The river which forms the eastern boundary of our farm has always played an important part in our lives. Without it we could not make a living. There is only enough spring water to supply the needs of the houses, so we have to pump from the river for farm use. We tell river all our secrets. We know instinctively, just as beekeepers with their bees, that misfortune might overtake us if the important events of our lives were not related to it.
We have special river birthday parties in the summer. Sometimes were go upstream to a favourite backwater, sometimes we have our party at the boathouse, which a predecessor of ours at the farm built in the meadow hard by the deepest pool for swimming and diving. In a heat wave we choose a midnight birthday party and that is the most exciting of all. We welcome the seasons by the riverside, crowning the youngest girl with flowers in the spring, holding a summer festival on Midsummer Eve, giving thanks for the harvest in the autumn, and throwing a holy wreath into the current in the winter.
After a long period of rain the river may overflow its banks. This is a rare occurrence as our climate seldom guest to extremes. We are lucky in that only the lower fields, which make up a very small proportion of our farm, are effected by flooding, but other farms are less favorably sited, and flooding can sometimes spell disaster for their owners.
One had winter we watched the river creep up the lower meadows. All the cattle had been moved into stalls and we stood to lose little. We were, however, worried about our nearest neighbors, whose farm was low lying and who were newcomers to the district. As the floods had put the telephone out of order, we could not find out how they were managing. From an attic window we could get a sweeping view of the river where their land joined ours, and at the most critical juncture we took turns in watching that point. The first sign of disaster was a dead sheep floating down. Next came a horse, swimming bravely, but we were afraid that the strength of the current would prevent its landing anywhere before it became exhausted. Suddenly a raft appeared, looking rather like Noah's ark, carrying the whole family, a few hens, the dogs, cat, and bird in a cage. We realized that they must have become unduly frightened by the rising flood, for their house, which had sound foundations, would have stood stoutly even if it had been almost submerged. The men of our family waded down through our flooded meadows with boathooks, in the hope of being able to grapple a corner of the raft and pull it out of the current towards our bank. We still think it a miracle that they we able to do so.
2010年9月29日星期三
Back in the old country
I stopped to let the car cool off and to study the map. I had expected to be near my objective by now, but everything still seemed alien to me. I was only five when my father had taken me abroad, and that we eighteen years ago. When my mother had died after a tragic accident, he did not quickly recover from the shock and loneliness. Everything around him was full of her presence, continually reopening the wound. So he decided to emigrate. In the new country he became absorbed in making a new life for the two of us, so that he gradually ceased to grieve. He did not marry again and I was brought up without a woman's care; but I lacked for nothing, for he was both father and mother to me. He always meant to go back on day, but not to stay. His roots and mine bad become too firmly embedded in the new land. But he wanted to see the old folk again and to visit my mother's grave. He became mortally ill a few months before we had planned to go and, when he knew that he was dying, he made me promise to go on my own.
I hired a car the day after landing and bought a comprehensive book of maps, which I found most helpful on the cross-country journey, but which I did not think I should need on the last stage. It was not that I actually remembered anything at all. But my father had described over and over again what we should see at every milestone, after leaving the nearest town, so that I was positive I should recognize it as familiar territory. Well, I had been wrong, for I was now lost.
I looked at the map and then at the millimeter. I had come ten miles since leaving the town, and at this point, according to my father, I should be looking at farms and cottages in a valley, with the spire of the church of our village showing in the far distance. I could see no valley, no farms, no cottages and no church spire -- only a lake. I decided that I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. So I drove back to the town and began to retrace the route, taking frequent glances at the map. I landed up at the same corner. The curious thing was that the lake was not marked on the map. I left as if I had stumbled into a nightmare country, as you sometimes do in dreams. And, as in a nightmare, there was nobody in sight to help me. Fortunately for me, as I was wondering what to do next, there appeared on the horizon a man on horseback, riding in my direction. I waited till he came near, then I asked him the way to our old village. He said that there was now no village. I thought he must have misunderstood me, so I repeated its name. This time he pointed to the lake. The village no longer existed because it had been submerged, and all the valley too. The lake was not a natural one, but a man-made reservoir.
I hired a car the day after landing and bought a comprehensive book of maps, which I found most helpful on the cross-country journey, but which I did not think I should need on the last stage. It was not that I actually remembered anything at all. But my father had described over and over again what we should see at every milestone, after leaving the nearest town, so that I was positive I should recognize it as familiar territory. Well, I had been wrong, for I was now lost.
I looked at the map and then at the millimeter. I had come ten miles since leaving the town, and at this point, according to my father, I should be looking at farms and cottages in a valley, with the spire of the church of our village showing in the far distance. I could see no valley, no farms, no cottages and no church spire -- only a lake. I decided that I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. So I drove back to the town and began to retrace the route, taking frequent glances at the map. I landed up at the same corner. The curious thing was that the lake was not marked on the map. I left as if I had stumbled into a nightmare country, as you sometimes do in dreams. And, as in a nightmare, there was nobody in sight to help me. Fortunately for me, as I was wondering what to do next, there appeared on the horizon a man on horseback, riding in my direction. I waited till he came near, then I asked him the way to our old village. He said that there was now no village. I thought he must have misunderstood me, so I repeated its name. This time he pointed to the lake. The village no longer existed because it had been submerged, and all the valley too. The lake was not a natural one, but a man-made reservoir.
A spot of bother
The old lady was glad to be back at the block of flats where she lived. Her shopping had tired her and her basket ad grown heavier with every step of the way home. In the life her thoughts were on lunch and a good rest; but when she got out at her own floor, both were forgotten in her sudden discovery that her front door was open. She was thinking that she must reprimand her home help the next morning for such a monstrous piece of negligence, when she remembered that she had gone shopping after the home help had left and she knew that she had turned both keys in their locks, She walked slowly into the hall and at once noticed that all the room doors were open, yet following her regular practice she had shut them before going out. Looking into the drawing room, she saw a scene of confusion over by her writing desk. It was as clear as daylight then that burglars had forced an entry during her absence. Her first impulse was to go round all the rooms looking for the thieves, but then she decided that at her age it might be more prudent to have someone with her, so she went to fetch the porter from his basement. By this time her legs were beginning to tremble, so she sat down and accepted a cup of very strong tea, while he telephoned the police. Then, her composure regained, she was ready to set off with the porter's assistance to search for nay intruders who might still be lurking in her flat.
They went through the rooms, being careful to touch nothing, as they did not want to hinder the police in their search for fingerprints. The chaos was inconceivable. She had lived in the flat for thirty years and was a veritable magpie at hoarding; and it seemed as though everything she possessed had been tossed out and turned over and over. At least sorting out the things she should have discarded years ago was now being made easier for her. Then a police inspector arrived with a constable and she told them of her discovery of the ransacked flat. The inspector began to look for fingerprints, while the constable checked that the front door locks had not been forced, thereby proving that the burglars had either used skeleton keys or entered over the balcony. There was no trace of fingerprints, but the inspector found a dirty red bundle that contained jewellery which the old lady said was not hers. So their entry into this flat was apparently not the burglars' first job that day and they must have been disturbed. The inspector then asked the old lady to try to check what was missing by the next day and advised her not to stay alone in the flat for a few nights. The old lady though the was a fussy creature, but since the porter agreed with him, she rang up her daughter and asked for her help in what she described as a little spot of bother.
They went through the rooms, being careful to touch nothing, as they did not want to hinder the police in their search for fingerprints. The chaos was inconceivable. She had lived in the flat for thirty years and was a veritable magpie at hoarding; and it seemed as though everything she possessed had been tossed out and turned over and over. At least sorting out the things she should have discarded years ago was now being made easier for her. Then a police inspector arrived with a constable and she told them of her discovery of the ransacked flat. The inspector began to look for fingerprints, while the constable checked that the front door locks had not been forced, thereby proving that the burglars had either used skeleton keys or entered over the balcony. There was no trace of fingerprints, but the inspector found a dirty red bundle that contained jewellery which the old lady said was not hers. So their entry into this flat was apparently not the burglars' first job that day and they must have been disturbed. The inspector then asked the old lady to try to check what was missing by the next day and advised her not to stay alone in the flat for a few nights. The old lady though the was a fussy creature, but since the porter agreed with him, she rang up her daughter and asked for her help in what she described as a little spot of bother.
Collecting
People tend to amass possessions, sometimes without being aware of doing so. Indeed they can have a delightful surprise when they find something useful which they did not know they owned. Those who never have to move house become indiscriminate collectors of what can only be described as clutter. They leave unwanted objects in drawers, cupboards and attics for years, in the belief that they may one day need just those very things. As they grow old, people also accumulate belongings for two other reasons, lack of physical and mental energy, both of which are essential in turning out and throwing away, and sentiment. Things owned for a long time are full associations with the past, perhaps with relatives who are dead, and so they gradually acquire a value beyond their true worth.
Some things are collected deliberately in the home in an attempt to avoid waste. Among these I would list string and brown paper, kept by thrifty people when a parcel has been opened, to save buying these two requisites. Collecting small items can easily become a mania. I know someone who always cuts sketches out from newspapers of model clothes that she would like to buy if she had the money. As she is not rich, the chances that she will ever be able to afford such purchases are remote; but she is never sufficiently strong-minded to be able to stop the practice. It is a harmless bait, but it litters up her desk to such an extent that every time she opens it, loose bits of paper fall out in every direction.
Collecting as a serous hobby is quite different and has many advantages. It provides relaxation for leisure hours, as just looking at one's treasures is always a joy. One does not have to go outside for amusement, since the collection is housed at home. Whatever it consists of, stamps, records, first editions of books china, glass, antique furniture, pictures, model cars, stuffed birds, toy animals, there is always something to do in connection with it, from finding the right place for the latest addition, to verifying facts in reference books. This hobby educates one not only in the chosen subject, but also in general matters which have some bearing on it. There are also other benefits. One wants to meet like-minded collectors, to get advice, to compare notes, to exchange articles, to show off the latest find. So one's circle of friends grows. Soon the hobby leads to travel, perhaps to a meeting in another town, possibly a trip abroad in search of a rare specimen, for collectors are not confined to any one country. Over the years, one may well become a authority on one's hobby and will very probably be asked to give informal talks to little gatherings and then, if successful, to larger audiences. In this way self-confidence grows, first from mastering a subject, then from being able to take about it. Collecting, by occupying spare time so constructively, makes a person contented, with no time for boredom.
Some things are collected deliberately in the home in an attempt to avoid waste. Among these I would list string and brown paper, kept by thrifty people when a parcel has been opened, to save buying these two requisites. Collecting small items can easily become a mania. I know someone who always cuts sketches out from newspapers of model clothes that she would like to buy if she had the money. As she is not rich, the chances that she will ever be able to afford such purchases are remote; but she is never sufficiently strong-minded to be able to stop the practice. It is a harmless bait, but it litters up her desk to such an extent that every time she opens it, loose bits of paper fall out in every direction.
Collecting as a serous hobby is quite different and has many advantages. It provides relaxation for leisure hours, as just looking at one's treasures is always a joy. One does not have to go outside for amusement, since the collection is housed at home. Whatever it consists of, stamps, records, first editions of books china, glass, antique furniture, pictures, model cars, stuffed birds, toy animals, there is always something to do in connection with it, from finding the right place for the latest addition, to verifying facts in reference books. This hobby educates one not only in the chosen subject, but also in general matters which have some bearing on it. There are also other benefits. One wants to meet like-minded collectors, to get advice, to compare notes, to exchange articles, to show off the latest find. So one's circle of friends grows. Soon the hobby leads to travel, perhaps to a meeting in another town, possibly a trip abroad in search of a rare specimen, for collectors are not confined to any one country. Over the years, one may well become a authority on one's hobby and will very probably be asked to give informal talks to little gatherings and then, if successful, to larger audiences. In this way self-confidence grows, first from mastering a subject, then from being able to take about it. Collecting, by occupying spare time so constructively, makes a person contented, with no time for boredom.
Too early and too late
Punctuality is a necessary habit in all public affairs in civilized society. Without it, nothing could ever be brought to a conclusion; everything would be in state of chaos. Only in a sparsely-populated rural community is it possible to disregard it. In ordinary living, there can be some tolerance of unpunctuality. The intellectual, who is working on some abstruse problem, has everything coordinated and organized for the matter in hand. He is therefore forgiven if late for a dinner party. But people are often reproached for unpunctuality when their only fault is cutting things fine. It is hard for energetic, quick-minded people to waste time, so they are often tempted to finish a job before setting out to keep an appointment. If no accidents occur on the way, like punctured tires, diversions of traffic, sudden descent of fog, they will be on time. They are often more industrious, useful citizens than those who are never late. The over-punctual can be as much a trial to others as the unpunctual. The guest who arrives half an hour too soon is the greatest nuisance. Some friends of my family had this irritating habit. The only thing to do was ask them to come half an hour later than the other guests. Then they arrived just when we wanted them.
If you are citing a train, it is always better to be comfortably early than even a fraction of a minted too late. Although being early may mean wasting a little time, this will be less than if you miss the train and have to wait an hour or more for the next one; and you avoid the frustration of arriving at the very moment when the train is drawing out of the station and being unable to get on it. An even harder situation is to be on the platform in good time for a train and still to see it go off without you. Such an experience befell a certain young girl the first time she was traveling alone.
She entered the station twenty minutes before the train was due, since her parents had impressed upon her that it would be unforgivable to miss it and cause the friends with whom she was going to stay to make two journeys to meet her. She gave her luggage to a porter and showed him her ticket. To her horror he said that she was two hours too soon. She felt inhere handbag for the piece of paper on which her father had written down al the details of the journey and gave it to the porter. He agreed that a train did come into the station at the time on the paper and that it did stop, but only to take on mail, not passengers. The girl asked to see a timetable, feeling sure that her father could not have made such a mistake. The porter went to fetch one and arrive back with the station master, who produced it with a flourish and pointed out a microscopic 'o' beside the time of the arrival of the train at his station; this little 'o' indicated that the train only stopped for mail. Just as that moment the train came into the station. The girl, tears streaming down her face, begged to be allowed to slip into the guard's van. But the station master was adamant: rules could not be broken and she had to watch that train disappear towards her destination while she was left behind.
If you are citing a train, it is always better to be comfortably early than even a fraction of a minted too late. Although being early may mean wasting a little time, this will be less than if you miss the train and have to wait an hour or more for the next one; and you avoid the frustration of arriving at the very moment when the train is drawing out of the station and being unable to get on it. An even harder situation is to be on the platform in good time for a train and still to see it go off without you. Such an experience befell a certain young girl the first time she was traveling alone.
She entered the station twenty minutes before the train was due, since her parents had impressed upon her that it would be unforgivable to miss it and cause the friends with whom she was going to stay to make two journeys to meet her. She gave her luggage to a porter and showed him her ticket. To her horror he said that she was two hours too soon. She felt inhere handbag for the piece of paper on which her father had written down al the details of the journey and gave it to the porter. He agreed that a train did come into the station at the time on the paper and that it did stop, but only to take on mail, not passengers. The girl asked to see a timetable, feeling sure that her father could not have made such a mistake. The porter went to fetch one and arrive back with the station master, who produced it with a flourish and pointed out a microscopic 'o' beside the time of the arrival of the train at his station; this little 'o' indicated that the train only stopped for mail. Just as that moment the train came into the station. The girl, tears streaming down her face, begged to be allowed to slip into the guard's van. But the station master was adamant: rules could not be broken and she had to watch that train disappear towards her destination while she was left behind.
2010年9月28日星期二
Text A Quick Fix Society
So, when it was time to return to home outside of Philadelphia, I insisted that we take a different route. "Let's explore that countyside," I suggested. The two days it took us to make the return trip were filled with new experiences. We toured a Civil War battlefield and stood on the little hill that fifteen thousand Confederate soldiers had tried to take on another hot July afternoon,one hundred and twenty-five years ago, not knowing that half of them would get killed in the vain attempt. We drove slowly through main streets of sleepy Pennsylvania Dutch towns, slowing to twenty miles an hour so as not to crowd the horses and horse carriages on the their way to market. We admired toy trains and antique cars in country museums and saved 70 percent in factory outlets. We stuffed ourselves with spicy salads and homemade bread in an "all-you-can-eat" farmhouse restaurant, then wandered outside to enjoy the sunshine and the herds of cows—no little dots this time—lying in it. And we returned home refreshed, revitalized, and reeducated. This time, getting there had been the fun.
Why is it that the featureless turnpikes and interstates are the routes of choice for so many of us? Why doesn't everybody try slowing down and exploring the countryside? But more and more, the fast lane seems to be the only way for us to go. In fact, most Americans are constantly in a hurry—and not just to get from Point A to Point B. Our country has become a nation in search of the quick fix—in more ways than one.
Once upon a time, Americans understood the principle of deferred gratification. We put a little of each paycheck away "for a rainy day".
If we wanted a new sofa or a week at a lakeside cabin, we saved up for it, and the banks helped us out by providing special Christmas Club and Vacation Club accounts. If we lived in the right part of the country, we planted corn and beans and waited patiently for the harvest. If we wanted to be thinner, we simply ate less of our favorite foods and waited patiently for the scale to drop, a pound at a time. But today we aren't so patient. We take out loans instead of making deposits, or we use our credit card to get that furniture or vacation trip—relax now, pay later. We buy our food, like our clothing, ready-made and off the rack. And if we're in a hurry to lose weight, we try the latest miracle diet, guaranteed to take away ten pounds in ten days... unless we're rich enough to afford liposuction. Not only do we want it now; we don't even want to be kept waiting for it. This general impatience, the "I-hate-to-wait" attitude, has infected every level of our lives. Instead of standing in line at the bank, we withdraw twenty dollars in as many seconds from an automatic teller machine. Then we take our fast money to a fast convenience store(why wait in line at the supermarket?), where we buy a frozen dinner all wrapped up and ready to be put into the microwave...unless we don't care to wait even that long and pick up some fast food instead. And if our fast meal doesn't agree with us, we hurry to the medicine cabinet for—you guessed it—some fast relief. We like fast pictures, so we buy Polaroid cameras. We like fast entertainment,so we record our favorite TV show on the VCR. We like our information fast, too: messages flashed on a computer screen, documents faxed from your telephone to mine, current events in 90-second bursts on Eyewitness News, history reduced to "Bicentennial Minutes". Symbolically, the American eagle now flies for Express Mail. How dare anyone keep America waiting longer than overnight?
What's more, we don't even want all of it. Once, we lingered over every word of a classic novel or the latest best seller. Today, since faster is better, we read the condensed version or put a tape of the book into our car's tape payler to listen to on the way to work. Or we buy the Cliff's Notes, especially if we are students, so we don't have to deal with the book at all. Once, we listened to every note of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Today, we don't have the time; instead, we can enjoy 26 seconds of that famous "da-da-da-DUM" theme—and 99 other musical excerpts almost as famous—on our "Greatest Moments of the Classics" CD. After all,why waste 45 minutes listening to the whole thing when someone else has saved us the trouble of picking out the best parts? Our magazine articles come to us pre-figested in Reader's Digest. Our news briefings, thanks to USA Today, are more brief than ever. Even our personal relationships have become compressed. Instead of devoting large parts of our days to our loved ones, we replace them with someting called "quality time", which, more often than not, is no time at all. As we rush from book to music to news item to relationship, we do not realize that we are living our lives by the iceberg principle—paying attention only to the top and ignoring the 8/9 that lies just below the surface.
Why is it that the featureless turnpikes and interstates are the routes of choice for so many of us? Why doesn't everybody try slowing down and exploring the countryside? But more and more, the fast lane seems to be the only way for us to go. In fact, most Americans are constantly in a hurry—and not just to get from Point A to Point B. Our country has become a nation in search of the quick fix—in more ways than one.
Once upon a time, Americans understood the principle of deferred gratification. We put a little of each paycheck away "for a rainy day".
If we wanted a new sofa or a week at a lakeside cabin, we saved up for it, and the banks helped us out by providing special Christmas Club and Vacation Club accounts. If we lived in the right part of the country, we planted corn and beans and waited patiently for the harvest. If we wanted to be thinner, we simply ate less of our favorite foods and waited patiently for the scale to drop, a pound at a time. But today we aren't so patient. We take out loans instead of making deposits, or we use our credit card to get that furniture or vacation trip—relax now, pay later. We buy our food, like our clothing, ready-made and off the rack. And if we're in a hurry to lose weight, we try the latest miracle diet, guaranteed to take away ten pounds in ten days... unless we're rich enough to afford liposuction. Not only do we want it now; we don't even want to be kept waiting for it. This general impatience, the "I-hate-to-wait" attitude, has infected every level of our lives. Instead of standing in line at the bank, we withdraw twenty dollars in as many seconds from an automatic teller machine. Then we take our fast money to a fast convenience store(why wait in line at the supermarket?), where we buy a frozen dinner all wrapped up and ready to be put into the microwave...unless we don't care to wait even that long and pick up some fast food instead. And if our fast meal doesn't agree with us, we hurry to the medicine cabinet for—you guessed it—some fast relief. We like fast pictures, so we buy Polaroid cameras. We like fast entertainment,so we record our favorite TV show on the VCR. We like our information fast, too: messages flashed on a computer screen, documents faxed from your telephone to mine, current events in 90-second bursts on Eyewitness News, history reduced to "Bicentennial Minutes". Symbolically, the American eagle now flies for Express Mail. How dare anyone keep America waiting longer than overnight?
What's more, we don't even want all of it. Once, we lingered over every word of a classic novel or the latest best seller. Today, since faster is better, we read the condensed version or put a tape of the book into our car's tape payler to listen to on the way to work. Or we buy the Cliff's Notes, especially if we are students, so we don't have to deal with the book at all. Once, we listened to every note of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Today, we don't have the time; instead, we can enjoy 26 seconds of that famous "da-da-da-DUM" theme—and 99 other musical excerpts almost as famous—on our "Greatest Moments of the Classics" CD. After all,why waste 45 minutes listening to the whole thing when someone else has saved us the trouble of picking out the best parts? Our magazine articles come to us pre-figested in Reader's Digest. Our news briefings, thanks to USA Today, are more brief than ever. Even our personal relationships have become compressed. Instead of devoting large parts of our days to our loved ones, we replace them with someting called "quality time", which, more often than not, is no time at all. As we rush from book to music to news item to relationship, we do not realize that we are living our lives by the iceberg principle—paying attention only to the top and ignoring the 8/9 that lies just below the surface.
Quick Fix Society
My husband and I just got back from a week's vacation in West Virginia. Of course, we couldn't wait to get there, so we took the Pennsylvania Turnpike and a couple of interstates. "Look at those gorgeous farms!" my husband exclaimed as pastoral scenery slid by us at 55 mph. "Did you see those cows?" But at 55 mph, it's difficult to see anything; the gorgeous farms look like moving green checkerboards, and the herd of cows is reduced to a few dots in the rear-view mirror. For four hours, our only real amusement consisted of counting exit signs and wondering what it would feel like to hold still again. Getting there certainly didn't seem like half the fun; in fact, getting there wasn't any fun at all.
So, when it was time to return to our home outside of Philadelphia, I insisted that we take a different route. "Let's explore that countryside," I suggested. The two days it took us to make the return trip were filled with new experiences. We toured a Civil War battlefield and stood on the little hill that fifteen thousand Confederate soldiers had tried to take on another hot July afternoon, one hundred and twenty-five years ago, not knowing that half of them would get killed in the vain attempt. We drove slowly through main streets of sleepy Pennsylvania Dutch towns, slowing to twenty miles an hour so as not to crowd the horses and horse carriages on their way to market. We admired toy trains and antique cars in county museums and saved 70 percent in factory outlets. We stuffed ourselves with spicy salads and homemade bread in an "all-you-can-eat" farmhouse restaurant, then wandered outside to enjoy the sunshine and the herds of cows — no little dots this time — lying in it. And we returned home refreshed, revitalized, and reeducated. This time, getting there had been the fun.
Why is it that the featureless turnpikes and interstates are the routes of choice for so many of us? Why doesn't everybody try slowing down and exploring the countryside? But more and more, the fast lane seems to be the only way for us to go. In fact, most Americans are constantly in a hurry — and not just to get from Point A to Point B. Our country has become a nation in search of the quick fix — in more ways than one.
Now instead of later: Once upon a time, Americans understood the principle of deferred gratification. We put a little of each paycheck away "for a rainy day". If we wanted a new sofa or a week at a lakeside cabin, we saved up for it, and the banks helped us out by providing special Christmas Club and Vacation Club accounts. If we lived in the right part of the country, we planted corn and beans and waited patiently for the harvest. If we wanted to be thinner, we simply ate less of our favorite foods and waited patiently for the scale to drop, a pound at a time. But today we aren't so patient. We take out loans instead of making deposits, or we use our credit card to get that furniture or vacation trip — relax now, pay later. We buy our food, like our clothing, ready-made and off the rack. And if we're in a hurry to lose weight, we try the latest miracle diet, guaranteed to take away ten pounds in ten days... unless we're rich enough to afford liposuction.
Faster instead of slower: Not only do we want it now; we don't even want to be kept waiting for it. This general impatience, the "I-hate-to-wait" attitude, has infected every level of our lives. Instead of standing in line at the bank, we withdraw twenty dollars in as many seconds from an automatic teller machine. Then we take our fast money to a fast convenience store (why wait in line at the supermarket?), where we buy a frozen dinner all wrapped up and ready to be put into the microwave... unless we don't care to wait even that long and pick up some fast food instead. And if our fast meal doesn't agree with us, we hurry to the medicine cabinet for — you guessed it — some fast relief. We like fast pictures, so we buy Polaroid cameras. We like fast entertainment, so we record our favorite TV show on the VCR. We like our information fast, too: messages flashed on a computer screen, documents faxed from your telephone to mine, current events in 90-second bursts on Eyewitness News, history reduced to "Bicentennial Minutes". Symbolically, the American eagle now flies for Express Mail. How dare anyone keep America waiting longer than overnight?
Superficially instead of thoroughly: What's more, we don't even want all of it. Once, we lingered over every word of a classic novel or the latest best seller. Today, since faster is better, we read the condensed version or put a tape of the book into our car's tape player to listen to on the way to work. Or we buy the Cliff's Notes, especially if we are students, so we don't have to deal with the book at all. Once, we listened to every note of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Today, we don't have the time; instead, we can enjoy 26 seconds of that famous "da-da-da-DUM" theme — and 99 other musical excerpts almost as famous — on our "Greatest Moments of the Classics" CD.
So, when it was time to return to our home outside of Philadelphia, I insisted that we take a different route. "Let's explore that countryside," I suggested. The two days it took us to make the return trip were filled with new experiences. We toured a Civil War battlefield and stood on the little hill that fifteen thousand Confederate soldiers had tried to take on another hot July afternoon, one hundred and twenty-five years ago, not knowing that half of them would get killed in the vain attempt. We drove slowly through main streets of sleepy Pennsylvania Dutch towns, slowing to twenty miles an hour so as not to crowd the horses and horse carriages on their way to market. We admired toy trains and antique cars in county museums and saved 70 percent in factory outlets. We stuffed ourselves with spicy salads and homemade bread in an "all-you-can-eat" farmhouse restaurant, then wandered outside to enjoy the sunshine and the herds of cows — no little dots this time — lying in it. And we returned home refreshed, revitalized, and reeducated. This time, getting there had been the fun.
Why is it that the featureless turnpikes and interstates are the routes of choice for so many of us? Why doesn't everybody try slowing down and exploring the countryside? But more and more, the fast lane seems to be the only way for us to go. In fact, most Americans are constantly in a hurry — and not just to get from Point A to Point B. Our country has become a nation in search of the quick fix — in more ways than one.
Now instead of later: Once upon a time, Americans understood the principle of deferred gratification. We put a little of each paycheck away "for a rainy day". If we wanted a new sofa or a week at a lakeside cabin, we saved up for it, and the banks helped us out by providing special Christmas Club and Vacation Club accounts. If we lived in the right part of the country, we planted corn and beans and waited patiently for the harvest. If we wanted to be thinner, we simply ate less of our favorite foods and waited patiently for the scale to drop, a pound at a time. But today we aren't so patient. We take out loans instead of making deposits, or we use our credit card to get that furniture or vacation trip — relax now, pay later. We buy our food, like our clothing, ready-made and off the rack. And if we're in a hurry to lose weight, we try the latest miracle diet, guaranteed to take away ten pounds in ten days... unless we're rich enough to afford liposuction.
Faster instead of slower: Not only do we want it now; we don't even want to be kept waiting for it. This general impatience, the "I-hate-to-wait" attitude, has infected every level of our lives. Instead of standing in line at the bank, we withdraw twenty dollars in as many seconds from an automatic teller machine. Then we take our fast money to a fast convenience store (why wait in line at the supermarket?), where we buy a frozen dinner all wrapped up and ready to be put into the microwave... unless we don't care to wait even that long and pick up some fast food instead. And if our fast meal doesn't agree with us, we hurry to the medicine cabinet for — you guessed it — some fast relief. We like fast pictures, so we buy Polaroid cameras. We like fast entertainment, so we record our favorite TV show on the VCR. We like our information fast, too: messages flashed on a computer screen, documents faxed from your telephone to mine, current events in 90-second bursts on Eyewitness News, history reduced to "Bicentennial Minutes". Symbolically, the American eagle now flies for Express Mail. How dare anyone keep America waiting longer than overnight?
Superficially instead of thoroughly: What's more, we don't even want all of it. Once, we lingered over every word of a classic novel or the latest best seller. Today, since faster is better, we read the condensed version or put a tape of the book into our car's tape player to listen to on the way to work. Or we buy the Cliff's Notes, especially if we are students, so we don't have to deal with the book at all. Once, we listened to every note of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Today, we don't have the time; instead, we can enjoy 26 seconds of that famous "da-da-da-DUM" theme — and 99 other musical excerpts almost as famous — on our "Greatest Moments of the Classics" CD.
Late afternoon
Mrs. Kent: (sternly) Oh, stop that, Thelma! I declare, you make me nervous, fussing and wasting time like that. What is it? I know you want something, or you wouldn't fool around so. Out with it.
Thelma: (Embarrassed, smiles, twists her apron and wriggles her shoulders.) Well, ma'am; I, well, it's this way. There's a dance up at Crosby's barn tonight, and Bill Fox, you know him, ma'am, he works in Paxley's garage he's asked me to go.
Mrs. Kent: (Stops sewing, looks at Thelma, speaks slowly.) We-ll, I don't know. (Pause.) About this Bill Fox, Thelma, are you sure he's genteel?
Thelma: (shocked) Genteel, ma'am? Why, he's that delicate-like —
Mrs. Kent: How so, Thelma?
Thelma: (shyly) Well, he gave his mother a new coat last Christmas — but he wouldn't think of giving me anything so personal-like.
Mrs. Kent: Indeed. What did he give you?
Thelma: (proudly) He gave me a set of books called Greek Myth — mythic — mythiologgio, that's it! It's all about a tribe of people who lived in most peculiar places — like in the air, and under the sea — (Shakes her head.) Oh, I'd never believe a word of it if Bill hadn't given it to me!
Mrs. Kent: (Laughs.) That makes him perfectly respectable, Thelma, does it?
Thelma: (enthusiastically) Oh, yes, ma'am! I wouldn't go out with him, unless he was — not when I'm working for you. (Puts hand over mouth to stifle laugh.)
Mrs. Kent: Ok, (airily) Go along to the dance then, but see you behave yourself properly!
Thelma: Oh, yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.
(Starts toward door, when it opens and Eve enters. Thelma stops, stares, pretends to pick up threads from floor, straightens chairs, etc., in order to remain.)
Eve: (Rushes in impulsively, throws off her hat, sits down.) Oh, Mother, I'm glad you're here! I've been to the most wonderful lecture given by Madame Tergehova. She's simply too, too divine!
Mrs. Kent: Indeed, dear? In what way?
Eve: (breathless) Oh, Mother, you've no idea how primitive we are — how simple, how bourgeois! You ought to hear how people in her country live — so happy, so free! None of our silly conventions and ridiculous standards of life! Why, her mother wouldn't have dreamed of marrying her father, it would simply have seemed childish to her! And here we are, living like our colonial ancestors — Puritans or Quakers, really. It's too absurd!
Mrs. Kent: My dear child — stuff and nonsense!
Eve： Now it's no use your saying anything， Mother — I've made up my mind. Stephen and I have decided on an experimental marriage. We're leaving tonight on the 12:15 for New York! If it works out, if we decide on a permanent marriage, we'll come back and be married at home. But if not, we're determined to go our separate ways, and each seek our own career in New York!
Mrs. Kent: (Dazed, rises, sewing drops from her lap to floor.) Why, Eve, you don't know what you're saying — you can't mean it. You're joking, I know you are! (Thelma comes forward, picks up sewing, hands it to Mrs. Kent, whose manner changes to one of sharp reprimand.) What, Thelma, you here still! How many times have I told you not to snoop! Listening to things that don't concern you! Leave the room at once!
Thelma: (obediently) Yes, ma'am, (Exits hastily.)
Mrs. Kent: Now then. Eve, come here and tell me what you are talking about. (Sits down on sofa.)
Eve: (sitting beside her) Oh, you heard me, Mother. It's perfectly simple, and you needn't have sent Thelma out — it's nothing secret. That's the whole trouble, our stupid, small-town way of doing things, always under cover. We've nothing to hide or be ashamed of — why, Stephen is coming over here for tea, to say goodbye to you all. He'll be here in a little while!
Mrs. Kent: Eve, you just wait until your father —
Eve: Of course we're putting you and Dad on your honor. Mother. We don't expect you to be so childish as to lock me up in my room, call the police, or anything so naive as that!
Mrs. Kent: ( Weeps. ) I suppose there's nothing-nothing I can say or do to stop you, Eve. But youll be sorry someday.
Eve: Why will I be sorry? I don't think you and Dad are so ideally happy-I bet he's not even in love with you any more! He probably wouldn't even care if you went off with another man. Come now. Mother, confess — would he?
Mrs. Kent: (shocked) Eve! How can you say such things to me?
Eve: (laughing) Why, I don't know. Mother. There's no point in not saying them, if they're true!
Mrs. Kent: This — this Madame Tergehova, she may live like that in her own country, but it's not the way of life in America!
Eve: But it can be. Mother — it will be. This narrow, conventional way of living cant go on forever! Stephen and I, well be pioneers in this great crusade toward a new and free civilization!
Mrs. Kent: (sadly) But at what a cost, child — at what a cost!
Eve: Oh, it's no use. Mother, you'll never understand! Ill go and pack my bag now. (Rises.) I'm not going to lead this silly, uncivilized life any longer, that's all.
Thelma: (Embarrassed, smiles, twists her apron and wriggles her shoulders.) Well, ma'am; I, well, it's this way. There's a dance up at Crosby's barn tonight, and Bill Fox, you know him, ma'am, he works in Paxley's garage he's asked me to go.
Mrs. Kent: (Stops sewing, looks at Thelma, speaks slowly.) We-ll, I don't know. (Pause.) About this Bill Fox, Thelma, are you sure he's genteel?
Thelma: (shocked) Genteel, ma'am? Why, he's that delicate-like —
Mrs. Kent: How so, Thelma?
Thelma: (shyly) Well, he gave his mother a new coat last Christmas — but he wouldn't think of giving me anything so personal-like.
Mrs. Kent: Indeed. What did he give you?
Thelma: (proudly) He gave me a set of books called Greek Myth — mythic — mythiologgio, that's it! It's all about a tribe of people who lived in most peculiar places — like in the air, and under the sea — (Shakes her head.) Oh, I'd never believe a word of it if Bill hadn't given it to me!
Mrs. Kent: (Laughs.) That makes him perfectly respectable, Thelma, does it?
Thelma: (enthusiastically) Oh, yes, ma'am! I wouldn't go out with him, unless he was — not when I'm working for you. (Puts hand over mouth to stifle laugh.)
Mrs. Kent: Ok, (airily) Go along to the dance then, but see you behave yourself properly!
Thelma: Oh, yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.
(Starts toward door, when it opens and Eve enters. Thelma stops, stares, pretends to pick up threads from floor, straightens chairs, etc., in order to remain.)
Eve: (Rushes in impulsively, throws off her hat, sits down.) Oh, Mother, I'm glad you're here! I've been to the most wonderful lecture given by Madame Tergehova. She's simply too, too divine!
Mrs. Kent: Indeed, dear? In what way?
Eve: (breathless) Oh, Mother, you've no idea how primitive we are — how simple, how bourgeois! You ought to hear how people in her country live — so happy, so free! None of our silly conventions and ridiculous standards of life! Why, her mother wouldn't have dreamed of marrying her father, it would simply have seemed childish to her! And here we are, living like our colonial ancestors — Puritans or Quakers, really. It's too absurd!
Mrs. Kent: My dear child — stuff and nonsense!
Eve： Now it's no use your saying anything， Mother — I've made up my mind. Stephen and I have decided on an experimental marriage. We're leaving tonight on the 12:15 for New York! If it works out, if we decide on a permanent marriage, we'll come back and be married at home. But if not, we're determined to go our separate ways, and each seek our own career in New York!
Mrs. Kent: (Dazed, rises, sewing drops from her lap to floor.) Why, Eve, you don't know what you're saying — you can't mean it. You're joking, I know you are! (Thelma comes forward, picks up sewing, hands it to Mrs. Kent, whose manner changes to one of sharp reprimand.) What, Thelma, you here still! How many times have I told you not to snoop! Listening to things that don't concern you! Leave the room at once!
Thelma: (obediently) Yes, ma'am, (Exits hastily.)
Mrs. Kent: Now then. Eve, come here and tell me what you are talking about. (Sits down on sofa.)
Eve: (sitting beside her) Oh, you heard me, Mother. It's perfectly simple, and you needn't have sent Thelma out — it's nothing secret. That's the whole trouble, our stupid, small-town way of doing things, always under cover. We've nothing to hide or be ashamed of — why, Stephen is coming over here for tea, to say goodbye to you all. He'll be here in a little while!
Mrs. Kent: Eve, you just wait until your father —
Eve: Of course we're putting you and Dad on your honor. Mother. We don't expect you to be so childish as to lock me up in my room, call the police, or anything so naive as that!
Mrs. Kent: ( Weeps. ) I suppose there's nothing-nothing I can say or do to stop you, Eve. But youll be sorry someday.
Eve: Why will I be sorry? I don't think you and Dad are so ideally happy-I bet he's not even in love with you any more! He probably wouldn't even care if you went off with another man. Come now. Mother, confess — would he?
Mrs. Kent: (shocked) Eve! How can you say such things to me?
Eve: (laughing) Why, I don't know. Mother. There's no point in not saying them, if they're true!
Mrs. Kent: This — this Madame Tergehova, she may live like that in her own country, but it's not the way of life in America!
Eve: But it can be. Mother — it will be. This narrow, conventional way of living cant go on forever! Stephen and I, well be pioneers in this great crusade toward a new and free civilization!
Mrs. Kent: (sadly) But at what a cost, child — at what a cost!
Eve: Oh, it's no use. Mother, you'll never understand! Ill go and pack my bag now. (Rises.) I'm not going to lead this silly, uncivilized life any longer, that's all.
The Greatest Invention
"What do you think is going to happen, Jorkens?" one of us asked one day at the club.
"Happen?" Jorkens said. "That is hard to say: in the old days one had a rough idea of what other countries wanted to do and their ability to do it. But it is all different now."
"How is it different?" asked the man.
"There are so many inventions," Jorkens said, "of which we know nothing. Now that a man can carry in a bag a bomb that is more powerful than several battleships, it is hard to find out what any country can do or will do next. I will give you an example."
I was on a ship in the tropics (Jorkens told us), and we put into a port. I was tired of looking at the tropical sea, so I went ashore and walked into a tavern to see if they had any decent wines in that country. As it turned out, they hadn't. But there was a man there with a black mustache and a certain look in his eyes that made me wonder if he might not have something interesting to tell. So I asked him if I might offer him a glass of wine. Well, he was good enough to accept, and I called for a bottle of the strange local wine. When the bottle had been uncorked and the wine poured out, like liquid tropical sunlight, I watched it go down under that black mustache. And when a certain amount had gone down, he began to talk.
"We aimed at the mastery of the whole Caribbean," he said, "and don't think that because we are a little country we could not have succeeded. War is no longer a matter of armies; it depends on the intelligence of scientists. And we had a scientist who, as I have since seen proved, had no rival west of the Atlantic."
"You proved it?" I could not help saying.
"Yes," he said. "You shall hear."
I had another bottle of wine set before him, and I did hear.
"You may not have thought it," he said, "but I was in our Ministry of Warfare."
And I had not thought it, for he was not at all what one would regard as the figure of a soldier. But warfare, as he explained to me, has altered.
"Our Minister," he said, "was a cavalry officer and could not adapt his ideas to modern science. He thought of war simply as an opportunity for cavalry charges and fine uniforms and glory. We had to get rid of him in order to fulfill our just aspirations."
"And what are they?" I asked.
"Why, the domination of the whole Caribbean," he said. "And it is just that we should have it. We are the people who have been born to it."
"Of course," I said soothingly, though I did not know for which country he spoke.
"Once the Minister of Warfare was gone," he went on, "we turned our minds to modern warfare, and we began to make great progress. Modern warfare gives grand opportunities to little countries. Once, if a nation had twelve battleships it was a Great Power, and we could only obey. But what if we know how to let loose a plague capable of destroying whole nations? Must we be silent then about our just aspirations? No. We shall speak."
"Certainly," I said.
"Other nations know something of germ warfare," the stranger said. "We looked for a new and deadlier germ. And we had the man who could not only give us that, but a more effective way to spread it — his name was Silvary Carasierra. We knew that we had marvelous powers within our grasp, if only Carasierra could be kept at his work."
"Idle, was he?" I said, for I thought it very likely in a hot country like that.
"No," said the stranger. "Never idle. Always spurred on by a fierce ambition. His very life was devoted to making inventions. Yes, he worked and he was working for us on something wonderful. Ah, well. We relied, and rightly, on that man's wisdom; but we forgot his folly."
The man was silent.
"What did Carasierra do?" I asked.
"That ambition was driving him all the time," he said. "He knew that he was the greatest scientist in the world, and he was determined to show it. As long as the germ on which he was working seemed the most wonderful thing ever invented, he was more than content. But before he had completed it, another inspiration came to him and drove him away. I tried everything: threats, appeals to him to think of our ancient glory, even bribes. But nothing would turn him from his project. The splendor of his new inspiration gripped him, and he was like a man drugged."
"And the splendor of our position faded like dreams. We were so nearly one of the Great Powers but for a fancy that came to this man's mind."
"What was Carasierra's fancy?" I asked.
"I will tell you," he said. "Day after day I went to his laboratory and appealed to him, almost in tears, to return to his work for us. But no, he would not listen. I gave him every chance. But at last I had to threaten him with death. I told him that if he would not return to his proper work he would have to be shot. But there was a queer light in his eyes that day, and really I think he hardly heard me. He would only say, 'I have done it, have done it.'"
"'Done what?' I asked him," the stranger continued.
"'The most wonderful invention,' he said, 'the most wonderful invention ever achieved by man.'"
"'You will be shot,' I repeated, 'if you don't get on with your work.'"
"'This is more wonderful,' he said."
"'Well, show it to me,' I demanded. He took me out to his lawn. And there he pointed. I saw only a square yard of grass, marked off with a strip of white tape. 'What is it?' I asked."
"He took up his tape and marked off a smaller area, one of only a few inches. 'Do you see anything wonderful there?' he asked. 'Look close.'"
"Happen?" Jorkens said. "That is hard to say: in the old days one had a rough idea of what other countries wanted to do and their ability to do it. But it is all different now."
"How is it different?" asked the man.
"There are so many inventions," Jorkens said, "of which we know nothing. Now that a man can carry in a bag a bomb that is more powerful than several battleships, it is hard to find out what any country can do or will do next. I will give you an example."
I was on a ship in the tropics (Jorkens told us), and we put into a port. I was tired of looking at the tropical sea, so I went ashore and walked into a tavern to see if they had any decent wines in that country. As it turned out, they hadn't. But there was a man there with a black mustache and a certain look in his eyes that made me wonder if he might not have something interesting to tell. So I asked him if I might offer him a glass of wine. Well, he was good enough to accept, and I called for a bottle of the strange local wine. When the bottle had been uncorked and the wine poured out, like liquid tropical sunlight, I watched it go down under that black mustache. And when a certain amount had gone down, he began to talk.
"We aimed at the mastery of the whole Caribbean," he said, "and don't think that because we are a little country we could not have succeeded. War is no longer a matter of armies; it depends on the intelligence of scientists. And we had a scientist who, as I have since seen proved, had no rival west of the Atlantic."
"You proved it?" I could not help saying.
"Yes," he said. "You shall hear."
I had another bottle of wine set before him, and I did hear.
"You may not have thought it," he said, "but I was in our Ministry of Warfare."
And I had not thought it, for he was not at all what one would regard as the figure of a soldier. But warfare, as he explained to me, has altered.
"Our Minister," he said, "was a cavalry officer and could not adapt his ideas to modern science. He thought of war simply as an opportunity for cavalry charges and fine uniforms and glory. We had to get rid of him in order to fulfill our just aspirations."
"And what are they?" I asked.
"Why, the domination of the whole Caribbean," he said. "And it is just that we should have it. We are the people who have been born to it."
"Of course," I said soothingly, though I did not know for which country he spoke.
"Once the Minister of Warfare was gone," he went on, "we turned our minds to modern warfare, and we began to make great progress. Modern warfare gives grand opportunities to little countries. Once, if a nation had twelve battleships it was a Great Power, and we could only obey. But what if we know how to let loose a plague capable of destroying whole nations? Must we be silent then about our just aspirations? No. We shall speak."
"Certainly," I said.
"Other nations know something of germ warfare," the stranger said. "We looked for a new and deadlier germ. And we had the man who could not only give us that, but a more effective way to spread it — his name was Silvary Carasierra. We knew that we had marvelous powers within our grasp, if only Carasierra could be kept at his work."
"Idle, was he?" I said, for I thought it very likely in a hot country like that.
"No," said the stranger. "Never idle. Always spurred on by a fierce ambition. His very life was devoted to making inventions. Yes, he worked and he was working for us on something wonderful. Ah, well. We relied, and rightly, on that man's wisdom; but we forgot his folly."
The man was silent.
"What did Carasierra do?" I asked.
"That ambition was driving him all the time," he said. "He knew that he was the greatest scientist in the world, and he was determined to show it. As long as the germ on which he was working seemed the most wonderful thing ever invented, he was more than content. But before he had completed it, another inspiration came to him and drove him away. I tried everything: threats, appeals to him to think of our ancient glory, even bribes. But nothing would turn him from his project. The splendor of his new inspiration gripped him, and he was like a man drugged."
"And the splendor of our position faded like dreams. We were so nearly one of the Great Powers but for a fancy that came to this man's mind."
"What was Carasierra's fancy?" I asked.
"I will tell you," he said. "Day after day I went to his laboratory and appealed to him, almost in tears, to return to his work for us. But no, he would not listen. I gave him every chance. But at last I had to threaten him with death. I told him that if he would not return to his proper work he would have to be shot. But there was a queer light in his eyes that day, and really I think he hardly heard me. He would only say, 'I have done it, have done it.'"
"'Done what?' I asked him," the stranger continued.
"'The most wonderful invention,' he said, 'the most wonderful invention ever achieved by man.'"
"'You will be shot,' I repeated, 'if you don't get on with your work.'"
"'This is more wonderful,' he said."
"'Well, show it to me,' I demanded. He took me out to his lawn. And there he pointed. I saw only a square yard of grass, marked off with a strip of white tape. 'What is it?' I asked."
"He took up his tape and marked off a smaller area, one of only a few inches. 'Do you see anything wonderful there?' he asked. 'Look close.'"
The Man in the Water
As disasters go, this one was terrible, but not unique, certainly not among the worst U. S. air crashes on record. There was the unusual element of the bridge, of course and the fact that the plane hit it at a moment of high traffic. Then, too, there was the location of the event. Washington, the city of form and rules, turned chaotic by a blast of real winter and a single slap of metal on metal. The jets from Washington National Airport that normally fly around the presidential monuments like hungry gulls are, for the moment, represented by the one that fell. And there was the aesthetic clash as well — blue-and-green Air Florida, the name of a flying garden, sunk down among gray chunks of ice in a black river. All that was worth noticing, to be sure. Still, there was nothing very special in any of it, except death, which, while always special, does not necessarily bring millions to tears or to attention. Why, then, the shock here?
Perhaps because the nation saw in this disaster something more than a mechanical failure. Perhaps because people saw in it no failure at all, but rather something successful about themselves. Here, after all, were two forms of nature in collision: the elements and human character. Last Wednesday, the elements, indifferent as ever, brought down Flight 90. And on that same afternoon, human nature — groping and struggling — rose to the occasion.
Of the four acknowledged heroes of the event, three are able to account for their behavior. Donald Usher and Eugene Windsor, a park police helicopter team, risked their lives every time they dipped into the water to pick up survivors. On television, side by side, they described their courage as all in the line of duty. Lenny Skutnik, a 28-year-old employee of the Congressional Budget Office, said: "It's something I never thought I would do" — referring to his jumping into the water to drag an injured woman to shore. Skutnik added that "somebody had to go in the water", delivering every hero's line that is no less admirable for being repeated. In fact, nobody had to go into the water. That somebody actually did so is part of the reason this particular tragedy sticks in the mind.
But the person most responsible for the emotional impact of the disaster is the one known at first simply as "the man in the water". Balding, probably in his 50s, a huge mustache. He was seen clinging with five other survivors to the tail section of the airplane. This man was described by Usher and Windsor as appearing alert and in control. Every time they lowered a lifeline and flotation ring to him, he passed it on to another of the passengers. "In a mass casualty, you'll find people like him," said Windsor. "But I've never seen one with that commitment." When the helicopter came back for him the man had gone under. His selflessness was one reason the story held national attention; his anonymity another. The fact that he went unidentified gave him a universal character. For a while he was Everyman, and thus proof (as if one needed it) that no man is ordinary.
Still, he could never have imagined such a capacity in himself. Only minutes before his character was tested, he was sitting in the ordinary plane among the ordinary passengers, listening to the stewardess telling him to fasten his seat belt and saying something about the "no smoking" sign. So our man relaxed with the others, some of whom would owe their lives to him. Perhaps he started to read, or to doze, or to regret some harsh remark made in the office that morning. Then suddenly he knew that the trip would not be ordinary. Like every other person on that flight, he was desperate to live, which makes his final act so stunning.
For at some moment in the water he must have realized that he would not live if he continued to hand over the rope and ring to others. He had to know it, no matter how slow the effect of the cold. He felt he had no choice. When the helicopter took off with what was to be the last survivor, he watched everything in the world move away from him, and he let it happen.
Yet there was something else about our man that kept our thoughts on him, and which keeps our thoughts on him still. He was there, in the essential, classic circumstance. Man in nature. The man in the water. For its part, nature cared nothing about the five passengers. Our man, on the other hand, cared totally. So the age-old battle began again in the Potomac. For as long as that man could last, they went at each other, nature and man; the one making no distinctions of good and evil, acting on no principles, offering no lifelines; the other acting wholly on distinctions, principles and, perhaps, on faith.
Since it was he who lost the fight, we ought to come again to the conclusion that people are powerless in the world. In reality, we believe the opposite, and it takes the act of the man in the water to remind us of our true feelings in this matter. It is not to say that everyone would have acted as he did, or as Usher, Windsor and Skutnik. Yet whatever moved these men to challenge death on behalf of their fellows is not peculiar to them. Everyone feels the possibility in himself. That is the enduring wonder of the story. That is why we would not let go of it. If the man in the water gave a lifeline to the people gasping for survival, he was likewise giving a lifeline to those who watched him.
Perhaps because the nation saw in this disaster something more than a mechanical failure. Perhaps because people saw in it no failure at all, but rather something successful about themselves. Here, after all, were two forms of nature in collision: the elements and human character. Last Wednesday, the elements, indifferent as ever, brought down Flight 90. And on that same afternoon, human nature — groping and struggling — rose to the occasion.
Of the four acknowledged heroes of the event, three are able to account for their behavior. Donald Usher and Eugene Windsor, a park police helicopter team, risked their lives every time they dipped into the water to pick up survivors. On television, side by side, they described their courage as all in the line of duty. Lenny Skutnik, a 28-year-old employee of the Congressional Budget Office, said: "It's something I never thought I would do" — referring to his jumping into the water to drag an injured woman to shore. Skutnik added that "somebody had to go in the water", delivering every hero's line that is no less admirable for being repeated. In fact, nobody had to go into the water. That somebody actually did so is part of the reason this particular tragedy sticks in the mind.
But the person most responsible for the emotional impact of the disaster is the one known at first simply as "the man in the water". Balding, probably in his 50s, a huge mustache. He was seen clinging with five other survivors to the tail section of the airplane. This man was described by Usher and Windsor as appearing alert and in control. Every time they lowered a lifeline and flotation ring to him, he passed it on to another of the passengers. "In a mass casualty, you'll find people like him," said Windsor. "But I've never seen one with that commitment." When the helicopter came back for him the man had gone under. His selflessness was one reason the story held national attention; his anonymity another. The fact that he went unidentified gave him a universal character. For a while he was Everyman, and thus proof (as if one needed it) that no man is ordinary.
Still, he could never have imagined such a capacity in himself. Only minutes before his character was tested, he was sitting in the ordinary plane among the ordinary passengers, listening to the stewardess telling him to fasten his seat belt and saying something about the "no smoking" sign. So our man relaxed with the others, some of whom would owe their lives to him. Perhaps he started to read, or to doze, or to regret some harsh remark made in the office that morning. Then suddenly he knew that the trip would not be ordinary. Like every other person on that flight, he was desperate to live, which makes his final act so stunning.
For at some moment in the water he must have realized that he would not live if he continued to hand over the rope and ring to others. He had to know it, no matter how slow the effect of the cold. He felt he had no choice. When the helicopter took off with what was to be the last survivor, he watched everything in the world move away from him, and he let it happen.
Yet there was something else about our man that kept our thoughts on him, and which keeps our thoughts on him still. He was there, in the essential, classic circumstance. Man in nature. The man in the water. For its part, nature cared nothing about the five passengers. Our man, on the other hand, cared totally. So the age-old battle began again in the Potomac. For as long as that man could last, they went at each other, nature and man; the one making no distinctions of good and evil, acting on no principles, offering no lifelines; the other acting wholly on distinctions, principles and, perhaps, on faith.
Since it was he who lost the fight, we ought to come again to the conclusion that people are powerless in the world. In reality, we believe the opposite, and it takes the act of the man in the water to remind us of our true feelings in this matter. It is not to say that everyone would have acted as he did, or as Usher, Windsor and Skutnik. Yet whatever moved these men to challenge death on behalf of their fellows is not peculiar to them. Everyone feels the possibility in himself. That is the enduring wonder of the story. That is why we would not let go of it. If the man in the water gave a lifeline to the people gasping for survival, he was likewise giving a lifeline to those who watched him.
Say Yes
They were doing the dishes, his wife washing while he dried. Unlike most men he knew, he really pitched in on the housework. A few months earlier he'd overheard a friend of his wife's congratulate her on having such a considerate husband.
They talked about different things and somehow got on the subject of whether white people should marry black people. He said that all things considered, he thought it was a bad idea.
"Why?" she asked.
Sometimes his wife got this look where she pinched her brows together and bit her lower lip. When he saw her like this he knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he never did. Actually it made him talk more. She had that look now.
"Why?" she asked again, and stood there with her hand inside a bowl, just holding it above the water.
"Listen," he said, "I went to school with blacks, and I've worked with blacks and we've always gotten along just fine. I don't need you coming along now and implying that I'm a racist."
"I didn't imply anything," she said, "I just don't see what's wrong with a white person marrying a black person, that's all."
"They don't come from the same culture. Why, they even have their own language. That's okay with me, I like hearing them talk." "But it's different. A person from their culture and a person from our culture could never really know each other."
"Like you know me?" his wife asked.
"Yes. Like I know you."
"But if they love each other," she said.
Oh boy, he thought. He said, "Don't take my word for it. Look at the statistics. Most of those marriages break up."
"Statistics." She was piling dishes on the draining-board at a terrific rate. Many of them were still greasy. "All right," she said, "what about foreigners? I suppose you think the same thing about two foreigners getting married."
"Yes," he said, "as a matter of fact I do. How can you understand someone who comes from a completely different background?"
"Different," said his wife. "Not the same, like us."
"Yes, different," he snapped, angry with her for resorting to this trick of repeating his words so that they sounded hypocritical. "These are dirty," he said, and threw all the silverware back into the sink.
She stared down at it, her lips pressed tight together, then plunged her hands under the surface. "Oh!" she cried, and jumped back. She took her right hand by the wrist and held it up. Her thumb was bleeding.
"Don't move," he said. "Stay right there." He ran upstairs to the bathroom and rummaged in the medicine chest for alcohol, cotton, and a Band-Aid. When he came back down she was leaning against the refrigerator with her eyes closed, still holding her hand. He took the hand and dabbed at her thumb with the cotton. The bleeding had stopped. He squeezed it to see how deep the wound was. "It's shallow," he said. "Tomorrow you won't even know it's there." He hoped that she appreciated how quickly he had come to her aid. He'd acted out of concern for her, he thought that it would be a nice gesture on her part not to start up that conversation again, as he was tired of it. "I'll finish up here," he said. "You go and relax."
"That's okay," she said. "I'll dry."
He began to wash the silverware again.
"So," she said, "you wouldn't have married me if I'd been black."
"For Christ's sake, Ann!"
"Well, that's what you said, didn't you?"
"No, I did not. The whole question is ridiculous. If you had been black we probably wouldn't even have met. The only black girl I ever really knew was my partner in the debating club."
"But if we had met, and I'd been black?"
"Then you probably would have been going out with a black guy." He picked up the rinsing nozzle and sprayed the silverware.
"Let's say I am black and unattached," she said, "and we meet and fall in love."
He glanced over at her. She was watching him and her eyes were bright. "Look," he said, taking a reasonable tone, "this is stupid. If you were black you wouldn't be you." As he said this he realized it was absolutely true. There was no possible way of arguing with the fact that she would not be herself if she were black.
"I know," she said, "but let's just say."
He took a deep breath. He had won the argument but he still felt cornered. "Say what?" he asked.
"That I'm black, but still me, and we fall in love. Will you marry me?" He though! about it.
"Well?" she said. Her eyes were even brighter. "Will you marry me?"
"I'm thinking," he said.
"You won't, I can tell."
"Let's not move too fast on this," he said. "There are lots of things to consider. We don't want to do something we would regret for the rest of our lives."
"No more considering. Yes or no."
"Since you put it that way — "
"Yes or no."
"Jesus, Ann. All right. No."
She said, "Thank you," and walked from the kitchen into the living room. A moment later he heard her turning the pages of a magazine. He knew that she was too angry to be actually reading it, but she didn't snap through the pages the way he would have done. She turned them slowly, as if she were studying every word. She was demonstrating her indifference to him, and it had the effect he knew she wanted it to have. It hurt him.
He had no choice but to demonstrate his indifference to her. Quietly, thoroughly, he washed the rest of the dishes. Then he dried them and put them away. He wiped the counters and the stove.
While he was at it, he decided, he might as well mop the floor. When he was done the kitchen looked new, the way it looked when they were first shown the house.
He picked up the garbage pail and went outside. The night was clear and he could see a few stars to the west, where the lights of the town didn't blur them out. On El Camino the traffic was steady and light, peaceful as a river. He felt ashamed that he had let his wife get him into a fight. In another thirty years or so they would both be dead. What would all that stuff matter then? He thought of the years they had spent together, and how close they were, and how well they knew each other, and his throat tightened so that he could hardly breathe.
The house was dark when he came back inside. She was in the bathroom. He stood outside the door and called her name. "Ann, I'm really sorry," he said. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."
"How?" she said.
He knew that he had to come up with the right answer. He leaned against the door. "I'll marry you," he whispered.
"We'll see," she said. "Go on to bed. I'll be out in a minute."
He undressed and got under the covers. Finally he heard the bathroom door open and close.
"Turn off the light," she said from the hallway.
They talked about different things and somehow got on the subject of whether white people should marry black people. He said that all things considered, he thought it was a bad idea.
"Why?" she asked.
Sometimes his wife got this look where she pinched her brows together and bit her lower lip. When he saw her like this he knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he never did. Actually it made him talk more. She had that look now.
"Why?" she asked again, and stood there with her hand inside a bowl, just holding it above the water.
"Listen," he said, "I went to school with blacks, and I've worked with blacks and we've always gotten along just fine. I don't need you coming along now and implying that I'm a racist."
"I didn't imply anything," she said, "I just don't see what's wrong with a white person marrying a black person, that's all."
"They don't come from the same culture. Why, they even have their own language. That's okay with me, I like hearing them talk." "But it's different. A person from their culture and a person from our culture could never really know each other."
"Like you know me?" his wife asked.
"Yes. Like I know you."
"But if they love each other," she said.
Oh boy, he thought. He said, "Don't take my word for it. Look at the statistics. Most of those marriages break up."
"Statistics." She was piling dishes on the draining-board at a terrific rate. Many of them were still greasy. "All right," she said, "what about foreigners? I suppose you think the same thing about two foreigners getting married."
"Yes," he said, "as a matter of fact I do. How can you understand someone who comes from a completely different background?"
"Different," said his wife. "Not the same, like us."
"Yes, different," he snapped, angry with her for resorting to this trick of repeating his words so that they sounded hypocritical. "These are dirty," he said, and threw all the silverware back into the sink.
She stared down at it, her lips pressed tight together, then plunged her hands under the surface. "Oh!" she cried, and jumped back. She took her right hand by the wrist and held it up. Her thumb was bleeding.
"Don't move," he said. "Stay right there." He ran upstairs to the bathroom and rummaged in the medicine chest for alcohol, cotton, and a Band-Aid. When he came back down she was leaning against the refrigerator with her eyes closed, still holding her hand. He took the hand and dabbed at her thumb with the cotton. The bleeding had stopped. He squeezed it to see how deep the wound was. "It's shallow," he said. "Tomorrow you won't even know it's there." He hoped that she appreciated how quickly he had come to her aid. He'd acted out of concern for her, he thought that it would be a nice gesture on her part not to start up that conversation again, as he was tired of it. "I'll finish up here," he said. "You go and relax."
"That's okay," she said. "I'll dry."
He began to wash the silverware again.
"So," she said, "you wouldn't have married me if I'd been black."
"For Christ's sake, Ann!"
"Well, that's what you said, didn't you?"
"No, I did not. The whole question is ridiculous. If you had been black we probably wouldn't even have met. The only black girl I ever really knew was my partner in the debating club."
"But if we had met, and I'd been black?"
"Then you probably would have been going out with a black guy." He picked up the rinsing nozzle and sprayed the silverware.
"Let's say I am black and unattached," she said, "and we meet and fall in love."
He glanced over at her. She was watching him and her eyes were bright. "Look," he said, taking a reasonable tone, "this is stupid. If you were black you wouldn't be you." As he said this he realized it was absolutely true. There was no possible way of arguing with the fact that she would not be herself if she were black.
"I know," she said, "but let's just say."
He took a deep breath. He had won the argument but he still felt cornered. "Say what?" he asked.
"That I'm black, but still me, and we fall in love. Will you marry me?" He though! about it.
"Well?" she said. Her eyes were even brighter. "Will you marry me?"
"I'm thinking," he said.
"You won't, I can tell."
"Let's not move too fast on this," he said. "There are lots of things to consider. We don't want to do something we would regret for the rest of our lives."
"No more considering. Yes or no."
"Since you put it that way — "
"Yes or no."
"Jesus, Ann. All right. No."
She said, "Thank you," and walked from the kitchen into the living room. A moment later he heard her turning the pages of a magazine. He knew that she was too angry to be actually reading it, but she didn't snap through the pages the way he would have done. She turned them slowly, as if she were studying every word. She was demonstrating her indifference to him, and it had the effect he knew she wanted it to have. It hurt him.
He had no choice but to demonstrate his indifference to her. Quietly, thoroughly, he washed the rest of the dishes. Then he dried them and put them away. He wiped the counters and the stove.
While he was at it, he decided, he might as well mop the floor. When he was done the kitchen looked new, the way it looked when they were first shown the house.
He picked up the garbage pail and went outside. The night was clear and he could see a few stars to the west, where the lights of the town didn't blur them out. On El Camino the traffic was steady and light, peaceful as a river. He felt ashamed that he had let his wife get him into a fight. In another thirty years or so they would both be dead. What would all that stuff matter then? He thought of the years they had spent together, and how close they were, and how well they knew each other, and his throat tightened so that he could hardly breathe.
The house was dark when he came back inside. She was in the bathroom. He stood outside the door and called her name. "Ann, I'm really sorry," he said. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."
"How?" she said.
He knew that he had to come up with the right answer. He leaned against the door. "I'll marry you," he whispered.
"We'll see," she said. "Go on to bed. I'll be out in a minute."
He undressed and got under the covers. Finally he heard the bathroom door open and close.
"Turn off the light," she said from the hallway.
The Nightingale and the Rose
"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student, "but in all my garden there is no red rose."
From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard him and she looked out through the leaves and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose my life is made wretched."
"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, and now I see him.
"The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely and my heart will break."
"Here, indeed, is the true lover," said the Nightingale. Surely love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds and opals.
"The musicians will play upon their stringed instruments," said the young Student, "and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her," and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbor, in a soft, low voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" they cried, "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the Student's sorrow, and sat silent in the Oak-tree.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot stood a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are white," it answered, "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered, "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms In the meadow. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all that I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is a way," answered the Tree, "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's blood.
You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and life is very dear to all. Yet love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. "Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy, you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him. But the Oak-tree understood and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale. "Sing me one last song," he whispered. "I shall feel lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song, the Student got up.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away. "That cannot be denied. But has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, like most artists, she is all style without any sincerity." And he went to his room, and lay down on his bed, and after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heaven, the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvelous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard him and she looked out through the leaves and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose my life is made wretched."
"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, and now I see him.
"The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely and my heart will break."
"Here, indeed, is the true lover," said the Nightingale. Surely love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds and opals.
"The musicians will play upon their stringed instruments," said the young Student, "and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her," and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbor, in a soft, low voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" they cried, "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the Student's sorrow, and sat silent in the Oak-tree.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot stood a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are white," it answered, "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered, "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms In the meadow. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all that I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is a way," answered the Tree, "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's blood.
You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and life is very dear to all. Yet love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. "Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy, you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him. But the Oak-tree understood and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale. "Sing me one last song," he whispered. "I shall feel lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song, the Student got up.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away. "That cannot be denied. But has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, like most artists, she is all style without any sincerity." And he went to his room, and lay down on his bed, and after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heaven, the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvelous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
Touched by the Moon Nirmal Gbosb
Driving to a friend's house on a recent evening, I was awe-struck by the sight of the full moon rising just above Manila's rooftops, huge and swollen, yellow through the dust and smoke of the city. I stopped to watch it for a few moments, reflecting on what a pity it was that most city dwellers—myself included—usually miss sights like this because we spend most of our lives indoors.
My friend had also seen it. He grew up living in a forest in Europe, and the moon meant a lot to him then. It had touched many aspects of his life, including those concerning his ordinary daily life. For example, when he had to make sure that he had his torch with him when he was outside in the evening, or when the moon was due to rise late or was at its newest—a bright, distant sliver of white like a chink of light below a door in the sky.
I know the feeling. Last December I took my seven-year-old daughter to the mountainous jungle of northern India with some friends. We stayed in a forest rest-house with no electricity or running hot water. Our group had campfires outside every night, and indoors when it was too cold outside. The moon grew to its fullest during our trip. At Binsar, 7, 500 feet up in the Kumaon hills, I can remember going out at 10 pm and seeing the great Nanda Devil mountain like a ghost on the horizon, gleaming white in the moonlight and flanked by Trishul, the mountain considered holy by Hindus. Between me and the high mountains lay three or four valleys. Not a light shone in them and not a sound could be heard. It was one of the quietest places I have ever known, a bottomless well of silence. And above me was the full moon.
On the same trip, further down by the plains, we stayed in village style clay huts at the edge of a wheat field, with a cold river tumbling over rocks a few yards away. Late at night, underneath the full moon, everything seemed bathed in a quiet supernatural light, and we could see the stones in the river, and watch the deer and antelope crossing, almost half a kilometre away.
I also remember sitting on the beach at San Antonio in Zambales, one night in the Philippines about two years ago, watching the South China Sea hiss against the sand. The full moon rose and hung over the sea like a huge lantern in the sky. I felt as if I could walk up and touch it.
Last summer, on another trip, I met the caretaker of a rest-house at Chitkul, 11,000 feet above the plains at the top end of the Sangla valley in the Indian Himalayas, two days' walk from Tibet. We sat in the sun looking at the scattering of stone-tiled roofs, and the stony valley climbing away between the mountains towards Tibet, leaving behind the small, struggling vegetable patches planted by the farmers and herders of this, the last village before the border. We were a thousand feet above the tree-line; every winter the place is covered with several feet of snow.
My friend had also seen it. He grew up living in a forest in Europe, and the moon meant a lot to him then. It had touched many aspects of his life, including those concerning his ordinary daily life. For example, when he had to make sure that he had his torch with him when he was outside in the evening, or when the moon was due to rise late or was at its newest—a bright, distant sliver of white like a chink of light below a door in the sky.
I know the feeling. Last December I took my seven-year-old daughter to the mountainous jungle of northern India with some friends. We stayed in a forest rest-house with no electricity or running hot water. Our group had campfires outside every night, and indoors when it was too cold outside. The moon grew to its fullest during our trip. At Binsar, 7, 500 feet up in the Kumaon hills, I can remember going out at 10 pm and seeing the great Nanda Devil mountain like a ghost on the horizon, gleaming white in the moonlight and flanked by Trishul, the mountain considered holy by Hindus. Between me and the high mountains lay three or four valleys. Not a light shone in them and not a sound could be heard. It was one of the quietest places I have ever known, a bottomless well of silence. And above me was the full moon.
On the same trip, further down by the plains, we stayed in village style clay huts at the edge of a wheat field, with a cold river tumbling over rocks a few yards away. Late at night, underneath the full moon, everything seemed bathed in a quiet supernatural light, and we could see the stones in the river, and watch the deer and antelope crossing, almost half a kilometre away.
I also remember sitting on the beach at San Antonio in Zambales, one night in the Philippines about two years ago, watching the South China Sea hiss against the sand. The full moon rose and hung over the sea like a huge lantern in the sky. I felt as if I could walk up and touch it.
Last summer, on another trip, I met the caretaker of a rest-house at Chitkul, 11,000 feet above the plains at the top end of the Sangla valley in the Indian Himalayas, two days' walk from Tibet. We sat in the sun looking at the scattering of stone-tiled roofs, and the stony valley climbing away between the mountains towards Tibet, leaving behind the small, struggling vegetable patches planted by the farmers and herders of this, the last village before the border. We were a thousand feet above the tree-line; every winter the place is covered with several feet of snow.
My father
The year I found Maheegun, spring was late in coming. That day, I was spearing fish with my grandfather when I heard the faint crying and found the shivering wolf cub.
As I bent down, he moved weakly toward me. I picked him up and put him inside my jacket. Little Maheegun gained strength after I got the first few drops of warm milk in him. He wiggled and soon he was full and warm.
My grandfather finally agreed to let me keep him.
That year, which was my 14th, was the happiest of my life.
Not that we didn't have our troubles. Maheegun was the most mischievous wolf cub ever. He was curious too. Like looking into Grandma's sewing basket — which he upset, scattering thread and buttons all over the floor. At such times, she would chase him out with a broom and Maheegun would poke his head around the corner, waiting for things to quiet down.
That summer Maheegun and I became hunting partners. We hunted the grasshoppers that leaped about like little rockets. And in the fall, after the first snow our games took us to the nearest meadows in search of field mice. By then, Maheegun was half grown. Gone was the puppy-wool coat. In its place was a handsome black mantle.
The winter months that came soon after were the happiest I could remember. They belonged only to Maheegun and myself. Often we would make a fire in the bushes. Maheegun would lay his head between his front paws, with his eyes on me as I told him stories.
It all served to fog my mind with pleasure so that I forgot my Grandpa's repeated warnings, and one night left Maheegun unchained. The following morning in sailed Mrs. Yesno, wild with anger, who demanded Maheegun be shot because he had killed her rooster. The next morning, my grandpa announced that we were going to take Maheegun to the north shack.
By the time we reached the lake where the trapper's shack stood, Maheegun seemed to have become restless. Often he would sit with his nose to the sky, turning his head this way and that as if to check the wind.
The warmth of the stove soon brought sleep to me. But something caused me to wake up with a start. I sat up, and in the moon-flooded cabin was my grandfather standing beside me. "Come and see, son," whispered my grandfather.
Outside the moon was full and the world looked all white with snow. He pointed to a rock that stood high at the edge of the lake. On the top was the clear outline of a great wolf sitting still, ears pointed, alert, listening.
"Maheegun," whispered my grandfather.
Slowly the wolf raised his muzzle. "Oooo-oo-wow-wowoo-oooo!"
The whole white world thrilled to that wild cry. Then after a while, from the distance came a softer call in reply. Maheegun stirred, with the deep rumble of pleasure in his throat. He slipped down the rock and headed out across the ice.
"He's gone," I said.
"Yes, he's gone to that young she-wolf." My grandfather slowly filled his pipe. "He will take her for life, hunt for her, protect her. This is the way the Creator planned life. No man can change it."
I tried to tell myself it was all for the best, but it was hard to lose my brother.
For the next two years I was as busy as a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. But once or twice when I heard wolf cries from distant hills, I would still wonder if Maheegun, in his battle for life, found time to remember me.
It was not long after that I found the answer.
Easter came early that year and during the holidays I went to visit my cousins.
My uncle was to bring me home in his truck. But he was detained by some urgent business. So I decided to come back home on my own.
A mile down the road I slipped into my snowshoes and turned into the bush. The strong sunshine had dimmed. I had not gone far before big flakes of snow began drifting down.
The snow thickened fast. I could not locate the tall pine that stood on the north slope of Little Mountain. I circled to my right and stumbled into a snow-filled creek bed. By then the snow had made a blanket of white darkness, but I knew only too well there should have been no creek there.
I tried to travel west but only to hit the creek again. I knew I had gone in a great circle and I was lost.
There was only one thing to do. Camp for the night and hope that by morning the storm would have blown itself out. I quickly made a bed of boughs and started a fire with the bark of an old dead birch. The first night I was comfortable enough. But when the first gray light came I realized that I was in deep trouble. The storm was even worse. Everything had been smothered by the fierce whiteness.
The light of another day still saw no end to the storm. I began to get confused. I couldn't recall whether it had been storming for three or four days.
Then came the clear dawn. A great white stillness had taken over and with it, biting cold. My supply of wood was almost gone. There must be more.
Slashing off green branches with my knife, I cut my hand and blood spurted freely from my wound. It was some time before the bleeding stopped. I wrapped my hand with a piece of cloth I tore off from my shirt. After some time, my fingers grew cold and numb, so I took the bandage off and threw it away.
How long I squatted over my dying fire I don't know. But then I saw the gray shadow between the trees. It was a timber wolf. He had followed the blood spots on the snow to the blood-soaked bandage.
"Yap... yap... yap... yoooo!" The howl seemed to freeze the world with fear.
It was the food cry. He was calling, "Come, brothers, I have found meat." And I was the meat!
Soon his hunting partner came to join him. Any time now, I thought, their teeth would pierce my bones.
As I bent down, he moved weakly toward me. I picked him up and put him inside my jacket. Little Maheegun gained strength after I got the first few drops of warm milk in him. He wiggled and soon he was full and warm.
My grandfather finally agreed to let me keep him.
That year, which was my 14th, was the happiest of my life.
Not that we didn't have our troubles. Maheegun was the most mischievous wolf cub ever. He was curious too. Like looking into Grandma's sewing basket — which he upset, scattering thread and buttons all over the floor. At such times, she would chase him out with a broom and Maheegun would poke his head around the corner, waiting for things to quiet down.
That summer Maheegun and I became hunting partners. We hunted the grasshoppers that leaped about like little rockets. And in the fall, after the first snow our games took us to the nearest meadows in search of field mice. By then, Maheegun was half grown. Gone was the puppy-wool coat. In its place was a handsome black mantle.
The winter months that came soon after were the happiest I could remember. They belonged only to Maheegun and myself. Often we would make a fire in the bushes. Maheegun would lay his head between his front paws, with his eyes on me as I told him stories.
It all served to fog my mind with pleasure so that I forgot my Grandpa's repeated warnings, and one night left Maheegun unchained. The following morning in sailed Mrs. Yesno, wild with anger, who demanded Maheegun be shot because he had killed her rooster. The next morning, my grandpa announced that we were going to take Maheegun to the north shack.
By the time we reached the lake where the trapper's shack stood, Maheegun seemed to have become restless. Often he would sit with his nose to the sky, turning his head this way and that as if to check the wind.
The warmth of the stove soon brought sleep to me. But something caused me to wake up with a start. I sat up, and in the moon-flooded cabin was my grandfather standing beside me. "Come and see, son," whispered my grandfather.
Outside the moon was full and the world looked all white with snow. He pointed to a rock that stood high at the edge of the lake. On the top was the clear outline of a great wolf sitting still, ears pointed, alert, listening.
"Maheegun," whispered my grandfather.
Slowly the wolf raised his muzzle. "Oooo-oo-wow-wowoo-oooo!"
The whole white world thrilled to that wild cry. Then after a while, from the distance came a softer call in reply. Maheegun stirred, with the deep rumble of pleasure in his throat. He slipped down the rock and headed out across the ice.
"He's gone," I said.
"Yes, he's gone to that young she-wolf." My grandfather slowly filled his pipe. "He will take her for life, hunt for her, protect her. This is the way the Creator planned life. No man can change it."
I tried to tell myself it was all for the best, but it was hard to lose my brother.
For the next two years I was as busy as a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. But once or twice when I heard wolf cries from distant hills, I would still wonder if Maheegun, in his battle for life, found time to remember me.
It was not long after that I found the answer.
Easter came early that year and during the holidays I went to visit my cousins.
My uncle was to bring me home in his truck. But he was detained by some urgent business. So I decided to come back home on my own.
A mile down the road I slipped into my snowshoes and turned into the bush. The strong sunshine had dimmed. I had not gone far before big flakes of snow began drifting down.
The snow thickened fast. I could not locate the tall pine that stood on the north slope of Little Mountain. I circled to my right and stumbled into a snow-filled creek bed. By then the snow had made a blanket of white darkness, but I knew only too well there should have been no creek there.
I tried to travel west but only to hit the creek again. I knew I had gone in a great circle and I was lost.
There was only one thing to do. Camp for the night and hope that by morning the storm would have blown itself out. I quickly made a bed of boughs and started a fire with the bark of an old dead birch. The first night I was comfortable enough. But when the first gray light came I realized that I was in deep trouble. The storm was even worse. Everything had been smothered by the fierce whiteness.
The light of another day still saw no end to the storm. I began to get confused. I couldn't recall whether it had been storming for three or four days.
Then came the clear dawn. A great white stillness had taken over and with it, biting cold. My supply of wood was almost gone. There must be more.
Slashing off green branches with my knife, I cut my hand and blood spurted freely from my wound. It was some time before the bleeding stopped. I wrapped my hand with a piece of cloth I tore off from my shirt. After some time, my fingers grew cold and numb, so I took the bandage off and threw it away.
How long I squatted over my dying fire I don't know. But then I saw the gray shadow between the trees. It was a timber wolf. He had followed the blood spots on the snow to the blood-soaked bandage.
"Yap... yap... yap... yoooo!" The howl seemed to freeze the world with fear.
It was the food cry. He was calling, "Come, brothers, I have found meat." And I was the meat!
Soon his hunting partner came to join him. Any time now, I thought, their teeth would pierce my bones.
Richard Moran
If you are looking for an explanation of why we don't get tough with criminals, you need only look at the numbers. Each year almost a third of the households in America are victims of violence or theft. This amounts to more than 41 million crimes, many more than we are able to punish. There are also too many criminals. The best estimates suggest that 36 million to 40 million people (16 to 18 percent of the U. S. population) have arrest records for nontraffic offenses. We already have 2. 4 million people under some form of correctional supervision, 412, 000 of them locked away in a prison cell. We don't have room for any more!
The painful fact is that the more crime there is the less we are able to punish it. This is why the certainty and severity of punishment must go down when the crime rate goes up. Countries like Saudi Arabia can afford to give out harsh punishments precisely because they have so little crime. But can we afford to cut off the hands of those who committed more than 35 million property crimes each year? Can we send them to prison? Can we execute more than 22,000 murderers?
We need to think about the relationship between punishment and crime in a new way. A decade of careful research has failed to provide clear and convincing evidence that the threat of punishment reduces crime. We think that punishment deters crime, but it just might be the other way around. It just might be that crime deters punishment: that there is so much crime that it simply cannot be punished.
This is the situation we find ourselves in today. Just as the decline in the number of high-school graduates has made it easier to gain admission to the college of one's choice, the gradual increase in the criminal population has made it more difficult to get into prison. While elite colleges and universities still have high standards of admissions, some of the most "exclusive" prisons now require about five prior serious crimes before an inmate is accepted into their correctional program. Our current crop of prisoners is an elite group, on the whole much more serious offenders than those who were once imprisoned in Alcatraz.
These features show that it makes little sense to blame the police, judges or correctional personnel for being soft on criminals. There is not much else they can do. The police can't find most criminals and those they do find are difficult and costly to convict. Those convicted can't all be sent to prison. The society demands that we do everything we can against crime. The practical reality is that there is very little the police, courts or prisons can do about the crime problem. The criminal justice system must then become as powerless as a parent who has charge of hundreds of teenage children and who is nonetheless expected to answer the TV message: "It's 10 o'clock! Do you know where your children are?"
A few statistics from the Justice Department's recent "Report to the Nation on Crime and Justice" illustrate my point. Of every 100 serious crimes committed in America, only 33 are actually reported to the police. Of the 33 reported, about six lead to arrest. Of the six arrested, only three are prosecuted and convicted. The others are rejected or dismissed due to evidence or witness problems or are sent elsewhere for medical treatment instead of punishment. Of the three convicted, only one is sent to prison. The other two are allowed to live in their community under supervision. Of the select few sent to prison, more than half receive a maximum sentence of five years. The average inmate, however, leaves prison in about two years. Most prisoners gain early release not because parole boards are too easy on crime, but because it is much cheaper to supervise a criminal in the community. And, of course, prison officials must make room for the new prisoners sent almost daily from the courts.
The painful fact is that the more crime there is the less we are able to punish it. This is why the certainty and severity of punishment must go down when the crime rate goes up. Countries like Saudi Arabia can afford to give out harsh punishments precisely because they have so little crime. But can we afford to cut off the hands of those who committed more than 35 million property crimes each year? Can we send them to prison? Can we execute more than 22,000 murderers?
We need to think about the relationship between punishment and crime in a new way. A decade of careful research has failed to provide clear and convincing evidence that the threat of punishment reduces crime. We think that punishment deters crime, but it just might be the other way around. It just might be that crime deters punishment: that there is so much crime that it simply cannot be punished.
This is the situation we find ourselves in today. Just as the decline in the number of high-school graduates has made it easier to gain admission to the college of one's choice, the gradual increase in the criminal population has made it more difficult to get into prison. While elite colleges and universities still have high standards of admissions, some of the most "exclusive" prisons now require about five prior serious crimes before an inmate is accepted into their correctional program. Our current crop of prisoners is an elite group, on the whole much more serious offenders than those who were once imprisoned in Alcatraz.
These features show that it makes little sense to blame the police, judges or correctional personnel for being soft on criminals. There is not much else they can do. The police can't find most criminals and those they do find are difficult and costly to convict. Those convicted can't all be sent to prison. The society demands that we do everything we can against crime. The practical reality is that there is very little the police, courts or prisons can do about the crime problem. The criminal justice system must then become as powerless as a parent who has charge of hundreds of teenage children and who is nonetheless expected to answer the TV message: "It's 10 o'clock! Do you know where your children are?"
A few statistics from the Justice Department's recent "Report to the Nation on Crime and Justice" illustrate my point. Of every 100 serious crimes committed in America, only 33 are actually reported to the police. Of the 33 reported, about six lead to arrest. Of the six arrested, only three are prosecuted and convicted. The others are rejected or dismissed due to evidence or witness problems or are sent elsewhere for medical treatment instead of punishment. Of the three convicted, only one is sent to prison. The other two are allowed to live in their community under supervision. Of the select few sent to prison, more than half receive a maximum sentence of five years. The average inmate, however, leaves prison in about two years. Most prisoners gain early release not because parole boards are too easy on crime, but because it is much cheaper to supervise a criminal in the community. And, of course, prison officials must make room for the new prisoners sent almost daily from the courts.
2010年9月27日星期一
The Green Banana Donald Batchelder
Although it might have happened anywhere, my encounter with the green banana started on a steep mountain road in the central area of Brazil. My ancient jeep was straining up through beautiful countryside when the radiator began to leak, and I was ten miles from the nearest mechanic. The over-heated engine forced me to stop at the next village, which consisted of a small store and a few houses that were scattered here and there. People came over to look. They could see three fine streams of hot water spouting from holes in the jacket of the radiator. "That's easy to fix," a man said. He sent a boy running for some green bananas. He patted me on the shoulder, assuring me that everything would work out. "Green bananas," he smiled. Everyone agreed.
We chattered casually while all the time I was wondering what they could possibly do to my radiator with their green bananas. I did not ask them, though, as that would show my ignorance, so I talked about the beauty of the land that lay before our eyes. Huge rock formations, like Sugar Loaf in Rio, rose up all around us. "Do you see that tall one right over there?" asked the man, pointing to a particularly tall, slender pinnacle of dark rock. "That rock marks the center of the world."
I looked to see if he was teasing me, but his face was serious. He, in turn, inspected me carefully, as if to make sure I grasped the significance of his statement. The occasion called for some show of recognition on my part. "The center of the world?" I repeated, trying to show interest if not complete acceptance. He nodded. "The absolute center. Everyone around here knows it."
At that moment the boy returned with an armful of green bananas. The man cut one in half and pressed the cut end against the radiator jacket. The banana melted into a glue against the hot metal, stopping the leaks instantly. I was so astonished at this that I must have looked rather foolish and everyone laughed. They then refilled me radiator and gave me extra bananas to take along in case my radiator should give me trouble again. An hour later, after using the green banana once more, my radiator and I reached our destination. The local mechanic smiled. "Who taught you about the green banana?" I gave him the name of the village. "Did they show you the rock marking the center of the world?" he asked. I assured him they had. "My grandfather came from there," he said. "The exact center. Everyone around here has always known about it."
As a product of American education, I had never paid the slightest attention to the green banana, except to regard it as a fruit whose time had not yet come. Suddenly, on that mountain road, its time had come to meet my need. But as I reflected on it further, I realized that the green banana had been there all along. Its time reached back to the very origins of the banana. The people in that village had known about it for years. It was my own time that had come, all in relation to it. I came to appreciate the special genius of those people, and the special potential of the green banana. I had been wondering for some time about what educators like to call "learning moments," and I now knew I had just experienced two of them at once.
It took me a little longer to fully grasp the importance of the rock which the villagers believed marked the center of the world. I had at first doubted their claim, as I knew for a fact that the center was located somewhere else in New England. After all, my grandfather had come from there. But gradually I realized the village people had a very reasonable belief and I agreed with them. We all tend to regard as the center that special place where we are known, where we know others, where things mean much to us, and where we ourselves have both identity and meaning: family, school, town and local region could all be our center of the world.
The lesson which gradually dawned on me was actually very simple. Every place has special meanings for the people in it, and in a certain sense every place represents the center of the world. The world has numerous such centers, and no one student or traveler can experience all of them. But once a conscious breakthrough to a second center is made, a life-long perspective and collection can begin.
The cultures of the world are full of unexpected green bananas with special value and meaning. They have been there for ages, ripening slowly, perhaps waiting patiently for people to come along to encounter them. In fact, a green banana is waiting for all of us if we would leave our own centers of the world in order to experience other places.
We chattered casually while all the time I was wondering what they could possibly do to my radiator with their green bananas. I did not ask them, though, as that would show my ignorance, so I talked about the beauty of the land that lay before our eyes. Huge rock formations, like Sugar Loaf in Rio, rose up all around us. "Do you see that tall one right over there?" asked the man, pointing to a particularly tall, slender pinnacle of dark rock. "That rock marks the center of the world."
I looked to see if he was teasing me, but his face was serious. He, in turn, inspected me carefully, as if to make sure I grasped the significance of his statement. The occasion called for some show of recognition on my part. "The center of the world?" I repeated, trying to show interest if not complete acceptance. He nodded. "The absolute center. Everyone around here knows it."
At that moment the boy returned with an armful of green bananas. The man cut one in half and pressed the cut end against the radiator jacket. The banana melted into a glue against the hot metal, stopping the leaks instantly. I was so astonished at this that I must have looked rather foolish and everyone laughed. They then refilled me radiator and gave me extra bananas to take along in case my radiator should give me trouble again. An hour later, after using the green banana once more, my radiator and I reached our destination. The local mechanic smiled. "Who taught you about the green banana?" I gave him the name of the village. "Did they show you the rock marking the center of the world?" he asked. I assured him they had. "My grandfather came from there," he said. "The exact center. Everyone around here has always known about it."
As a product of American education, I had never paid the slightest attention to the green banana, except to regard it as a fruit whose time had not yet come. Suddenly, on that mountain road, its time had come to meet my need. But as I reflected on it further, I realized that the green banana had been there all along. Its time reached back to the very origins of the banana. The people in that village had known about it for years. It was my own time that had come, all in relation to it. I came to appreciate the special genius of those people, and the special potential of the green banana. I had been wondering for some time about what educators like to call "learning moments," and I now knew I had just experienced two of them at once.
It took me a little longer to fully grasp the importance of the rock which the villagers believed marked the center of the world. I had at first doubted their claim, as I knew for a fact that the center was located somewhere else in New England. After all, my grandfather had come from there. But gradually I realized the village people had a very reasonable belief and I agreed with them. We all tend to regard as the center that special place where we are known, where we know others, where things mean much to us, and where we ourselves have both identity and meaning: family, school, town and local region could all be our center of the world.
The lesson which gradually dawned on me was actually very simple. Every place has special meanings for the people in it, and in a certain sense every place represents the center of the world. The world has numerous such centers, and no one student or traveler can experience all of them. But once a conscious breakthrough to a second center is made, a life-long perspective and collection can begin.
The cultures of the world are full of unexpected green bananas with special value and meaning. They have been there for ages, ripening slowly, perhaps waiting patiently for people to come along to encounter them. In fact, a green banana is waiting for all of us if we would leave our own centers of the world in order to experience other places.
Against All Odds Michael White & John Gribbin
When Stephen Hawking returned to St. Albans for the Christmas vacation at the end of 1962, the whole of southern England was covered in a thick blanket of snow. In his own mind, he must have known that something was wrong. The strange clumsiness he had been experiencing had occurred more frequently. At the party he threw on New Year's Eve, he had difficulties pouring a glass of wine, and most of the liquid ended up on the tablecloth.
After a series of examinations, he was told that he had a rare and incurable disease called ALS. The disease affects the patient's nerves in the spinal cord and the parts of the brain which control motor functions. The body gradually wastes away, but the mind remains unaffected. Hawking just happened to be studying theoretical physics, one of the very few jobs for which the mind is the only real tool needed. This, however, gave little comfort to the twenty-one-year-old who, like everyone else, had seen a normal life ahead of him rather than a death sentence. The doctors had given him two years.
Hawking was deeply shocked by the news and experienced a time of deep depression. He shut himself away and listened to a great deal of loud music. He kept thinking, 'How could something like this happen to me? Why should I be cut off like this?' There seemed very little point in continuing with his research because he might not live long enough to finish his PhD. For a while he quite naturally believed that there was nothing to live for. If he was going to die within a few years, then why bother to do anything now? He would live out his time span and then die. That was his fate.
It was not long, however, before he dragged himself out of his depression and back to work. In the hospital, he had seen a boy die of leukaemia in the bed opposite him, and it had not been a pretty sight. He realised that clearly there were people who were worse off than him. At least, his condition didn't make him feel ill. Whenever he felt like pitying himself, he remembered that boy.
He had had some recurring dreams. He dreamt that he was going to be put to death, which made him realise that there were a lot of worthwhile things he could do if he were to be set free. In another frequently occuring dream, he thought he could give up his life to save others: 'After all, if I were going to die anyway, it might as well do some good.'
There is little doubt that the appearance on the scene of a young woman was a major turning point in Hawking's life. This was Jane Wilde, whom he had first met at the party. After he came out of the hospital, the two of them began to see a lot more of one another, and a strong relationship developed. It was finding Jane that enabled him to break out of his depression.
As predicted, during his first two years at Cambridge, the effects of the disease rapidly worsened. He was beginning to experience great difficulty in walking and was forced to use a stick in order to cover just a few feet. With the support of walls and objects, as well as sticks, he would manage, painfully slowly, to move across rooms and open areas. There were many times when these supports were not adequate, and he would turn up in the office with a bandage around his head, having fallen heavily and received a nasty bump. Meanwhile, his speech rapidly became first slurred, and then very hard to follow, and even those close to him were having difficulty understanding what he was saying.
Nothing slowed him down, however; in fact, he was just hitting his stride. Work was progressing faster and better than it ever had before. Crazy as it may seem, ALS is simply not that important to him. Of course he has had to suffer the humiliations and obstructions facing all those in society who are not able-bodied, and naturally he has had to adapt to his condition and to live under exceptional circumstances. But the disease has not touched his mind, and so it has not affected his work. More than anyone else, Hawking himself would wish to downplay his disability and to give his full attention to science, for that is what is really important to him.
Having come to terms with ALS and found someone in Jane with whom he could share his life on a purely personal level, he began to blossom. The couple became engaged, and the frequency of weekend visits increased. It was obvious to everyone that the two of them were truly happy and highly important to each other. Jane recalls, 'I wanted to find some purpose to my existence, and I suppose I found it in the idea of looking after him. But we were in love. 'For Hawking, his engagement to Jane was probably the most important thing that had ever happened to him: it changed his life and gave him something to live for. Without the help of Jane he almost certainly would not have been able to carry on or had the will to do so.
From this point on, his work went from strength to strength, and Sciama, his supervisor, began to believe that Hawking might, after all, manage to pull together the different threads of his PhD research. It was still touch and go, but a wonderful chance was just around the corner.
After a series of examinations, he was told that he had a rare and incurable disease called ALS. The disease affects the patient's nerves in the spinal cord and the parts of the brain which control motor functions. The body gradually wastes away, but the mind remains unaffected. Hawking just happened to be studying theoretical physics, one of the very few jobs for which the mind is the only real tool needed. This, however, gave little comfort to the twenty-one-year-old who, like everyone else, had seen a normal life ahead of him rather than a death sentence. The doctors had given him two years.
Hawking was deeply shocked by the news and experienced a time of deep depression. He shut himself away and listened to a great deal of loud music. He kept thinking, 'How could something like this happen to me? Why should I be cut off like this?' There seemed very little point in continuing with his research because he might not live long enough to finish his PhD. For a while he quite naturally believed that there was nothing to live for. If he was going to die within a few years, then why bother to do anything now? He would live out his time span and then die. That was his fate.
It was not long, however, before he dragged himself out of his depression and back to work. In the hospital, he had seen a boy die of leukaemia in the bed opposite him, and it had not been a pretty sight. He realised that clearly there were people who were worse off than him. At least, his condition didn't make him feel ill. Whenever he felt like pitying himself, he remembered that boy.
He had had some recurring dreams. He dreamt that he was going to be put to death, which made him realise that there were a lot of worthwhile things he could do if he were to be set free. In another frequently occuring dream, he thought he could give up his life to save others: 'After all, if I were going to die anyway, it might as well do some good.'
There is little doubt that the appearance on the scene of a young woman was a major turning point in Hawking's life. This was Jane Wilde, whom he had first met at the party. After he came out of the hospital, the two of them began to see a lot more of one another, and a strong relationship developed. It was finding Jane that enabled him to break out of his depression.
As predicted, during his first two years at Cambridge, the effects of the disease rapidly worsened. He was beginning to experience great difficulty in walking and was forced to use a stick in order to cover just a few feet. With the support of walls and objects, as well as sticks, he would manage, painfully slowly, to move across rooms and open areas. There were many times when these supports were not adequate, and he would turn up in the office with a bandage around his head, having fallen heavily and received a nasty bump. Meanwhile, his speech rapidly became first slurred, and then very hard to follow, and even those close to him were having difficulty understanding what he was saying.
Nothing slowed him down, however; in fact, he was just hitting his stride. Work was progressing faster and better than it ever had before. Crazy as it may seem, ALS is simply not that important to him. Of course he has had to suffer the humiliations and obstructions facing all those in society who are not able-bodied, and naturally he has had to adapt to his condition and to live under exceptional circumstances. But the disease has not touched his mind, and so it has not affected his work. More than anyone else, Hawking himself would wish to downplay his disability and to give his full attention to science, for that is what is really important to him.
Having come to terms with ALS and found someone in Jane with whom he could share his life on a purely personal level, he began to blossom. The couple became engaged, and the frequency of weekend visits increased. It was obvious to everyone that the two of them were truly happy and highly important to each other. Jane recalls, 'I wanted to find some purpose to my existence, and I suppose I found it in the idea of looking after him. But we were in love. 'For Hawking, his engagement to Jane was probably the most important thing that had ever happened to him: it changed his life and gave him something to live for. Without the help of Jane he almost certainly would not have been able to carry on or had the will to do so.
From this point on, his work went from strength to strength, and Sciama, his supervisor, began to believe that Hawking might, after all, manage to pull together the different threads of his PhD research. It was still touch and go, but a wonderful chance was just around the corner.
My personal Manager Margaret Goff Clark
I'm getting a great idea," Carlos said to me. We were standing on the steps outside Galeton High. It was one of those golden days in late October. "Why not let me be your manager? I can promise you'll soon be cool, pretty, and popular."
"You sound like a soap commercial, " I said.
"It's funny you should say that. It is pretty close to my aim in life. I'm going be a promotion man. I may be short, but I can promote big things."
"Like me."
Which is how little Carlos Herrera took me and turned me into, well—
The first time I saw Carlos I would never have believed he was going to change my life. I had my arms full of books and I was tearing into the classroom when I ran into something solid. It was Carlos.
He looked up at me.
"My, you're tall," he said.
Of course, the class began to laugh. Angry, I walked to my seat without a word.
I glanced back to see if Reed Harrington was laughing with the rest. That would be the last straw. But Reed was studying chemistry and did not seem to be aware of anything else. I didn't know why I considered Reed my friend. Maybe just because he was a good two inches taller than I. Anyway, every time I blew out my birthday candles and made a wish, it was for a date with Reed Harrington.
I came back to earth to see the cocky newcomer standing in front of Mr. McCarthy's desk. He was telling him that his name was Carlos Herrera and that he'd moved to Galeton from New York.
"Take that seat, " Mr. McCarthy told Carlos, pointing to the only empty one, in the back of the room.
Carlos grinned. "But I need a couple of dictionaries."
Again the class laughed, but now they were laughing with Carlos, not at him. He had been here only 10 minutes and already he had them on his side.
The bell rang for classes. As I stood up to go I saw Carlos coming toward me.
"I'm sorry I embarrassed you," he said.
I looked straight ahead over the top of his black hair. "That's all right."
"I ought to know better." He was still blocking my way. "What's your name?"
"Karen Forbes."
"You probably heard me say, I'm Carlos Herrera." He held out his hand. Unwillingly, I shook hands with him. He looked up at me seriously with his brown eyes. "I don't see why you're so touchy."
I brushed by him and said sharply, "You wouldn't understand."
He followed me a few steps. "I'm just the one who should, Karen," he said. "You and I have a lot in common."
It was the school elections that made me think of Carlos again. They were held the last of October. Reed Harrington was voted president and Carlos vice-president. "How come?" I kept asking myself. "How come this shrimp who's only been in town for a little over a month gets to be so popular?"
So on that perfect October morning, I stopped Carlos and said, point blank, "It doesn't seem to bother you—being short, I mean."
He looked up at me. "Of course I mind being short. I get a stiff neck every day from looking up at people like you."
"I might have known I couldn't get a sensible answer from you." I started up the steps.
"Hey, don't go away. Please."
I stopped.
Carlos was through kidding. "Sure, it bothers me, being knee-high to a flea. But there isn't anything I can do about it. When I realized I was going to have to spend my life in this undersized skin, I just decided to make the best of it and concentrate on being myself."
"You seem to get along great," I admitted. "But what about me? No boy wants to date a girl taller than he is."
"The trouble with you is you're afraid to be yourself. You're smart. And you could be pretty. In fact, you might be more than pretty."
I felt myself turning red.
"I am getting a great idea," said carlos, and right then he suggested being my manager.
I wasn't sure. "W-e-ll—"
"Look," He almost fell off the steps in his eagerness, "Prize fighters have managers. And movie stars. Besides, what have you got to lose?"
I shrugged. "OK."
Soon after that, he had my new life planned. I was to let my hair grow, wear a fitted sweater and neat skirt, and lift my head and say "Hi" to everyone. I was to volunteer to work on the school paper and go out for dramatics.
"Dramatics! " I protested. "I can' t act. And anyway, they don't have parts for giants."
"You won't be alone," he told me. "I, too, am joining the Dramatics Club."
Four months went by—four months of being almost a puppet, with Carlos pulling the strings.
Then one day, he told me about his latest brain wave. It seemed my acting career was about to burst into flower with the lead part in a play Carlos had dug up. It was about a six-foot model who! falls in love with a jockey.
"You, I suppose, are the jockey," I said.
He grinned.
"No way, " I said. "That story has been done so many times it has lost its humor. The coach would never let us put on a play like that."
"That's where you're wrong, Karen," said Carlos. "It's all arranged and that plot is still funny."
"But I don't want to be funny," I groaned.
Carlos gave me a pleading look. "Karen, I've never asked you for a thing for myself, have I ?"
He hadn't.
"And now, I want you to do this for me. I want to play that jockey. And we can't do this play without you in it."
What could I do? He had given hours—months—to me. I knew it was the most foolish move of my life, but I said yes.
I could not put my heart into that play. It was pure nonsense from beginning to end. The tall model and the jockey were in every foolish situation ever invented.
The night of the play I felt lowest of all. I didn't see how I could go out on that stage and make a laughing stock of myself right in front of my parents and Reed Harrington.
"I can't do it," I groaned to Carlos.
He reached up and patted me on the back. "Stage fright. All the best actors have it. You'11 be fine."
I could see he could hardly wait for the curtains to open. His brown eyes, shining with eagerness. I had to go through with it for him.
"I'm with you, " I said, "to the end."
Carlos took my hand in both of his. "We'll celebrate after the play. OK, Karen?"
I managed to smile down at him. "It's a date."
The band stopped playing, and the curtains opened.
Carlos as the jockey and I, the model, were seated at a table. From our talk the audience could tell we were falling in love. There was no comedy yet. Then as we stood up the awful difference in our sizes became clear. There was a chuckle all over the auditorium. Carlos wanted to kiss me good-bye, but he couldn't reach my face. I bent over and he stood on tiptoe to give me a peck on the chin. A shout of laughter burst from hundreds of throats. I walked off the stage with an exaggerated model's walk. More laughs.
From then on I let loose and acted for all I was worth. Carlos was better than ever, and so was the rest of the cast. Again and again we had to hold up our lines while the people laughed.
As the curtains closed, Carlos threw his arms around my waist. "You were terrific!" he said. "Bend over and I'll give you a kiss."
The house lights went up and people began pouring backstage to congratulate US.
Mother and Dad were flushed and happy looking. "I'm proud of you, dear," Mother said.
Mobs of my friends crowded around, but I was looking for one person who would tower above the others. At last he came.
"You're a real comedian," he said, taking my hand and looking me straight in the eyes. Then he cleared his throat. "I was wondering—that is, if you don't have something else planned, would you go out with me for something to eat?"
Here it was at last—my chance. But somehow, now that I had the chance, I knew there was something more important than going out with Reed.
"Thank you," I said, smiling at him. "Some other time I'd love to, but tonight I have a date with Carlos."
"You sound like a soap commercial, " I said.
"It's funny you should say that. It is pretty close to my aim in life. I'm going be a promotion man. I may be short, but I can promote big things."
"Like me."
Which is how little Carlos Herrera took me and turned me into, well—
The first time I saw Carlos I would never have believed he was going to change my life. I had my arms full of books and I was tearing into the classroom when I ran into something solid. It was Carlos.
He looked up at me.
"My, you're tall," he said.
Of course, the class began to laugh. Angry, I walked to my seat without a word.
I glanced back to see if Reed Harrington was laughing with the rest. That would be the last straw. But Reed was studying chemistry and did not seem to be aware of anything else. I didn't know why I considered Reed my friend. Maybe just because he was a good two inches taller than I. Anyway, every time I blew out my birthday candles and made a wish, it was for a date with Reed Harrington.
I came back to earth to see the cocky newcomer standing in front of Mr. McCarthy's desk. He was telling him that his name was Carlos Herrera and that he'd moved to Galeton from New York.
"Take that seat, " Mr. McCarthy told Carlos, pointing to the only empty one, in the back of the room.
Carlos grinned. "But I need a couple of dictionaries."
Again the class laughed, but now they were laughing with Carlos, not at him. He had been here only 10 minutes and already he had them on his side.
The bell rang for classes. As I stood up to go I saw Carlos coming toward me.
"I'm sorry I embarrassed you," he said.
I looked straight ahead over the top of his black hair. "That's all right."
"I ought to know better." He was still blocking my way. "What's your name?"
"Karen Forbes."
"You probably heard me say, I'm Carlos Herrera." He held out his hand. Unwillingly, I shook hands with him. He looked up at me seriously with his brown eyes. "I don't see why you're so touchy."
I brushed by him and said sharply, "You wouldn't understand."
He followed me a few steps. "I'm just the one who should, Karen," he said. "You and I have a lot in common."
It was the school elections that made me think of Carlos again. They were held the last of October. Reed Harrington was voted president and Carlos vice-president. "How come?" I kept asking myself. "How come this shrimp who's only been in town for a little over a month gets to be so popular?"
So on that perfect October morning, I stopped Carlos and said, point blank, "It doesn't seem to bother you—being short, I mean."
He looked up at me. "Of course I mind being short. I get a stiff neck every day from looking up at people like you."
"I might have known I couldn't get a sensible answer from you." I started up the steps.
"Hey, don't go away. Please."
I stopped.
Carlos was through kidding. "Sure, it bothers me, being knee-high to a flea. But there isn't anything I can do about it. When I realized I was going to have to spend my life in this undersized skin, I just decided to make the best of it and concentrate on being myself."
"You seem to get along great," I admitted. "But what about me? No boy wants to date a girl taller than he is."
"The trouble with you is you're afraid to be yourself. You're smart. And you could be pretty. In fact, you might be more than pretty."
I felt myself turning red.
"I am getting a great idea," said carlos, and right then he suggested being my manager.
I wasn't sure. "W-e-ll—"
"Look," He almost fell off the steps in his eagerness, "Prize fighters have managers. And movie stars. Besides, what have you got to lose?"
I shrugged. "OK."
Soon after that, he had my new life planned. I was to let my hair grow, wear a fitted sweater and neat skirt, and lift my head and say "Hi" to everyone. I was to volunteer to work on the school paper and go out for dramatics.
"Dramatics! " I protested. "I can' t act. And anyway, they don't have parts for giants."
"You won't be alone," he told me. "I, too, am joining the Dramatics Club."
Four months went by—four months of being almost a puppet, with Carlos pulling the strings.
Then one day, he told me about his latest brain wave. It seemed my acting career was about to burst into flower with the lead part in a play Carlos had dug up. It was about a six-foot model who! falls in love with a jockey.
"You, I suppose, are the jockey," I said.
He grinned.
"No way, " I said. "That story has been done so many times it has lost its humor. The coach would never let us put on a play like that."
"That's where you're wrong, Karen," said Carlos. "It's all arranged and that plot is still funny."
"But I don't want to be funny," I groaned.
Carlos gave me a pleading look. "Karen, I've never asked you for a thing for myself, have I ?"
He hadn't.
"And now, I want you to do this for me. I want to play that jockey. And we can't do this play without you in it."
What could I do? He had given hours—months—to me. I knew it was the most foolish move of my life, but I said yes.
I could not put my heart into that play. It was pure nonsense from beginning to end. The tall model and the jockey were in every foolish situation ever invented.
The night of the play I felt lowest of all. I didn't see how I could go out on that stage and make a laughing stock of myself right in front of my parents and Reed Harrington.
"I can't do it," I groaned to Carlos.
He reached up and patted me on the back. "Stage fright. All the best actors have it. You'11 be fine."
I could see he could hardly wait for the curtains to open. His brown eyes, shining with eagerness. I had to go through with it for him.
"I'm with you, " I said, "to the end."
Carlos took my hand in both of his. "We'll celebrate after the play. OK, Karen?"
I managed to smile down at him. "It's a date."
The band stopped playing, and the curtains opened.
Carlos as the jockey and I, the model, were seated at a table. From our talk the audience could tell we were falling in love. There was no comedy yet. Then as we stood up the awful difference in our sizes became clear. There was a chuckle all over the auditorium. Carlos wanted to kiss me good-bye, but he couldn't reach my face. I bent over and he stood on tiptoe to give me a peck on the chin. A shout of laughter burst from hundreds of throats. I walked off the stage with an exaggerated model's walk. More laughs.
From then on I let loose and acted for all I was worth. Carlos was better than ever, and so was the rest of the cast. Again and again we had to hold up our lines while the people laughed.
As the curtains closed, Carlos threw his arms around my waist. "You were terrific!" he said. "Bend over and I'll give you a kiss."
The house lights went up and people began pouring backstage to congratulate US.
Mother and Dad were flushed and happy looking. "I'm proud of you, dear," Mother said.
Mobs of my friends crowded around, but I was looking for one person who would tower above the others. At last he came.
"You're a real comedian," he said, taking my hand and looking me straight in the eyes. Then he cleared his throat. "I was wondering—that is, if you don't have something else planned, would you go out with me for something to eat?"
Here it was at last—my chance. But somehow, now that I had the chance, I knew there was something more important than going out with Reed.
"Thank you," I said, smiling at him. "Some other time I'd love to, but tonight I have a date with Carlos."
Mandela's Garden Nelson Mandela
In early 1977, the authorities announced the end of manual labor and arranged some type of work for us to do in the courtyard, so we could spend our days in our section. The end of manual labor was liberating. I could now spend the day reading, writing letters, discussing issues with my comrades, or preparing legal documents. The free time also allowed me to pursue what became two of my favorite hobbies on Robben Island: gardening and tennis.
To survive in prison, one must develop ways to take satisfaction in one's daily life. One can feel fulfilled by washing one's clothes so that they are particularly clean, by sweeping a hallway so that it is empty of dust, by organizing one's cell to save as much space as possible. Just as one takes pride in important tasks outside of prison, one can find the same pride in doing small things inside prison.
"Almost from the beginning of my sentence on Robben Island, I asked the authorities for permission to start a garden in the courtyard. For years, they refused without offering a reason. But eventually they gave in, and we were able to cut out a small garden on a narrow patch of earth against the far wall.
The soil in the courtyard was dry and rocky. The courtyard had been constructed over a garbage dump, and in order to start my garden, I had to remove a great many rocks to allow the plants room to grow. At the time, some of my comrades joked that I was a miner at heart, for I spent my days in a wasteland and my free time digging in the courtyard.
The authorities supplied me with seeds. I at first planted tomatoes, chilies, and onions—hardy plants that did not require rich earth or constant care. The early harvests were poor, but they soon improved. The authorities did not regret giving permission, for once the garden began to flourish, I often provided the warders with some of my best tomatoes and onions.
While I have always enjoyed gardening, it was not until I was behind bars that I was able to tend my own garden. My first experience in the garden was at Fort Hare where, as part of the university's manual labor requirement, I worked in one of my professors' gardens and enjoyed the contact with the soil as an alternative to my intellectual labors. Once I was in Johannesburg studying and then working, I had neither the time nor the space to start a garden.
I began to order books on gardening. I studied different gardening techniques and types of fertilizers. I did not have many of the materials that the books discussed, but I learned through trial and error. For a time, I attempted to grow peanuts, and used different soils and fertilizers, but finally I gave up. It was one of my few failures.
A garden was one of the few things in prison that one could control. To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the owner of the small patch of earth offered a small taste of freedom.
In some ways, I saw the garden as a metaphor for certain aspects of my life. Leaders must also look after their gardens; they, too, plant seeds, and then watch, cultivate, and harvest the results. Like gardeners, leaders must take responsibility for what they cultivate; they must mind their work, try to drive back enemies, save what can be saved, and eliminate what cannot succeed.
I wrote Winnie two letters about a particularly beautiful tomato plant, how I made it grow from a tender seedling to a strong plant that produced deep red fruit. But then, either through some mistake or lack of care, the plant began to wither and decline, and nothing I did would bring it back to health. When it finally died, I removed the roots from the soil, washed them, and buried them in a corner of the garden.
I told her this small story at great length. I do not know what she read into that letter, but when I wrote it I had a mixture of feelings: I did not want our relationship to go the way of that plant, and yet I felt that I had been unable to nourish many of the most important relationships in my life. Sometimes there is nothing one can do to save something that must die.
To survive in prison, one must develop ways to take satisfaction in one's daily life. One can feel fulfilled by washing one's clothes so that they are particularly clean, by sweeping a hallway so that it is empty of dust, by organizing one's cell to save as much space as possible. Just as one takes pride in important tasks outside of prison, one can find the same pride in doing small things inside prison.
"Almost from the beginning of my sentence on Robben Island, I asked the authorities for permission to start a garden in the courtyard. For years, they refused without offering a reason. But eventually they gave in, and we were able to cut out a small garden on a narrow patch of earth against the far wall.
The soil in the courtyard was dry and rocky. The courtyard had been constructed over a garbage dump, and in order to start my garden, I had to remove a great many rocks to allow the plants room to grow. At the time, some of my comrades joked that I was a miner at heart, for I spent my days in a wasteland and my free time digging in the courtyard.
The authorities supplied me with seeds. I at first planted tomatoes, chilies, and onions—hardy plants that did not require rich earth or constant care. The early harvests were poor, but they soon improved. The authorities did not regret giving permission, for once the garden began to flourish, I often provided the warders with some of my best tomatoes and onions.
While I have always enjoyed gardening, it was not until I was behind bars that I was able to tend my own garden. My first experience in the garden was at Fort Hare where, as part of the university's manual labor requirement, I worked in one of my professors' gardens and enjoyed the contact with the soil as an alternative to my intellectual labors. Once I was in Johannesburg studying and then working, I had neither the time nor the space to start a garden.
I began to order books on gardening. I studied different gardening techniques and types of fertilizers. I did not have many of the materials that the books discussed, but I learned through trial and error. For a time, I attempted to grow peanuts, and used different soils and fertilizers, but finally I gave up. It was one of my few failures.
A garden was one of the few things in prison that one could control. To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the owner of the small patch of earth offered a small taste of freedom.
In some ways, I saw the garden as a metaphor for certain aspects of my life. Leaders must also look after their gardens; they, too, plant seeds, and then watch, cultivate, and harvest the results. Like gardeners, leaders must take responsibility for what they cultivate; they must mind their work, try to drive back enemies, save what can be saved, and eliminate what cannot succeed.
I wrote Winnie two letters about a particularly beautiful tomato plant, how I made it grow from a tender seedling to a strong plant that produced deep red fruit. But then, either through some mistake or lack of care, the plant began to wither and decline, and nothing I did would bring it back to health. When it finally died, I removed the roots from the soil, washed them, and buried them in a corner of the garden.
I told her this small story at great length. I do not know what she read into that letter, but when I wrote it I had a mixture of feelings: I did not want our relationship to go the way of that plant, and yet I felt that I had been unable to nourish many of the most important relationships in my life. Sometimes there is nothing one can do to save something that must die.
The Monsters Are Due On Maple
It is Maple Street, a quiet, tree-lined, residential street in a typical American town. The houses have front porches where people sit and talk to each other across their lawns. STEVE BRAND polishes his car parked in front of his house. His neighbor, DON MARTIN, leans against the fender, watching him. A Good Humor man rides a bicycle and is just stopping to sell some ice cream to a couple of kids. Two women gossip on the front lawn. Another man waters his lawn.
At this moment one of the boys, TOMMY, looks up and listens to the sound of a tremendous roar from overhead. A flash of light plays on his face, then moves down the street past lawns and porches and rooftops, and then disappears. STEVE BRAND, the man who has been polishing his car, stands there speechless, staring upwards. He looks at DON MARTIN, his neighbor from across the street.
Steve: What was that? A meteor?
Don: That's what it looked like. I didn't hear any crash, though, did you?
Steve: Nope, I didn't hear anything except a roar.
Mrs. Brand (from her porch): Steve? What was that?
Steve: Guess it was a meteor, honey. Came awful close, didn't it?
Mrs. Brand: Much too close!
(People stand on their porches, watching and talking in low tones. We see a MAN screwing in a light bulb on a front porch, then getting down off the stool to turn on the switch and finding that nothing happens. A MAN working on an electric power mower plugs in the plug. He turns on the switch, on and off, but nothing happens. Through the window of a front porch a WOMAN is seen dialing her phone.)
Woman: Operator, operator, something's wrong with the phone, operator!
(MRS. BRAND comes out on the porch.)
Mrs. Brand (calling): Steve, the power's off. I had the soup on the stove, and the stove just stopped working.
Woman: Same thing over here. I can't get anybody on the phone, either. The phone seems to be dead.
First Voice: Electricity's off.
Second Voice: Phone won't work.
Third Voice: Can't get a thing on the radio.
Fourth Voice: My power mower won't move, won't work at all.
(PETE VAN HORN, a tall, thin man, is seen standing in front of his house.)
Van Horn: I'11 cut through the back yard . . . see if the power' s still on on Cherry Street. I'll be right back!
Steve: Doesn't make sense. Why should the power and the phone line go off all of a sudden?
Don: Maybe it's an electrical storm or something.
Charlie: That doesn't seem likely. Sky's just as blue as anything. Not a cloud. No lightning. No thunder. No nothing. How could it be a storm?
Woman: I can't get a thing on the radio. Not even the portable.
Charlie: Well, why don't you go downtown and check with the police, though they'll probably think we're crazy or something. A little power failure and right away we get all excited.
Steve: It isn't just the power failure, Charlie. If it was, we'd still be able to get a broadcast on the portable.
(There's a murmur of reaction to this. STEVE walks over to his car.)
Steve: I'll run downtown. We'll get this all straightened out. (STEVE gets into his car, turns the key. The engine is dead. He then gets out of the car.)
Steve: I don't understand it. It was working fine before—
Don: Out of gas?
Steve (shakes his head): I just had it filled up.
Woman: What does it mean?
Charlie: It's just as if. . . as if everything had stopped. ( Then he turns toward STEVE.) We'd better walk downtown.
Steve: OK, Charlie. ( He turns to look back at the car.) It couldn't be the meteor. A meteor couldn't do this.
(He and CHARLIE exchange a look. Then they start to walk away from the group. TOMMY, a serious-faced young boy tries to stop them.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand...you'd better not!
Steve: Why not?
Tommy: They don't want you to.
(STEVE and CHARLIE exchange a grin. STEVE looks back toward the boy.)
Steve: Who doesn't want us to?
Tommy (jerks his head in the general direction of the distant horizon): Them!
Steve: Them?
Charlie: Who are them?
Tommy (very intently): Whoever was in that thing that came by overhead. I don't think they want us to leave here.
(STEVE walks over to the boy. He kneels down in front of him. He forces his voice to remain gentle. He reaches out and holds the boy.)
Steve: What do you mean? What are you talking about?
Tommy: They don't want us to leave. That's why they shut everything off.
Steve: What makes you say that? Whatever gave you that idea?
Woman (from the crowd): Now isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard?
Tommy (persistently): It's always that way, in every story I ever read about a ship landing from outer space.
Woman (to the boy's mother, SALLY,): From outer space yet! Sally, you'd better get that boy of yours up to bed. He's been reading too many comic books or seeing too many movies or something!
Salty: Tommy, come over here and stop that kind of talk.
Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. We 'll be right back. And you 'll see. That wasn't any ship or anything like it. That was just a... a meteor or something. (He turns to the group, now trying to sound optimistic although he obviously doesn't feel that way himself.) Meteors can do some crazy things. Like sun spots.
Don: Sure. They raise Cain with radio reception all over the world. And this thing, being so close-why, there's no telling the sort of stuff it can do. (He wets his lips, smiles nervously.) Go ahead, Charlie. You and Steve go into town and see if that isn't what's causing it all.
(STEVE and CHARLIE again continue to walk away down the sidewalk. The people watch silently. TOMMY stares at them, biting his lips and finally calling out again.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand!
(The two men stop again.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand. . .please don't leave here.
(STEVE and CHARLIE stop once again and turn toward the boy. There's a murmur in the crowd, a murmur of irritation and concern.)
Tommy: You might not even be able to get to town. It was that way in the story. Nobody could leave, except—
Steve: Except who?
Tommy: Except the people they'd sent down ahead of them. They looked just like humans. And it wasn't until the ship landed that—(The boy suddenly stops again, conscious of his parents staring at him and of the sudden quietness of the crowd.)
Sally: Tommy, please, son, don't talk that way—
Man: The kid shouldn't talk that way... and we shouldn't stand here listening to him. Why, this is the craziest thing I ever heard of.
(STEVE walks toward the boy.)
Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. What about the people that they sent out ahead?
Tommy: That was the way they prepared things for the landing. They sent people who looked just like humans... but they weren't.
(There's laughter at this, but it's a laughter that comes from a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere.)
Charlie (rubs his jaw nervously): I wonder if Cherry Street's got the same deal we got. (He looks past the houses.) Where is Pete Van Horn, anyway? Didn't he get back yet?
(Suddenly there's the sound of a car's engine starting to turn over. LES GOODMAN is at the wheel of his car.)
Sally: Can you get it started, Les?
(GOODMAN gets out of the car, shaking his head.)
Goodman: No.
(As he walks toward the group, he stops suddenly. Behind him, the car engine starts up all by itself. GOODMAN whirls around and stares at it. His eyes go wide, and he runs over to his car. The people stare toward the car.)
Man: He got the car started somehow. He got his car started!
Woman: How come his car just started like that?
Sally: All by itself. He wasn't anywhere near it. It started all by itself.
(DON approaches the group: He stops a few feet away to look toward GOODMAN's car and then back toward the group.)
Don: And he never did come out to look at that thing that flew overhead. He wasn't even interested. (He turns to the faces in the group.) Why? Why didn't he come out with the rest of us to look?
Charlie: He was always an oddball. Him and his whole family.
Don: What do you say we ask him?
(The group suddenly starts toward the house.)
Steve: Wait a minute... wait a minute! Let's not be a mob!
(The people seem to pause for a moment. Then, much more quietly and slowly, they start to walk across the street. GOODMAN stands there alone, facing the people.)
Goodman: I just don't understand it. I tried to start it, and it wouldn't start. You saw me. (And now, just as suddenly as the engine started, it stops. There's a frightened murmuring of the people.)
Don: Maybe you can tell us. Nothing's working on this street. Nothing. No lights, no power, no radio. Nothing except one car—yours!
(The people pick this up, and their murmuring becomes a loud chant filling the air with demands for action.)
Goodman: Wait a minute now. You keep your distance—all of you. So I've got a car that starts by itself—well, that's weird—I admit it. But does that make me a criminal or something? I don't know why the car works—it just does! Steve: Wait a minute... wait a minute! Let's not be a mob!
(The people seem to pause for a moment. Then, much more quietly and slowly, they start to walk across the street. GOODMAN stands there alone, facing the people.)
Goodman: I just don't understand it. I tried to start it, and it wouldn't start. You saw me. (And now, just as suddenly as the engine started, it stops. There's a frightened murmuring of the people.)
Don: Maybe you can tell us. Nothing's working on this street. Nothing. No lights, no power, no radio
At this moment one of the boys, TOMMY, looks up and listens to the sound of a tremendous roar from overhead. A flash of light plays on his face, then moves down the street past lawns and porches and rooftops, and then disappears. STEVE BRAND, the man who has been polishing his car, stands there speechless, staring upwards. He looks at DON MARTIN, his neighbor from across the street.
Steve: What was that? A meteor?
Don: That's what it looked like. I didn't hear any crash, though, did you?
Steve: Nope, I didn't hear anything except a roar.
Mrs. Brand (from her porch): Steve? What was that?
Steve: Guess it was a meteor, honey. Came awful close, didn't it?
Mrs. Brand: Much too close!
(People stand on their porches, watching and talking in low tones. We see a MAN screwing in a light bulb on a front porch, then getting down off the stool to turn on the switch and finding that nothing happens. A MAN working on an electric power mower plugs in the plug. He turns on the switch, on and off, but nothing happens. Through the window of a front porch a WOMAN is seen dialing her phone.)
Woman: Operator, operator, something's wrong with the phone, operator!
(MRS. BRAND comes out on the porch.)
Mrs. Brand (calling): Steve, the power's off. I had the soup on the stove, and the stove just stopped working.
Woman: Same thing over here. I can't get anybody on the phone, either. The phone seems to be dead.
First Voice: Electricity's off.
Second Voice: Phone won't work.
Third Voice: Can't get a thing on the radio.
Fourth Voice: My power mower won't move, won't work at all.
(PETE VAN HORN, a tall, thin man, is seen standing in front of his house.)
Van Horn: I'11 cut through the back yard . . . see if the power' s still on on Cherry Street. I'll be right back!
Steve: Doesn't make sense. Why should the power and the phone line go off all of a sudden?
Don: Maybe it's an electrical storm or something.
Charlie: That doesn't seem likely. Sky's just as blue as anything. Not a cloud. No lightning. No thunder. No nothing. How could it be a storm?
Woman: I can't get a thing on the radio. Not even the portable.
Charlie: Well, why don't you go downtown and check with the police, though they'll probably think we're crazy or something. A little power failure and right away we get all excited.
Steve: It isn't just the power failure, Charlie. If it was, we'd still be able to get a broadcast on the portable.
(There's a murmur of reaction to this. STEVE walks over to his car.)
Steve: I'll run downtown. We'll get this all straightened out. (STEVE gets into his car, turns the key. The engine is dead. He then gets out of the car.)
Steve: I don't understand it. It was working fine before—
Don: Out of gas?
Steve (shakes his head): I just had it filled up.
Woman: What does it mean?
Charlie: It's just as if. . . as if everything had stopped. ( Then he turns toward STEVE.) We'd better walk downtown.
Steve: OK, Charlie. ( He turns to look back at the car.) It couldn't be the meteor. A meteor couldn't do this.
(He and CHARLIE exchange a look. Then they start to walk away from the group. TOMMY, a serious-faced young boy tries to stop them.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand...you'd better not!
Steve: Why not?
Tommy: They don't want you to.
(STEVE and CHARLIE exchange a grin. STEVE looks back toward the boy.)
Steve: Who doesn't want us to?
Tommy (jerks his head in the general direction of the distant horizon): Them!
Steve: Them?
Charlie: Who are them?
Tommy (very intently): Whoever was in that thing that came by overhead. I don't think they want us to leave here.
(STEVE walks over to the boy. He kneels down in front of him. He forces his voice to remain gentle. He reaches out and holds the boy.)
Steve: What do you mean? What are you talking about?
Tommy: They don't want us to leave. That's why they shut everything off.
Steve: What makes you say that? Whatever gave you that idea?
Woman (from the crowd): Now isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard?
Tommy (persistently): It's always that way, in every story I ever read about a ship landing from outer space.
Woman (to the boy's mother, SALLY,): From outer space yet! Sally, you'd better get that boy of yours up to bed. He's been reading too many comic books or seeing too many movies or something!
Salty: Tommy, come over here and stop that kind of talk.
Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. We 'll be right back. And you 'll see. That wasn't any ship or anything like it. That was just a... a meteor or something. (He turns to the group, now trying to sound optimistic although he obviously doesn't feel that way himself.) Meteors can do some crazy things. Like sun spots.
Don: Sure. They raise Cain with radio reception all over the world. And this thing, being so close-why, there's no telling the sort of stuff it can do. (He wets his lips, smiles nervously.) Go ahead, Charlie. You and Steve go into town and see if that isn't what's causing it all.
(STEVE and CHARLIE again continue to walk away down the sidewalk. The people watch silently. TOMMY stares at them, biting his lips and finally calling out again.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand!
(The two men stop again.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand. . .please don't leave here.
(STEVE and CHARLIE stop once again and turn toward the boy. There's a murmur in the crowd, a murmur of irritation and concern.)
Tommy: You might not even be able to get to town. It was that way in the story. Nobody could leave, except—
Steve: Except who?
Tommy: Except the people they'd sent down ahead of them. They looked just like humans. And it wasn't until the ship landed that—(The boy suddenly stops again, conscious of his parents staring at him and of the sudden quietness of the crowd.)
Sally: Tommy, please, son, don't talk that way—
Man: The kid shouldn't talk that way... and we shouldn't stand here listening to him. Why, this is the craziest thing I ever heard of.
(STEVE walks toward the boy.)
Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. What about the people that they sent out ahead?
Tommy: That was the way they prepared things for the landing. They sent people who looked just like humans... but they weren't.
(There's laughter at this, but it's a laughter that comes from a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere.)
Charlie (rubs his jaw nervously): I wonder if Cherry Street's got the same deal we got. (He looks past the houses.) Where is Pete Van Horn, anyway? Didn't he get back yet?
(Suddenly there's the sound of a car's engine starting to turn over. LES GOODMAN is at the wheel of his car.)
Sally: Can you get it started, Les?
(GOODMAN gets out of the car, shaking his head.)
Goodman: No.
(As he walks toward the group, he stops suddenly. Behind him, the car engine starts up all by itself. GOODMAN whirls around and stares at it. His eyes go wide, and he runs over to his car. The people stare toward the car.)
Man: He got the car started somehow. He got his car started!
Woman: How come his car just started like that?
Sally: All by itself. He wasn't anywhere near it. It started all by itself.
(DON approaches the group: He stops a few feet away to look toward GOODMAN's car and then back toward the group.)
Don: And he never did come out to look at that thing that flew overhead. He wasn't even interested. (He turns to the faces in the group.) Why? Why didn't he come out with the rest of us to look?
Charlie: He was always an oddball. Him and his whole family.
Don: What do you say we ask him?
(The group suddenly starts toward the house.)
Steve: Wait a minute... wait a minute! Let's not be a mob!
(The people seem to pause for a moment. Then, much more quietly and slowly, they start to walk across the street. GOODMAN stands there alone, facing the people.)
Goodman: I just don't understand it. I tried to start it, and it wouldn't start. You saw me. (And now, just as suddenly as the engine started, it stops. There's a frightened murmuring of the people.)
Don: Maybe you can tell us. Nothing's working on this street. Nothing. No lights, no power, no radio. Nothing except one car—yours!
(The people pick this up, and their murmuring becomes a loud chant filling the air with demands for action.)
Goodman: Wait a minute now. You keep your distance—all of you. So I've got a car that starts by itself—well, that's weird—I admit it. But does that make me a criminal or something? I don't know why the car works—it just does! Steve: Wait a minute... wait a minute! Let's not be a mob!
(The people seem to pause for a moment. Then, much more quietly and slowly, they start to walk across the street. GOODMAN stands there alone, facing the people.)
Goodman: I just don't understand it. I tried to start it, and it wouldn't start. You saw me. (And now, just as suddenly as the engine started, it stops. There's a frightened murmuring of the people.)
Don: Maybe you can tell us. Nothing's working on this street. Nothing. No lights, no power, no radio
Angels on a Pin Alexander Calandra
Some time ago, I received a call from Jim, a colleague of mine, who teaches physics. He asked me if I would do him a favor and be the referee on the grading of an examination question. I said sure, but I did not quite understand why he should need my help. He told me that he was about to give a student a zero for his answer to a physics question, but the student protested that it wasn't fair. He insisted that he deserved a perfect score if the system were not set up against the student. Finally, they agreed to take the matter to an impartial instructor. And I was selected.
I went to my colleague's office and read the examination question. It said: "Show how it is possible to determine the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer." The student had answered: "Take the barometer to the top of the building, tie a long rope to it, lower the barometer to the street, and then bring it up and measure the length of the rope. The length of the rope will be the height of the building."
I laughed and pointed out to my colleague that we must admit the student really had a pretty strong case for full credit since he had indeed answered the question completely and correctly. On the other hand, I could also see the dilemma because if full credit were given to him it could mean a high grade for the student in his physics course. A high grade is supposed to prove competence in the course, but the answer he gave did not show his knowledge on the subject. "So, what would you do if you were me?" Jim asked. I suggested that the student have another try at answering the question. I was not surprised that my colleague agreed, but I was surprised that the student did, too.
I told the student that I would give him six minutes to answer the question. But I warned him that this time his answer should show some knowledge of physics. He sat down and picked up his pen. He appeared to be thinking hard. At the end of five minutes, however, I noticed that he had not put down a single word. I asked him if he wished to give up, but he said no. He had not written anything down because he had too many possible answers to this problem. He was just trying to decide which would be the best one. I excused myself for interrupting him and asked him to go on. In the next minute, he dashed off his answer, which read: "Take the barometer to the top of the building and lean over the edge of the roof. Drop the barometer and time its fall with a stopwatch. Then, using the formula S = 1 /2 at2, calculate the height of the building."
At this point, I asked my colleague if he would give up. He nodded yes, and I gave the student almost full credit.
When I left my colleague's office, I recalled that the student had said that he had other answers to the problem. I was curious, so I asked him what they were. "Oh, yes," said the student. "There are many ways of getting the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer. For example, you could take the barometer out in a sunny day and measure the height of the barometer, the length of its shadow, and the length of the shadow of the building, and by the use of a simple proportion, determine the height of the building. The beauty of this method is that you don't have to drop the barometer and break it."
"Fine," I said. "Any more?"
"Yes," said the student. "There is a very basic measurement method that people will like, because it is so simple and direct. In this method, you take the barometer and walk up the stairs. As you climb the stairs, you mark off the length of the barometer along the wall. You then count the number of marks, and this will give you the height of the building in barometer units. The only trouble with this method is that it doesn't require much knowledge of physics."
"Of course, if you prefer a more sophisticated method, a method that will really show some knowledge of physics, you can tie the barometer to the end of a rope, swing it as a pendulum and determine the value of'g' at the street level and at the top of the building. From the difference between the two values of'g' the height of the building can, in principle, be worked out."
Finally, he concluded that while there are many ways of solving the problem, "Probably the best and the most practical in a real-life situation is to take the barometer to the basement and knock on the superintendent's door. When the superintendent answers, you speak to him as follows: Mr. Superintendent, I have here a fine barometer. If you will tell me the height of this building, I will gladly give you this barometer!"
At this point, I asked the student if he really didn't know the expected answer to this question. He smiled and admitted that he did, but said he was fed up with standard answers to standard questions. He couldn't understand why there should be so much emphasis on fixed rules rather than creative thinking. So he could not resist the temptation to play a little joke with the educational system, which had been thrown into such a panic by the successful launching of the Russian Sputnik.
At that moment I suddenly remembered the question: How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? We teachers are always blaming the students for giving wrong answers. Perhaps we should ask ourselves whether we are always asking the right questions.
I went to my colleague's office and read the examination question. It said: "Show how it is possible to determine the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer." The student had answered: "Take the barometer to the top of the building, tie a long rope to it, lower the barometer to the street, and then bring it up and measure the length of the rope. The length of the rope will be the height of the building."
I laughed and pointed out to my colleague that we must admit the student really had a pretty strong case for full credit since he had indeed answered the question completely and correctly. On the other hand, I could also see the dilemma because if full credit were given to him it could mean a high grade for the student in his physics course. A high grade is supposed to prove competence in the course, but the answer he gave did not show his knowledge on the subject. "So, what would you do if you were me?" Jim asked. I suggested that the student have another try at answering the question. I was not surprised that my colleague agreed, but I was surprised that the student did, too.
I told the student that I would give him six minutes to answer the question. But I warned him that this time his answer should show some knowledge of physics. He sat down and picked up his pen. He appeared to be thinking hard. At the end of five minutes, however, I noticed that he had not put down a single word. I asked him if he wished to give up, but he said no. He had not written anything down because he had too many possible answers to this problem. He was just trying to decide which would be the best one. I excused myself for interrupting him and asked him to go on. In the next minute, he dashed off his answer, which read: "Take the barometer to the top of the building and lean over the edge of the roof. Drop the barometer and time its fall with a stopwatch. Then, using the formula S = 1 /2 at2, calculate the height of the building."
At this point, I asked my colleague if he would give up. He nodded yes, and I gave the student almost full credit.
When I left my colleague's office, I recalled that the student had said that he had other answers to the problem. I was curious, so I asked him what they were. "Oh, yes," said the student. "There are many ways of getting the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer. For example, you could take the barometer out in a sunny day and measure the height of the barometer, the length of its shadow, and the length of the shadow of the building, and by the use of a simple proportion, determine the height of the building. The beauty of this method is that you don't have to drop the barometer and break it."
"Fine," I said. "Any more?"
"Yes," said the student. "There is a very basic measurement method that people will like, because it is so simple and direct. In this method, you take the barometer and walk up the stairs. As you climb the stairs, you mark off the length of the barometer along the wall. You then count the number of marks, and this will give you the height of the building in barometer units. The only trouble with this method is that it doesn't require much knowledge of physics."
"Of course, if you prefer a more sophisticated method, a method that will really show some knowledge of physics, you can tie the barometer to the end of a rope, swing it as a pendulum and determine the value of'g' at the street level and at the top of the building. From the difference between the two values of'g' the height of the building can, in principle, be worked out."
Finally, he concluded that while there are many ways of solving the problem, "Probably the best and the most practical in a real-life situation is to take the barometer to the basement and knock on the superintendent's door. When the superintendent answers, you speak to him as follows: Mr. Superintendent, I have here a fine barometer. If you will tell me the height of this building, I will gladly give you this barometer!"
At this point, I asked the student if he really didn't know the expected answer to this question. He smiled and admitted that he did, but said he was fed up with standard answers to standard questions. He couldn't understand why there should be so much emphasis on fixed rules rather than creative thinking. So he could not resist the temptation to play a little joke with the educational system, which had been thrown into such a panic by the successful launching of the Russian Sputnik.
At that moment I suddenly remembered the question: How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? We teachers are always blaming the students for giving wrong answers. Perhaps we should ask ourselves whether we are always asking the right questions.
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