlin, too big for him to haul onto his skiff.  He ends up lashing the huge fish to the side of his boat.  As he makes his way toward land, however, the marlin is beset with sharks, and by the time he arrives on shore, nothing but a skeleton remains. 

The old man’s gargantuan efforts, in the end, were futile.  The sea eventually won.  And time – ever persistent -- never halts, never gives quarter. 

On the surface, it would remain a strange and perplexing irony that a mighty spirit is housed, as it were, in a mortal, aging body.  Everybody yearns for new horizons, mountains to climb, fish to catch, but how does this innate desire exist next to the austere realities of graying hair, crow's-feet, and the occasional aches and pains?  These realities cannot be circumnavigated, after all.  If we are lucky, we get to face them.  But even so, the juxtaposition boggles the mind.  As the years stack up, the mismatch steadily grows. 

My grampa guarded German prisoners during the war.  He was not sent overseas to the European theatre because he had poor eyesight.  His leaders figured he would be a casualty on the first day.  His battle would be fought in Louisiana, giving work orders to German prisoners who still believed in the Reich.  He was fond of telling and retelling this story to me and the other kids, and we, even then, sometimes wondered if he was experiencing survivor’s guilt.  His good friend, Monroe or Mon, for short, was killed in France, and he had known other soldiers who had fought in Europe.  Even so, that was his lot – his journey Westward – so he made the most of it down South as it were.   

What was his sea, however?  What eventually stopped him?  What rendered any more effort futile? 

It is difficult to say. Who truly knows a man’s heart but his Creator, after all? Perhaps the point of all of this is that there will be seas: inexplicable forces that dwarf the soul and prompt the tough questions. Indeed, the real battle may not be the sea itself but how the sea is handled. Do we become angry like Steinbeck’s old men? Despondent like Hemingway’s? Or do we tell stories again and again, savoring the salt air, preparing others to do the same? 

“A Modest Proposal” by Jonathan Swift 

Swift’s 1729 essay in which he proposes that, to alleviate their economic troubles, the poor people of Ireland should sell their children to the well-to-do for food, is standard fare when it comes to teaching satire. The Anglo-Irish writer lays out a quasi-reasonable argument and then happily suggests recipes for how the children be prepared kitchens across the land. Satire, of course, is humorous exaggeration meant to expose some social and/or economic ill. It is never meant to be taken seriously. The absurd embellishments exist to edify. Ireland at the time was suffering terribly, and Swift, quill in hand, took it upon himself to point this out to the world. 

Fair enough. He teaches us that wild humor can be an effective tool for positive change. But what happens when the joke is missed? 

Most of my students get the rib-nudging; however, increasingly, I have students who seriously consider Swift’s suggestion. Why not? they argue. It would alleviate so many burdens of the poor, and it would be a supply of, as is so common to say these days, protein. They concur with Swift’s jocular alter-ego with a straight face. It is all very plain to them. Eat the children. Have a better life. 

At these junctures, I am tempted to pivot to a conversation about so-called reproductive rights and the ongoing debate we are having about it. Swift’s essay does lend itself to a discussion about children and the choice some make not to have them because they see them as hindrances to a happy, carefree life. I hold back, however. The issue is important, of course, but I imagine they have already tackled it many times in other classes. So, instead, we talk about utilitarianism – the belief that any action is right if it benefits the majority. In Swift’s proposal, the majority consists of the wealthy and the parents who cannot provide adequately for their children. We might also include anybody with a stomach and the intrepidness to try, shall we say, new dishes and cuisines. From this viewpoint alone, eating children makes perfect sense. Any sense of morality is suspended, and all decisions are made according to usefulness and cold practicality. 

Case closed. Fire up the grills. 

A part of me is not surprised by this development. The moral compass of many has gone haywire, its needle spinning like mad. Another part of me, however, wonders if this curious and undeniably disturbing standpoint has something to do with how many are brought up to see themselves a mere contributors to society – that a person’s worth is entirely determined by what they can give, what they do. A person’s job is his or her identity. There is nothing else. No dreams. No soul. Just a body that can perform some action. Beauty is only good if it pays. Love is only valuable if it is a means toward a satisfactory end. 

A careful look at the Gospels reveals a different model. At the beginning of His ministry, his baptism in the River Jordan, a voice from heaven declared: “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well-pleased.” Before Jesus healed the sick, dispelled evil spirits, multiplied loaves and fishes, and raised the dead, He was accepted. He then sustained Himself by engaging in various worshipful practices and gained significance by attracting a large following.  Eventually, He achieved what no one else could achieve on the cross and opened the doors to heaven to all who called then and calls now upon His name. The world, however, delivers a different message. We must first work hard to achieve success and the significance that comes with it. Once we do this, we oftentimes can only sustain ourselves through self-medication. Only then, if we are able to hold it all together, do we believe that we can finally find and enjoy acceptance. Acceptance comes first for Jesus. The world takes the opposing view that it should come last after years and years of hard labor. And these days, the world is very loud and pushy. It is no wonder that my students bend a knee to its pseudo-gospel. To be sure, it is no wonder why they put utility first and children, to include themselves, last. Their worth is tied to their ability to produce and nothing more. 

What does this tell us, therefore? 

Everything. The depression. The angst. The shiftlessness. The loss. If we instruct our youth to discern for their God-given vocation on this side of paradise and not necessarily the highest paying, most prestigious job then we might actually have a hand at forming human beings who know that they do not have to earn love – that they are accepted unconditionally. Perhaps then we would have those who could see the satire for what it is and never dream of the unthinkable even if it satiates a growling tummy. 

“Of all tyrannies,” C.S. Lewis writes, “a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive.”  Abusive power, in other words, sometimes comes in sheep’s clothing.  The twentieth century was no stranger to this phenomenon.  To be sure, it was an era of totalitarian regimes: the Nazis and the Communists taking center stage.  Lewis, the famed author of The Chronicles of Narnia, may have been referring to both, but even so, his observation still applies well after the violent destruction of one and the collapse of the other.  Ill-treatment at times comes with a caring smile albeit false and deceptive.  In his 1962 classic tale, Kesey details the sad and deranged experiences of a group of men who have been committed to a mental hospital.  McMurphy, the newest arrival and mentally fit jokester, immediately butts heads with Nurse Ratched – the head nurse who administers her duties with cold, unflinching austerity.  On one occasion, he stops doing his chores and sits down to watch a baseball game.  The others look on as they continue to sweep and polish the floor, waiting to see what happens.  They do not have to wait long.  Nurse Ratched “looks back at McMurphy and waits ... then gets up and goes to the steel door where the controls are, and she flips a switch and the TV picture swirls back into the gray.”  When McMurphy protests, her response is telling: “You are committed, you realize.  You are under the jurisdiction of me ... the staff.  Under jurisdiction and control.”  She holds up a clenched fist as she speaks, betraying something Kesey’s readers are left to wrestle with: To what extent is her role more about exerting power and less about giving care? 

Other examples abound in the novel.  McMurphy goes head-to-head with Nurse Ratched until he is eventually taken away for shock therapy, rendering him immediately docile.  No longer is he his own man; he is now institutionalized, feeble, fully and wholly compliant – exactly what Nurse Ratched wanted all along. 

Despots, we see in this book, come in all forms.  What is wily about this particular expression of tyranny is that it is so unexpected.  It is not obvious – no military uniform, no gun, no wild rants in front of throngs of angry citizens.  C.S. Lewis gave us insight into the regimes of the first part of the twentieth century, but Kesey is saying much more about what authoritarianism can look like in the late twentieth century and beyond.  Today, in our age of questionable quote unquote truth, one can easily surmise how simple it would be to slip into the jackboots of a tyrant without there being any jackboots at all.  Control of information – true or otherwise – means control of the narrative.  In Kesey’s book, McMurphy had one narrative and Nurse Ratched had another, and both were characterized by who had the reins.  Nurse Ratched, however, won out because brute force was on her side.  The lesson, perhaps?  Never mind the presentation – fatigues or pinafore apron, service cap or nurse’s cap – the lust for power can lurk anywhere and be possessed by anyone.  There are those who want to dominate others  --  be the boss, call the shots, dictate what does and what does not happen – and if they are not shouting their demands while pounding their desks, they are issuing commands with sweet, soft voices and unchanging smiles all, as they repeat ad nauseum, for our own good.  Only they, after all, know what’s best. 

In retrospect, it was an easy trap to fall into.  The loss of my father when I was nine-years old ignited in me the zeal to survive.  I mowed lawns.  I shoveled sidewalks and driveways.  I delivered papers.  I once even walked down to a local shop to ask for a job.  I had no idea what they produced, but I assured the bearded man that I could sweep up the sawdust – keep the place tidy.  I was turned away, of course.  I remember crying all the way home. 

It was in high school that I first discovered Emerson.  Emerson’s essay “Self-Reliance” was a treasure trove of excellent advice, and, at the time, it gave me a framework for how to envision my life.  On my own, I would make it.  On my own, I would find success.  Emerson writes, “trust thyself; every heart vibrates to that iron string.”  And that is what I did: trusted myself.  Emerson writes, “nothing can bring you peace but yourself.”  And I took that as gospel.  I looked inward.  Focused on myself.  Understood myself in opposition to the world.  To be sure, Emerson’s notion that “Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members” made me look upon every institution with disdain.  What were traditions to me but vestiges of another person’s worldview – old conclusions, ancient ideas.  I finished high school, I went to college and graduate school after that, letting Emerson’s ideas continue to shape who I was and, more importantly, who I wanted to become. 

The profound irony behind the fact that I was not alone in this endeavor escaped me. 

Emerson’s impact on American culture continues to be enormous.  This is the land of DYI or Do It Yourself, after all.  What age and circumstance has taught me, though, is that the “foolish consistency” that Emerson argues is the “hobgoblin of little minds” might really be something else altogether.  I am decidedly not saying that independent critical thinking should be avoided.  On the contrary, it should be embraced; I try to impart this message daily with my students.  I am, however, suspicious of grouping every consistency under the heading “foolish.”  Does the wheel always have to be reinvented, or can we – indeed, should we – find peace in trails that have long been blazed?  If it is true that we are standing on the shoulders of those who came before us, then why would we deem their contributions useless, silly, or otherwise undeserving of our careful attention? 

I was guilty of adopting this arguably arrogant approach, and I suffered the humbling consequences.  Thank God.  But I wonder about a society that is still very much energized by this particular ethic.  Does it need its own come to the altar moment – some submissive event?  Historically, wars and economic collapse served this purpose.  They remind us that we need one another – that we were made for one another and that doing it – life – all by yourself in the name of avoiding being a “little mind” pushes a person toward self-destruction.  The world is simply too big.  The problems, too complex.  Absolute self-reliance, therefore, is a pitfall we should all work diligently to steer clear of.  It is good to think for oneself.  It is bad to think of only oneself.  Casual observers would likely point out that our society is too far from the former and too close to the latter.  The result?  History would tell us if we would only stop willfully ignoring it.  

The In-Between by Hadley Vlahos 

Published by Ballantine Books 

Years ago, when my sweet grandmother lay on her deathbed in a room in a house her husband and brothers had built after the war, in rare moments of lucidity, she wondered aloud about the man sitting in the kitchen, waiting for her. He had simply shown up and was biding his time. No one else, of course, could see him, yet that made little difference. My grandmother was straddling two worlds, and in that moment, she could engage with both. 

In her book, The In-Between, Hadley Vlahos makes this observation, practically speaking, with each patient she serves. She is, after all, a hospice nurse who has borne witness to the passing from this life to the next more times than most anyone of us. Her patients, she writes, are visited by long-gone members of their family: spouses, parents, siblings, children, even friends. They stand at the foot of the bed, by the bedroom door. One patient even played hide and seek with a daughter who had drowned when she was two. The encounters are all matter-of-fact. No fear. No surprise. The loved one has merely returned. What cause is there for shock? 

The careful observer understands that the stories of our lives are populated by the individuals who come in and out of our orbit. We are imprinted by them and they by us, and as we get older, we begin to realize that the population of those who have gone on before us is remarkably large. Select a distant memory and ask yourself who is still with us. Recall a lesson learned. Does the sun still shine on the one who imparted it? The answers to these questions will vary, of course, according to each one of us. Our backgrounds are as unique as our fingerprints, but even so, we can all understand loss, and time is ultimately inescapable. The clock ticks. There is a final chapter to each of our stories. 

Or so the world would have us believe. 

Vlahos does well enough in approaching these visitation phenomena objectively, which is to say absent a Christian worldview. She is a professional and does not foist her beliefs on others. What’s more, she recognizes her inability to make an irreproachable conclusion. Her answer? To simply allow others to come to their own determination. Fair enough. But do these visitations suggest more, even demand more in terms of what we should accept about the ultimate trajectory of our story? Across the board, this seems to be the case. With almost all of her patients, the story continues albeit out of sight of those still wrapped in a mortal coil. This is true for both nonbelievers and believers – a universal experience, to be sure. 

Jesus says in John 5:24 that “whoever hears my words and believes him who sent me has eternal life.” The operative words here is “has” -- present tense, now, right at this moment. I cannot speak to the experiences had by nonbelievers upon their deaths. I know the grace of God is boundless and that His love pours forth to everybody. I can only offer a thought about the death of believers and the ones God permits to lovingly escort them to the great beyond. Our death is meant to be holy, and because holiness and love go hand-in-hand, it makes sense to me that those standing in the in-between would have a familiar face to greet them, making the passing seamless, peaceful – the hard, scary work already done on a cross. If we abide in faith, therefore, forever begins in an instant, which means that our story goes on and on. My grandmother knew this to be true. She mentioned something about seeing butterflies then died as the sun was coming up over York Hill. The pasture was radiant, my mother tells me. I wish I had been there with her but know she nor my grandmother were not alone. 

https://www.amazon.com/Between-Unforgettable-Encounters-During-Moments/dp/059349993X

Those of us who teach writing for a living have long had to contend with students who, for whatever reason, fail to complete the assigned reading. They forgot. They do not have the book. They were just too busy. The list of reasons is long. I even once had a student claim that she could not do the reading because, and I quote, “her poodle exploded.” You can’t make this stuff up. This particular challenge faced by educators throughout the ages is common enough; however, new onto the scholastic scene is the prevalent use of artificial intelligence or AI for short to complete writing assignments. There are, I understand, a variety of so-called “BOTS” or writing programs, but ChatGPT seems to be the most widely used. As of today, its use cannot be detected. A student inputs some topic into the program and then it very quickly spits out suggestions: sentences, entire paragraphs, content whose word count can be predetermined by the user. Students use this to save time, sound more sophisticated, and even circumnavigate the writing process. Why spend hours crafting a paper when you can crank it out in five minutes and still go to the party? 

What is amazing about this new presence in academia is that students genuinely believe that what they quote/unquote “wrote” is theirs. They put in the search term, and they made the selections. That was their contribution, and they, therefore, feel perfectly fine slapping their name into the header, claiming the work to be entirely original. The result? Now we are graduating students who neither read nor write. These are students who learned how to check boxes, cheat the system, and receive the sheepskin all in the name of landing a high-paying job. Money is the driving force, not learning for its own sake. And we wonder why our society’s ills are only getting worse... 

To the people of light, however, there is a Creator God who made us in his image. I have wondered if we have taken the word “image” too literally over the years. Perhaps the definition needs to be expanded to include the nature of God to create. We create, in other words, because God first created. We paint, we sculpt, we design, we build, we color inside the lines and out, we create babies and families and eventually legacies, and we also write. In the beginning was the Word, after all. God is the ultimate wordsmith – the grand and good author of all. 

What, then, do we give up when we lazily walk away from the process? Do we write to solely produce content, or do we also write to participate in a transformative act? 

It seems that the current culture wants to arrive at the destination immediately without considering the importance of the journey. In our present age of on-demand, made your way, custom fit everything, the notion of going through any process seems unnecessary at best and laborious at worst. I have even heard of individuals sending scribbled down notes to more accomplished writers for them to compose, for a fee, of course, master’s theses and dissertations. We should be wary about who we call doctor, to be sure. All of this is to say that the crisis – and it is just that – is not so much one characterized by sloth and distraction as one characterized by a willful surrender of the quality that makes us creatures of the Creator, which is to say fully human in the way we were meant to be just that. AI, if we let it, diminishes us in ways that have yet to be realized. Just as cell phones have demonstratively increased anxiety, loneliness, and depression, so too will AI rob us of a significant part of our humanity. This claim is not hyperbole. When I read a student submission and discover right away that the student likely had little to do in the composition of the paper, deferring the bulk of it to some sophisticated algorithm, I am saddened by the reality that the student forfeited the opportunity to wrestle with an idea, articulate some conclusions, and, in the process, become more of what he or she was meant to be. An impressive-sounding essay is not always the goal. The aim, more times than not, is to positively shape the mind of the learner through a deep and profound process. Otherwise, the educational system will not produce critical, independent thinkers but automatons who are excellent consumers of streaming services, yes-men and women whose worlds are determined by the scripted choices they are given by the powerful and worldly. 

Thanks to Petrach, women even today face an impossible standard. The 14th century poet famously penned love poems to a woman by the name of Laura, which, in and of itself, would have been harmless were it not for the fact that he appropriated the language of praise and worship to express his affections. Language meant for God, in other words, was applied to a mere mortal. No longer was God alone perfect, wonderful, and glorious but now so too was this Laura. And not only that, but Petrach inspired a plethora of poets down through the ages to celebrate their love in much the same way. The result? The fairer sex could never measure up next to the Divine. They would always fail. The taint inherent in being human would eventually appear, destroying the illusion, obliterating what always was a falsehood, an unfair comparison. 

It would be laborious for me to document and you, dear subscriber, to listen to all of the examples we see of this juxtaposition throughout the centuries. Crooners of the 1940s echoed Petrarch as did the balladeers of the 1950s, the songbirds of the 60s and 70s, the vocalists of the 80s ... you get the picture. It is a part of our culture. It is how we view relationships. It is the seed that has the idealist seeking THE ONE. The truth will always come out. The real ONE arts in heaven. Everybody else has their idiosyncrasies and faults. 

Mature minds are able to navigate this trap and go on to have healthy relationships; however, this is not the case for many. They imbibe too much popular culture -- ingest the lie in its various forms and expressions – and continue to relegate women into one of two camps. They either fit the impossible bill (for now) or they don’t, often in spectacular ways; hence the virgin/whore archetype arises. A woman is seen as virgin – unblemished or unblemishable (think kindly old lady) or, sadly, whore: unforgivably sullied, dirty, untouchable. 

This characterization of women is manifest in a variety of ways in our society – some extreme, most subtle. But even so, it is a grossly unfair framework that does nobody any good. A man believes the lie. A woman must navigate that same lie. Two imperfect individuals dodging declarations released, at this point, over five-hundred years ago. 

Perhaps this is why we are seeing so many young folks resisting the idea of marriage. Cohabitation is fine, but entering into a bond as formal as marriage would be an act of surrender. It would be, in other words, giving in to something perceived as inferior. It would be the recognition of a common humanity with all of its frailty, brokenness, and imperfection. 

What, then, does this say about the current state? If God who is perfect can love us who are imperfect, why can’t we love each other who are the same? Is this not pride? We are prideful who cannot – indeed, will not – do what God does all the time. We would not go to the cross for each other because our expectations would never be met. And it only seems to be getting more pervasive: isolated individuals choosing technology over relationship, the safety of singlehood over the chance of true human connection. This is our world today: desperate for love, afraid of what it costs. Lonely beating hearts. Thank God we were judged by His standards and not by those a twitterpated poet. 

Tom Joad and the Silence of Saint Joseph 

Tom Joad, Steinbeck’s hardscrabble protagonist in The Grapes of Wrath, delivers a resounding farewell speech in which he asserts that, quote, I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready.  That line, in particular, has always stuck with me – for its poignance, for its ability to draw me into something human, real, recognizable and beautiful -- but now that I am a father, it resonates with me even more.  I delight in calling my children to dinner.  They each know why I am calling up the stairs, yet they answer with a question nevertheless in a tone that can barely contain their happy anticipation.  They know why I called.  They just needed to hear the words, Time for dinner.  Just like the kids in Tom Joad’s speech, they needed small reassurance from the grownup who provides for them. 

As I get older, I am convinced that this need does not go away.  In fact, I wonder if much of the world’s angst is caused by a perceived silence from the One who created all of us.  We beseech.  God is silent.  We are hungry.  The fortunate are fed.  But without the words, Time for dinner, many are at a loss.  Is anybody at the bottom of the stairs?  I hope so.  I pray so.  The worry keeps me up at night. 

So, too, was Saint Joseph who throughout the Gospel is silent.  He heeds the advice of an angel and takes Mary as his bride, and, later, heeds the advice of another angel (or the same) and escapes to Egypt in the night to avoid Herod’s jealous bloodlust, but through it all, utters not a word.  Nothing is recorded.  The earthly father of Jesus Christ is mute. 

Or perhaps not... 

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus warns his disciples not to judge others with the following words: Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?  How can you say to your brother, Let me take the speck out of your eye, when all the time there is a plank in our own eye?  You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye. 

His admonition is direct, yet it is hard not to miss two features of what He is saying: 1.) He is using wood, the raw material of a carpenter, to illustrate his point and 2.) there is a “dad joke” quality that sweetens what could have been a bitter pill to swallow. 

Where does Joseph speak, in other words?  He is in Jesus’s lessons.  The working class imagery.  Because of Joseph the carpenter who provided for the Son of God – taught Him, protected Him, laughed with Him, reflected simple decency and a strong work ethic – Jesus taught His disciples and us through scripture using a particular vocabulary of people who do – fishermen, farmers, builders in addition to woodworkers. 

When it comes to the perceived silence of God, then, it comes down to how we listen and, perhaps even more importantly, how God calls to us.  He knows we are hungry.  He is a good Father.  But the call does not come in the way we think it will come; rather, it comes in a way that is supremely more endearing, closer to the heart.  Tom Joad is in the way kids laugh.  Saint Joseph is in the way Jesus teaches.  God is in the way we already know, sitting in our rooms, tilting our ears upward ever so slightly, that the food is ready. What are our lives but waiting to hear the call. 

When I started this podcast, I did so with the intent of offering honest commentary on literature and culture.  The world is filled with too much mindless chatter.  Perhaps my attempt at being sincere and insightful would be well-received.  I had no plans to review films as that medium seems to dominate our lives too much as it is; however, I recently came across a movie that captured my imagination in ways that are still surprising to me now.  I am even taken aback by its genre: romantic comedy. 

Plus One, which stars Maya Erskine and Jack Quaid, tells the story of two twentysomethings – Alice and Ben, old college friends – who decide to be each other’s dates to a series of weddings.  At first, they proclaim their platonic status until they finally see what everybody else has recognized for a long time: that they are good for each other, a perfect match.  While the story contains the basic components of all good rom-coms – a rise in action, the first kiss, the first argument, and inevitably the heartwarming reconciliation – this film gives viewers a special look into how twentysomethings of today (millennials, perhaps) view the world.  They want perfection.  If a thing – to include a relationship – is not perfect then it must be abandoned.  The result in an imperfect world?  Loneliness.  Instability.  Constant searching.  Restlessness.  Jumping from place to place, relationship to relationship and growing in emptiness all the time. 

To be in love with an impossible idea of romance, as Alice says, is to want what cannot be obtained, and it will inevitably lead a person to run away from the hard work of commitment, even when that hard work can yield true love, real love – something fully human and beautiful. 

The film has its raunchy moments, and frankly, I would have preferred that it dial it down in that department.  However, for all of the trendy tropes and coarse humor, the film delivers.  Each of the main characters has honest moments when something of their soul is revealed and made vulnerable.  Alice is clearly the instigator who loves Ben from the beginning, though he is admittedly too stupid to realize this.  Her role as matchmaker is clearly a conceit to spend more time with him. The subtlety is sweet.  The lightening quick shots of a smitten but hurt Alice shine a light on the weight of the unrequited love she is carrying.  Viewers should have a second and even third go of the film in order to best savor the painfully slow blossoming of Ben’s affection for Alice and Alice’s commitment to see the relationship through despite Ben’s maddening lapse into blind idealism.  He almost loses her – but only almost.  It turns out that true love can even conquer the myopic and shallow sensibilities of a generation. 

The film is good, the message, timely.  It turns out we all still want the same thing, and the raunch of today is the angst or cynicism or despair of years gone by.  Human beings were made for true love, and being reminded of that in a noisy, oftentimes callous world is a strike to the heart. So watch the movie. It holds up what is real. And in an age of so much falseness, it is a refreshing respite. 

The Possibility of Evil by Shirley Jackson 

Adela Strangeworth, the seventy-one-year-old protagonist in Jackson’s 1965 short story, has a gripe with evil, which is really to say anything that could upset the delicate balance in the social ecosystem of a town she reminds us was built by her grandfather around a lumber mill.  She is proud of her ancestry and carries herself as such: the single remaining descendant of an admirable line of Strangeworths responsible for keeping order by proclaiming inconvenient assumptions about her fellow denizens no matter how hurtful or destructive.  She writes and sends anonymous letters with no filter.  The lovely roses she cultivates – she insists they remain in town.  She is unapologetic throughout.  The well-being and integrity of the town, she maintains, needs this sort of ruthless heavy-handedness, secret though it may be. 

Adela Strangeworth reveals hidden infidelities, suggests those with so-called “idiot” children should not have had them in the first place, and maligns physicians she suspects of performing unnecessary procedures just for the money.  On colored stationary, she holds no punches, believing that her brutal honesty best cuts to the heart of things, allowing those involved the ability to make sincere amends. 

If only ... 

She is eventually found out and receives a nasty note of her own, detailing in terse language how her prized roses have been destroyed. 

The ending would remain a just irony if Strangeworth’s curious practice did not mirror similar practices in social media today.  How many times has an anonymous author sniped at someone with mean and uncaring language?  We might be tempted to believe that this is a sign of the sickness of our times were it not for the fact that Jackson’s work came out almost sixty years ago.  Was she anticipating a development in our social behavior?  Was her critical gaze set squarely on a rising trend in how human beings interact with other human beings?  Perhaps so.  The world of 1965 was still a world of fracturing morality and emerging relativism.  The veneer of niceness was wearing off, and folks were more prone to act out.  Riot.  Assassinate.  Reject with unmasked disdain any institution’s claim to authority. 

Adela Strangeworth fancied herself an authority of the town to the extent that she could call out people’s faults with impunity.  She was wrong.  They called her out in kind.  Even the fragrant symbols of the town’s upstanding past – the roses -- were fair game.  Nothing was sacred.  Everything was profane. 
Is this how we regard ourselves now on social media?  Has the platform simply grown from one old woman’s letters to a field of millions all vying to put each other in their place?  To be sure, is this what Jackson means by evil?  We allow ourselves to become gods of our towns, gods of whatever social media platform and, as such, we give ourselves permission to judge, to condemn. 

We eat each other alive with haughty looks and wonder why there is so much hatred in the world. 

Jackson saw it coming.  The only question that remains is what becomes the target after civility, after politeness, after the roses: these pretty symbols of what may have never existed in the first place.