Morning statistics – An overdose of detective fiction of the “noir” school – Modern veneration for Eros – How biographies become fiction – Vincent Van Gogh, the film and the reality – Examples of Aphrodite with her attribute of laughter – Time to get out of the house – The middle of spring – The bio-diversity of Appalachia – My aunt in Manhattan – Disinfectant proposed as a cure for COVID-19 – Soda bread – Closure of White Mountain National Forest – Evening statistics
Today’s statistics as of 8:00 AM — # of cases worldwide: 2,746,954; # of deaths worldwide: 191,899; # of cases U.S.: 886,709; # of deaths U.S.: 50,243. The number of cases in Virginia is now nearly 11,000. Non-essential surgeries have been banned in Virginia for over a month; the ban has been extended for another week.
On account of various social activities being brought to a standstill, I have more time on my hands than usual and I have putting it to use by perusing various examples of modern fiction, such as the works of – but I will be charitable and conceal the names of the authors. We criticize the Victorians for their over-emphasis of the type of love known as storge (affection, familial love, or companionship among those who have been thrown together by chance) but readers in future generations might find our veneration of Eros equally risible. This trend is especially prevalent in detective fiction. The protagonist detective may be happily married or he may be single, but in all cases he is a stallion and the author is continually interrupting the story with episodes designed to show us that, however mean and gritty life is on the streets, every moment in the bedroom is a foretaste of Paradise. No instances of impotence, no premature ejaculation, no halitosis, no minor discomforts even, and (above all) no failure to stimulate orgasm in his sexual partner. The female detective, similarly, is the embodiment of allure to every male she encounters, even the criminals whom she is pursuing. If she does not receive a proposition from one of the good guys or is not the object of attempted rape every alternate chapter, she’s failed.
Even in works that purport to be biographies we see the same craze. Some months ago I watched a film that professed to be a narrative of the last year of the life of Vincent Van Gogh. I say “professed” because the account given in the film was very different from the reality. Van Gogh was not, in life, noted for his success with women. His first proposal of marriage was to the daughter of his landlady, who turned him down because she was secretly engaged to someone else. He next focused his attentions on his cousin, who was a widow with a child, and seven years his senior. Her circumstances made it unlikely that she would have much opportunity of remarrying, but all the same she was not desperate enough to take him on. When he proposed to her she exclaimed, “No, never!” and when he persisted in his pursuit of her she complained to her father in order to get him to stop stalking her. After that episode he carried on a relationship with a prostitute that does not seem to have brought much satisfaction to either of them. It had come to an end well before he moved to Arles. None of this comes through in the film. Instead, every woman he meets (including his own sister-in-law and the thirteen-year old daughter of the couple running the inn) is eager to jump his bones. The idea that someone can be a great artist without necessarily being a great lover has no place in the contemporary movie-makers’ scheme of things. To be sure, the movie was French; but that, while it may be an explanation, is not an excuse for such a grotesque distortion of the truth.
The ancient Greeks would surely be puzzled by our obsession over erotic love and, above all, the deadly earnestness with which we treat it. They may have deified it, but they explicitly described Aphrodite as “laughter-loving.”
For it is a curious circumstance that despite all of the breathless descriptions of sexual congress in these volumes, no one appears to be enjoying himself very much. The authors wish to assure us that they are, no doubt. They tell us so on every page, almost in every sentence. The ecstasies provided by these encounters are loaded with superlatives. They doubtless take place in lofty canopied beds upon bedsheets woven of the finest Egyptian cotton, without wrinkle or crease. Nonetheless, instead of the palpitating anticipation that the authors so evidently wish to inspire, I find myself exclaiming, “But . . . but . . . I am bored!” And when I read yet again about how the lovely object of desire possesses the allurements of Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite all rolled up into one, thereby rendering the Judgment of Paris completely superfluous, a suspicion enters my mind, swift and uncontrollable as a minnow darting through the current of a woodland stream, whether there may not be an element of wish-fulfillment involved. Are you not aware, I mentally address the author, that that commonplace young woman, to whom you could assign no role more significant than that of the fifth murder victim (or is it the eleventh? – I lose track) could, under certain circumstances, provide the excitement and gratification ordinarily associated with an evening in the company of Cleopatra? – just as yonder insignificant-looking plant, when treated with the appropriate care and attentiveness, can be persuaded to yield the loveliest of blossoms? Again – although here I cannot speak from personal experience – is it not conceivable that the feisty spirited independent gun-slinging heroine might, under certain circumstances, be persuaded to accept without protest the caresses of a man who lacks the physique of a WWE wrestler? What has become, I am driven to ask, of the healthy, hearty eroticism that enabled Shakespeare to address impassioned sonnets to a woman whose beauty is nothing like the sun and whose breath is far inferior to that of the scent of perfume? What has become of the cheerful indecency of Richard Sheridan explaining the germination of flowers to his attentive pupil?
In the close covert of a grove By nature formed for scenes of love, Said Susan in a lucky hour: “Observe yon sweet geranium flower. How straight upon its stalk it stands, And tempts our violating hands, Whilst the soft bud, as yet unspread, Hangs down its pale declining head. Yet soon as it is ripe to blow, The stems shall rise, the head shall glow.” “Nature,” said I, “my lovely Sue, To all her followers lends a clue. Her simple laws themselves explain As links of one continued chain; For her the mysteries of creation Are but the works of generation. Yon blushing, strong, triumphant flower Is in the crisis of its power: But short, alas, its vigorous reign; He sheds his seed, and drops again. The bud that hangs in pale decay Feels not, as yet, the plastic ray. Tomorrow’s sun shall bid him rise, Then, too, he sheds his seed, and dies. But words, my love, are vain and weak; For proof, let bright example speak.” Then straight before the wondering maid The tree of life I gently laid. “Observe, sweet Sue, his drooping head, How pale, how languid, and how dead. Yet let the sun of thy bright eyes Shine but a moment, it shall rise. Let but the dew of thy soft hand Refresh the stem, it straight shall stand. Already, see, it swells, it grows, Its head is redder than the rose, Its shriveled fruit, of dusky hue, Now glows—a present fit for Sue. The balm of life each artery fills, And in o’erflowing drops distils.” “Oh, me!” cried Susan, “When is this? What strange tumultuous throbs of bliss! Sure, never mortal till this hour Felt such emotion at a flower! Oh, serpent, cunning to deceive, Sure ’tis this tree that tempted Eve. The crimson apples hang so fair Alas! what woman could forbear?” “Well hast thou guessed, my love,” I cried, “It is the tree by which she died – The tree which could alone content her. All nature, Susan, seeks the centre. Yet let us still poor Eve forgive, It’s the tree by which we live. For lovely women still it grows, And in the centre only blows. But chief for thee it spreads its charms, For paradise is in thy arms …” I ceased, for nature kindly here Began to whisper in her ear, And lovely Sue lay softly panting While the geranium tree was planting, ’Til in the heat of amorous strife She burst the mellow tree of life. “Oh, heaven!” cried Susan with a sigh, “The hour we taste – we surely die. Strange raptures seize my fainting frame, And all my body glows with flame. Yet let me snatch one parting kiss To tell my love I die with bliss – That pleased thy Susan yields her breath; Oh, who would live, if this be death?”
Which is a great deal more satisfying to read than the endless perorations about the physical perfections and the sexual athletics of the modern-day partners of these novels’ protagonists.
All of the above is quite a departure from concerns about the coronavirus and the impact it has been having on daily affairs. I have been sitting indoors too much. I must go outside.
Later . . .
I went out on a 9-mile loop, feeling fairly certain that I would not encounter many people. The weather was cool and damp, continually threatening to rain. My expectations were answered: for the most part, there were few pedestrians. And yet the walk was quite pleasurable on the whole. The air was fresh and invigorating, as it often is after a rainfall, and many of the gardens were full of azaleas, whose colors were at the peak of their saturation. In particular I was pleased to see many clusters of pinxter azaleas, with their distinctive long stamens and narrow white petals edged with pink. The only disagreeable part occurred during a half-mile stretch through a type of area more common in California than here: a wealthy neighborhood containing large and handsome houses with extensive parcels of land attached to each, but which for some mysterious reason lacks the resources for sidewalks or even roadside shoulders, thereby forcing pedestrians to walk directly on the asphalt. Probably the current circumstances make it less unpleasant than it ordinarily would be, on account of the diminished volume of automobile traffic. Nonetheless I hastened through it as quickly as I could and I was very glad when it ended. But in general I felt refreshed and re-energized, despite the over-hanging clouds and the dullness of the sky. Spring is advancing; the leaves of the trees are losing that translucence they display upon their first appearance of the season; wildflowers bestrew the grass wherever they are permitted to grow. One of the advantages of getting out of doors frequently is that one is continually reminded of the activity among flora and fauna that functions independently of mankind. Such non-human activity is perhaps especially apparent in the Appalachian forest land and piedmont, which is one of the most bio-diverse areas on the planet. It is indeed somewhat surprising that so little of this luxuriant ecoregion is reflected on our own fiction – but I must not digress upon modern American fiction again.
I spoke with my aunt after I returned. She is managing, as I think, remarkably well. She is living on her own and will be 90 in July, but she is coping by getting her groceries delivered to her and is still preparing her own meals. She tells me that my cousin was somewhat more ill than my conversation with him led me to believe. At one point he was worried enough to consider entering a hospital, but happily that proved not to be necessary.
Today Trump advocated either injecting or ingesting disinfectant as a preventative against the virus, much to the consternation of medical experts or indeed of anyone who is familiar with basic chemistry. Lysol was quick to follow-up with a public announcement not to use its product either internally or externally. Both medical experts and members of Congress weighed in against this recklessly irresponsible advice. But the best response perhaps was Hillary Clinton’s: “Please don’t poison yourself because Donald Trump thinks it could be a good idea.”
I made soda bread today. It doesn’t have the same texture as bread made with yeast, of course, but it doesn’t disintegrate in my hands the way the peanut butter bread did when I tried out that recipe earlier. And its flavor is quite good. I haven’t given up on the starter, though. It does seem to be bubbling much than it did earlier. And I will be on the lookout for yeast in the stores as well. Sooner or later it has to turn up.
New Hampshire has closed the entirety of White Mountain National Forest. Several miles of the Appalachian Trail go through there. This is bad news for through-hikers. Since most of them are “Nobo” – northbound, starting from Springer Mountain and ending at Mt. Katahdin – they probably will not be reaching that area for another two months. By that time it may re-open. In any case, it’s a severe blow to the local hikers.
Today’s statistics as of 10:00 PM — # of cases worldwide: 2,830,051; # of deaths worldwide: 197,245; # of cases U.S.: 925,038; # of deaths U.S.: 52,185.